Chapter 41– Musings and awakenings.

The dark grey fog was everywhere with every step that Alaric was taking, the sound of his breathing the only thing he could hear amongst the deathly silence. Breaths that bordered between calm and agitated. The fog obscured everything that Alaric could see, a much thicker miasma then what he had encountered in the previous forays into his mind. More than once could he not see his hands in front of his face.

He could only surmise that he was in a coma back in the real world. Or worst.

Alaric had no idea how long he has been wandering in the mists this time. Was it hours? Days? Weeks? Blindly trudging the mists looking for a way out. A way back to reality. A way back to Ja'anya. Every time he would stop and go to sleep, he would hope that he would wake up back in the real world. But every time he opened his eyes, the mist was there to greet him as before.

He wasn't even sure if he was alive or dead after his battle with Typhon. If he was unsure as of that, was he in Limbo? That purgatory point between the worlds of life and death? Was he dying? If so, where are the souls of the dead waiting to greet him when he drew his last breath? Where were his ancestors? Where was Heaven or the Fields of Elysium?

Perhaps, as some spiritualists had proposed, his afterlife was different to others. It was often said that each had their own hell. Could the other side be the same? Does everyone have their own afterlife? Would Alaric be destined to walk the mists alone for eternity? Or perhaps, there was nothing at all on the other side. Just an empty void.

Either prospect was equally terrifying.

After many hours of wandering, of which he had long lost the will to count, Alaric had to stop again for a moment to regain his bearings. But what bearings would that be? As far as he could tell there was no directions for which to gain said bearings. He wasn't even sure what was up and down, and he didn't feel solid ground under his feet. Whenever he stamped his feet there was no sound to be heard. Almost like he was stepping on soft foam padding. He could be upside down for all he knew.

The whole prospect was disorientating. Coupled with the fact that he never really liked zero gravity.

Alaric made the motion to sit down, and, to his surprise, he felt solid matter under his rear rather than falling onto his back. He had to think that it was a subconscious thought that permitted a seat to come into being. But if he was thinking about a way to get out, there was none to be had. No matter how hard he tried to imagine a convenient door. He looked down at his hands again. Seeing the damaged armour covering his body, making out all the cracks, pitting and scorch marks of the final confrontation with Typhon. Not to mention flecks of his own blood.

He could still feel that tearing sensation in his forearms when Typhon ripped the armour from his flesh and took the skin with it. A feeling that he would never forget, no matter how hard he would force it back into forgotten memory.

While he was fully consciousness, as far as he could comprehend the meaning of the term, he could definitely feel another presence. One that moved in unison with his own movements and shared his own thoughts. That being Cetanu, the progenitor of all those bearing his blood. Razeal, or rather the entity that assumed his form, was right. He was never alone and the emergence of his ancestors' spirits from his Shard proved it. And the one inhabiting the armour he wore was further proof.

One that he could certainly use some assistance to leave this state of limbo.

"Gri'nyr?" Alaric called out. "Gri'nyr? If you're hearing me, please give me a sign."

And a sign he did get. The mist around him began to ebb and transition into a lighter shade around him like the sun breaking upon a misty morning. It was only a minor adjustment, but it was a start. Then the lighter mist congregated before him as a flickering figure slowly materialised out of the murk in front of Alaric. A jumble of light trying to take on a physical form. Like a failing hologram and Alaric treated it as such as Gri'nyr tried to manifest himself.

"Need to turn the dial more." Alaric told him, waggling his fingers. "Jiggle the aerial a bit."

The apparition flared out violently like a circuit box shorting out before coming back into focus. Alaric could now make out a more humanoid shape in the amorphous light particles. He could make out robes and dreadlocks.

"Pardon for the faint picture." Gri'nyr's garbled voice came from the jumble of light that was slowly becoming more coherent. "But that last battle left quite a mark on me."

He finally came back in a clear focus, in his typical attire of robes and armour with only the occasion ripple of loose light particles. Perhaps fittingly, he too looked like shit with his armour just as trashed as Alaric's was.

"You and me both." Alaric agreed, pointing to his left eye symbolically. "But we did it. Typhon is dead. Permanently this time."

"Yes. I felt it." Gri'nyr confirmed. "A rift in the Veil leading to the Void. A demise that was long overdue. One I would've done myself had the traitor not sprung his coup upon us."

Gri'nyr furled out his tattered robes, sat down next to Alaric, his form flickering into a jumble again before reforming himself. Ancestor and descendant sat in silence for a moment as they took in what had transpired previously. Slaying the Primarch and shattering his soul. A feat that took untold of power to achieve. Power that Gri'nyr himself was reluctant to tap into. And power that Alaric felt like it would tear him apart at any moment.

"I am relieved that you are the first to be able to harness the full power of our progenitor." Gri'nyr finally spoke. "So many before us have tried."

"And failed?" Alaric guessed.

Gri'nyr turned to him with a serious frown. As if to indicate 'failure' was a kinder word to use.

"They tried and died." he bluntly told his descendant. "Reduced to cinders as the power consumed them. Like a supernova wiping out everything in its radius." Gri'nyr looked above to where the heavens would be. "But then... perhaps the Progenitor decided to tug the threads of Fate more directly then normally allowed."

Alaric recalled what else had happened in his mind when Typhon attempted to take him over. That of assistance in his most dire of times when he was at the breaking point of losing his sanity from the torture of memories. From a third party who had been observing him from a distance.

"I did have help. In a manner of speaking." he admitted. "I saw an apparition of... someone I knew."

Gryn'yr looked to him.

"Such as?" he inquired with a raised brow.

"It was Razeal. One of my father's squad mates. The closest thing I had to a father." Alaric explained, trying to remember that previous encounter. "Well, it was a being that assumed the form of Razael at any rate. Explained a lot of details not known before, plugging the gaps. But there was something about it that... well, felt other about it."

Gri'nyr tilted his head.

"Other?" he questioned with palpable interest.

"The eyes. The eyes gave off a... grey light." Alaric answered.

It was apparent from the pause that Gri'nyr made that knew more about this then he was letting on. Especially the mention of grey eyes. He looked away for a second, his eyes moving in thought. He then however smiled.

"I see." he said. "Well, that is a comfort to know. Someone has been watching over you all this time."

"Yeah. Apparently since the day that... the day that yautja tried to kill me the first time." Alaric said, catching himself from mentioning the details of that day.

But Gri'nyr knew exactly what he was talking about.

"A yautja with a spiked mask?" he guessed.

"Yes." Alaric answered, knowing just whom he was referring.

Gri'nyr let off a humourless chuckle, rubbing the part of his chest where he had been run through with a phase-blade.

"The Bastard." he said with hardly disguised resentment before lowering his hand. "Well, if he couldn't kill you when you were a vulnerable child then he has no chance now."

"He didn't try to kill me directly. He sent the hounds in and that when the Rage first set in." Alaric elaborated. "Ripped them and their handler apart with my axe."

Gri'nyr laughed again.

"Xel'khalos was never one to get his hands dirty when he has someone else to do it for him." Gri'nyr commented. "A flaw of his. And even when he does get his hands dirty, he never does a good job."

He then gestured to himself and the fact that he was still alive in a manner of speaking. Alaric simply shrugged in response, considering that Mal'kar and his cronies did not think to finish him off that fateful night. Then again, without the aid of that guardian that assumed the form of Razeal, Alaric certainly would have died that night along with his family.

But it was time now to discuss something important. Important in more ways than one and a more uncomfortable subject now that certain things had been revealed. Certain truths that for the most part would have been better to remain buried.

"So, I take it you know the truth about Oomans by now?" Gri'nyr surmised.

"That we were an unexpected by-product of an experiment?" Alaric elaborated without a beat. "Yeah. Typhon told me and then Razeal confirmed it."

"And your thoughts?"

Alaric rubbed his neck and shook his head as a hollow laugh wheezed from his mouth.

"Still trying to get my head around it. Like with us being the same blood." he said, reaching to rub his eyes. "Don't know how the squad will react to it. How the whole human race will react to it. Could very well tear us apart to know that the blood of aliens flows through our veins. Every supremacist group and racial issues in history is practically null and void now. It'll certainly put the religious into a crisis of faith. Not part of a divine plan at all but an unexpected occurrence in a million of years old genetic experiment by uncaring hands."

It brought back to mind a recorded conversation, back in the late 21st century when the first synthetic androids were coming onto the scene. Between an early David model android and a techno-phobic human. The android asked why his kind was created by humans and the human bluntly answered that humans built them because they could. Ironically, in light of the truth, that comment now applied to humans. Humanity was created by the Ossians, however unintentionally, simply because they could.

And another thing that was much more relevant was an old xeno-genesis theory that Humanity did not evolve naturally on Earth but were created by intelligent hands. Or divine hands as many religions would preach. A theory proposed by 21st century archaeologists Elizabeth Shaw and Charlie Holloway. Both vanished during the ill-fated Prometheus Expedition in 2091 and their theory and findings; that being startlingly similar murals across a myriad of ancient cultures of a giant humanoid pointing to the stars before some early humans, were promptly buried by their peers. But, in light of everything that has happened in these last few days, they were right after all.

Especially since the blood of the Ossians flowed in Humanity.

"Well, think of it in another way." Gri'nyr said in a positive note.

"Like?" Alaric asked with sarcastic interest.

"In a way, the Ossians may have gained a second chance. A chance to go down a different path. A chance not to make the same mistakes as they did before."

Alaric gave a brisk laugh of disbelief at the idealism Gri'nyr was suggesting. Like he had heard a humorously ironic joke or Gry'nyr was as naive as he sounded. Though the former was more likely.

"I wouldn't say that." Alaric told his ancestor. "You've likely seen my memories. What I know and what I learned of Earth's history. Finding the tiniest of excuses to kill each other; be it race, religion or whose patch of dirt it was. And what's more, Earth was nearly lost to the bugs after one greedy corp brought them planet-side and lost control to a bunch of religious lunatics who thought the xenos were God."

"But the Oomans succeeded where the Ossians failed." Gry'nyr countered. "Reclaimed their homeworld. Beaten the Primarchs' descendants back."

That was of course referring to the largest scale military offensive in human history, carried out in the final year of the five-year long Xenomorph Infestation of Earth. Operation Extinction. After many failed attempts, including a disastrous experiment by a borderline insane colonel to try and control the xenomorphs, one last assault to free Earth was launched. Despite the grievous losses incurred; drawing in every able-bodied volunteer from all walks of life, from resistance fighters trapped on Earth to convicts offered a clean slate for their service, it ended in total victory. The goal of eliminating the queen mothers; cutting the head off of the hierarchy of the earth hives, allowed the humans to wipe out the disorganised and aimless xenomorphs.

Severing the brain from their hive mind.

In the aftermath, with the xenomorphs purged from the planet, humanity was finally united under one flag. The United Earth Federation. And never again would Earth be subjected to another occupation by an alien force.

But the xenomorphs of today paled in comparison to their progenitors from an age long past. The whole ordeal from what was supposed to be a simple initiation hunt vindicated that. How they took the trait of adaptability and pushed it into overdrive. Becoming stronger every time they were pushed back. And the very last time they almost succeeded.

"Well, that was typical bugs. Ones we were mostly familiar with." Alaric pointed out "Don't know how we would've fared facing... Him."

"True." Gry'nyr admitted. "From what I have seen this day, I can say that oomans are not ready to face the Primarchs on their own. And with Typhon slain, it won't be long before other parties decide to get involved."

"Exploiting a power vacuum?"

"Precisely. And besides, Typhon was just one Primarch. There are still other primarchs left out there, locked away in their prisons and waiting for a death that would never come or someone foolish enough to release them. Like those religious zealots you mentioned."

Alaric shook his head at the mere thought of that group. Xeno Extremists.

"Turning into bugs would be seen as sainthood to them." Alaric guessed.

Gri'vyr's form then began to flicker again as his connection weakened. Gry'nyr strained in notable discomfort as, with a couple of taps on his head, he regained focus. And he seemed slightly more sluggish in his movements as if sleep was encroaching on him.

"I won't be contacting you any time soon." Gri'nyr said, wincing from the strain like one would weather a migraine."Not until the armour has repaired itself at least. And, after all this, I think I'm due for a breather."

"No shit." Alaric said with a bemused shrug. "You sure you'll recover from this? I'm sure the dwarves will be able to fix the armour up."

Gri'nyr looked down at his own amour and then to Alaric's.

"Superficially, yes." he pointed out before pointing his finger at his temple. "But the spirit will take time to heal."

"Like when you died and... the armour regenerated itself." Alaric guessed before he shook his head at the mere thought. "I can't imagine being on my own for that amount of time."

"Well, as I said, this is just a fragment of my consciousness." Gri'nyr reminded, gesturing to his spectral form. "But yes. I was alone for all that time. It was... unpleasant. But I have my memories to delve into. However, brief they may be."

He then stood up, his form flickering again into dispersing particles and taking more effort to regain coherency. It was clear that the spirit of the armour was getting more tired by the moment.

"Now, you should go." Gri'nyr told his descendant. "You have someone waiting for you back in the world of the living."

Alaric stood up at the mention of that proposition. One which he had been trying to achieve for who knows how long.

"But how?" he asked his ancestor, gesturing to the mists around them. "I can't find the way out of these mists."

"There is always a way out. If you know the right path that leads to the right door." Gri'nyr reassured, placing his hands on Alaric's shoulders in assurance. "Sometimes though, as our progenitor and his kin would do, you just need a little push in the right direction."

And that was just that. Gri'nyr smiled as he gave Alaric a small but firm push. Alaric stomach lurched as he felt gravity take him and the floor beneath him became air. Gri'nyr, high above and watching him fall with a smile, vanished into the mists once more as Alaric plummeted down into the darkness.

"Always the rhetoric before a prank." Alaric said, with a smirk as he felt the winds rush past him.

As he fell, the dark mists around him were starting to get brighter and brighter. Like the morning sun breaking over the horizon. Then the light became brighter and brighter until it came blindingly so, forcing Alaric to shut his eyes. And just before he did, he saw his body turning into light and dispersing out of existence. The last thing Alaric would think, as the light now dominated his optical senses, was Ja'anya waiting for him on the other side.

The sound of electronics beeping at a consistent pace, the same pace as his beating heart, caused Alaric to stir and slowly open his eyes. The sound, shrill as it is, was a sweet relief from the silence that plagued him. Light greeted his blurry sight, making him blink rapidly as the light shining overhead flared painfully at his shrinking irises. Instinctively, he raised his right hand to blot out the light and to give his eyes time to adjust and see where he was. Whether he was back in the real world or had passed on completely.

When his eyes finally got their irises correctly dialled in to filter out the bright glare, Alaric found he was looking up at a ceiling, seeing the lighting tubes glow warmly overhead and the smell of sterility could be made out in the air. He found that, much to his surprising alarm, he was able to see through both of his eyes again. He was no longer half blind. If anything, his vision was perfect. Aside from an overall tender sensation all over his body, the kind that he would experience when having completed an arduous training exercise or a pummelling during a battle, he felt fully rejuvenated. He did not feel his broken bones grinding against each other. He did not feel like a sieve haemorrhaging blood only for the suit to pump it back in. He did not feel his lungs hiss with every breath he took.

Alaric, for the lack of a better term, was a new man. Healthier than he had ever been in his life.

But then, why is it he can smell acorns? Every time his took a deep breath through his nose, he could smell the earthy aroma over the sanitised air. At first, he assumed that someone had lit aromatic candles with that scent but there was not a candle in sight. Nor were there any air fresheners hanging around that he could see. Perhaps someone had come in and sprayed the air earlier?

Moving his head to gain his bearings, Alaric saw monitoring instruments and terminals that were the source of the beeping could be seen to his right, highlighting his vital signs through connections to the armour. He concluded that he was obviously in the med bay of the Karak. The aesthetics of the room, angular and made with flawless materials, were not the tribal motifs of the yautja. Alaric was surprised when he saw the images of the armour bonded to him, the roots snaking their way and entwining his bones muscles and organs in such a manner. Almost like a parasite, though symbiotic is the more accurate term.

It almost made his skin crawl. Almost.

Looking back up, he could see Aegis perched up above on a convenient railing. The shield-hawk, his head tucked under a wing, was slumbering as his slowly puffing chest indicated.

Deciding to get a better grasp on the situation, Alaric tried to sit up. He registered, as he tried to sit up, that there was something pressing on his abdomen and clutching his left hand. Looking down, he saw a familiar and much welcome sight.

It was Ja'anya. The huntress was fast asleep, wrapped in a fur pelt and breathing softly. Her right hand clasping his. Alaric could make out the injuries she had sustained curing the battle, patched up as they were. Especially the stains under her eyes from when they bled by Typhon's torture. Her mandibles slowly flexed and curled as she slept through whatever dream was playing in her slumbering mind.

It was a sight like the first night that they had together after defeating Sil'cais.

Deja vu, he thought with admiration.

He quickly shut his eyes as Ja'anya stirred. After a few moments, Alaric opened his eyes again and saw that she did not wake up. She whimpered in her sleep and held onto Alaric's hand tighter. Afraid to lose him. Alaric sighed at the sight.

This was not the time to be playing jokes. She had gone through enough.

Alaric reached his free hand over and gently stroked her crest. Ja'anya sleepily waved her hand at whoever was trying to wake her up, her mandibles stretching out into a yawning mumble. Finally clasping onto his hand, she was about to cast it aside when she felt something off about it. Running her fingers long the surfaces, this hand was not bare or gloved but armoured. And it clasped her hand back.

Ja'anya slowly opened her partly bloodshot eyes, blinking several times as she shrugged off the drowsiness of sleep and the soreness of light. It took her a moment to realise who was clasping her hand. Her violet eyes locked onto Alaric's ruby reds.

"Alaric?" she breathed.

"Hey, Ja'anya." Alaric whispered.

Before she could say anything, Alaric pulled her up and held her in his arms. She curled up to him, holding him close as afraid he would suddenly leave.

"Alaric..." she said, emotions bubbling up. "I thought... I..."

"Shh. It's alright." Alaric assured, holding her closer. "It's all over. I'm here now and nothing is going to change that."

"But the demon..."

"Don't worry. He is gone. Permanently this time. There is no coming back from where he's gone."

Alaric was right as of that. With his Soul Shard reduced to proverbial dust, and the aethyric storm that erupted from it, Typhon was nothing more than a bad memory. One that Alaric would hope to forget in the near future. Though in truth, he would never forget it.

He held her face close to his and he smiled. She smiled back.

"Come here." he said, reaching for his mask.

Alaric, with Ja'anya's assistance, pulled off his mask with a notable stick to it and feeling cool air against his blood encrusted skin still under the armour. She tossed it aside before she pushed up against Alaric for a much-wanted kiss. She did not care if he was caked in his own dried blood. The huntress quickly hopped up onto the berth and straddled him, pulling the furs over them and blotting out the light.

The door opened but a moment later and one of the supervising orderlies, clad in white medical garbs, came walking in. He had a datapad in one hand and a morning tankard of ale in the other. He was glancing at his notes and had the mug up to his lips when he noticed the sight on the bed. Ja'anya was up on the bed, straddling Alaric as the both of them were lost in a moment of passion. The fact that the fur was completely covering them made it difficult to figure if they were indeed doing the deed. But the sound of kissing and purring was leaving a subtle hint.

Aegis, having heard the door open, woke up and pulled his head out from under his wing. The hawk blinked several times to get his vision back into focus, his crest twitching. He registered the nurse as the reason why the door opened before hearing the sounds of intimacy coming from below. Careening his neck out while peering down, Aegis noticed a large pelt on the bed. With Alaric's feet poking out from underneath and the sound of a purring yautja huntress emanating from under the pelt.

After watching for a long moment to get his brain into gear, and lowering his mug after a quiet sip, the dwarf's shoulders shrugged at the sight. Aegis looked up at the dwarf and did the same.

Well, I guess I lost the bet, he thought.

The dwarf, looking at the the sheild-hawk who looked back at him with the same thought, then decided that it would best not to interrupt them as he silently stepped back out. Aegis cocked his head as a farewell before looking back down at Alaric and Ja'anya under the furs. The orderly shut the door just as one of his colleagues, who was doing an inventory run for the medbay and pushing a stocked-up trolley, walked up.

"Any change?" he asked.

The orderly took a gulp of ale from his tankard and looked to the ceiling as he thought of the most subtle way as to report Alaric's recovery. He then looked back at the door for a moment before smirking at his crew mate.

"I'd give them another five minutes before telling the thane." he implied, tucking the clipboard under his arm before rummaging in his pocket. "And here's your winnings."

He tossed a handful of octagonal coins to his colleague before walking off and downing his tankard in one go. The orderly looked at the coins for a second before he pocketed them and pushed on with a cheerful whistle through his beard.

Once word had spread that Alaric had woken up from his coma, it was a cause of celebration. Celebration that, despite insurmountable odds that teetered on the verge of definitive death, he had survived once again. The Archangels rushed down to the medbay the moment they were given the news, ditching their breakfast in haste to visit their squad mate. It was the usual banter that typically arose whenever the subject of Alaric's unlikely survival came about. Lysandros and Cyrus even visited, the old spartan giving a curt compliment of his survival while his grandson was notably more vocal than he had been. In the manner of meeting a hero of legend.

Alaric was quick to mention how they all looked like shit. Though compared to what he went through; having his body shattered and held together only by will, anger and the armour's roots, they came out of it virtually unscathed. That said, Alaric noted their bloodshot eyes. A reminder of the mental assault of Typhon upon their minds.

And Alaric regaining consciousness led to a new problem. How was he going to get out of the armour? Fortunately, there was a way and that would happen after Alaric had something to eat. He managed to down, to the surprise of those present, an entire pot of porridge on his own. He was that hungry.

In the med bay, the Archangels were waiting for Alaric to come out of the operating theatre. Ja'anya and Kra'vyx were also there, with Aegis sitting on her lap. The humans were all in their casual uniforms, signified by the OSIRIS logo on the left sleeve and the Archangels emblem on their backs. Inside the operating room, Alaric was being seen to by chief medical officer Maja and also the forgemaster Horgrym Hammerfoot. With their help, and some unorthodox methods that never came to mind until then, the armour could be removed but it would be a laborious process. Considering the level that it had grafted to Alaric. But now that he was up, fully healed and moving on his own, the armour had no reason to deny them entry this time.

Normally, the process of dismounting from powered armour such as this would be held in Engineering, as in the case of the Federation's centurion exosuits. But because of the symbiotic nature of the armour, the med bay was the best place. In case there were any complications.

It had taken over four hours before word was given that Alaric was now free of the armour. One of the technicians, an apprentice of Horgyrm, came walking out of the theatre, holding Alaric's slayer mask and segmented dreadlocks. As the dwarf approached the congregation to report on the operation's success, it suddenly reconfigured back into its default spartan corinthian helmet layout with a loud electrical buzz. It was enough to make the technician drop it in surprise as the metal shifted and the helmet became fully enclosed again. Still battered and cracked and with the horsehair crest looking pretty ragged.

"Ancestors, I hate it when they do that!" the dwarf cursed.

"Don't drop the bloody helmet, it's cracked enough!" Horgrym shouted from within the operating theatre. "Get him to the forge, stat!"

This scolding was in no doubt referring to the consciousness of Gri'nyr housed within the armour. The technician scratched his beard from that bollocking before picking up the now metamorphosed helmet. He eyed it suspiciously for a second before resuming his attention to those waiting for a report on to Alaric's status.

"Right, it will please you lot to know that the armour is now successfully removed." He told the assembled visitors before walking off. "You can now and go see him. But brace yourselves. It's not pretty."

Everyone walked into the theatre, and they were met with a sight. Alaric's silhouette could be seen behind the curtain sitting on the operating table. It was confirmed, by the much thinner silhouette, that the armour had indeed been removed and he was now bare. He was also being swabbed at specific points of his limbs by Maja and he was flexing his arms gingerly. From the sensation of feeling cold air contacting his skin after so long. Like how one would feel if they wore a wet suit for and overextended period. Horgrym was not behind the curtain, and he was seen to the side going through his tools after having helped Alaric out from the armour.

Perhaps disconcertingly, his gloved hands had flecks of dried blood on them. And this was a warning sign to all. If Alaric's bloody face earlier was anything to go by.

"Alaric, are you alright?" Andrzej called out.

"I'm fine, but you should see the state of my fucking body." Alaric answered from behind the operating curtain. "It's absolutely minging, considering I wasn't able to wash!"

Maja at that point stopped her ministrations and walked off to the storeroom adjacent to the theatre. The swabs she had used and disposed in a jar were all stained a sickly hue of red.

"State?" Karl said, juggling a tankard of ale in his hand. "Gnarlroot's donation healed you completely. You should be fine." he reminded, bringing it to his lips.

"Oh yeah?" Alaric quipped, hopping off the table and walking up to the curtain before grabbing the edges of the drapes. "What about this?"

The curtain opened up and the reaction of his squad, Kra'vyx and Ja'anya told it all. Genuine shock. Karl spat his ale all over the place in a sticky spray, unintentionally getting it all over Mac who cursed in his native tongue at his squadmate. Ja'anya held a hand to her mouth in horror. Andzrej even rubbed his scarred cheek in pained empathy.

"Oh my god!" Hicks said, nearly dropping his datapad.

"Paya's breath!" Kra'vyx swore, rubbing his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

"Fucking shit-flaps!" Sergei blurted.

Alaric had, what could be best described as, lesions all over his body. Some of these looked nothing more than a bad abrasion against a rough surface while others looked more severe. Like they were precision cuts made during surgery. These were all located at nerve points of the nervous system throughout his body, most tellingly along his spine as he turned around to show them after pulling his hair back. No doubt points where the armour had interfaced with his own nervous system, and each was covered in a shiny film. His left shoulder, which had been virtually pulverised during the second battle with Typhon, had what could pass off as scars upon his skin. Dark marks where the roots of the armour had reformed and reinforced his bones. They stretched from his neck and collarbone all the way down to his elbow. Almost as if he had ritual scarring of some distant tribe. And also, considering all the damage he had sustained previously, he was absolutely caked in dried blood, looking almost like a second degree burn victim.

It was clear that Gnarlroot's healing only took care of the blood on his bare skin. Thankfully, his boxers had not suffered severe damage, so he still had a degree of modesty about him. And he was without his tags and locket. Of which they were set aside waiting to be cleaned.

Alaric took the shocked reactions he was getting as vindication of his earlier statement about the armour and how it was form fitted to him.

"I said it was grafted to me." Alaric reminded, pointing at his ravaged skin. "Skin tight."

"Savage." Andrzej said. "Like someone took a belt sander to you."

Sarah shook her head as the sight of Alaric's body. She had seen wounds similar to this in the form of the neural hard points on a berserker pilot. The infamous exosuit shock troops of the Earth Federation's armed forces. Especially the series of lesions along his spine where neural interface implants would be grafted.

"You make it look like berserkers have an easier time getting wired up in their suits." she pointed out.

"No shit. Half of them is sedated before they're being plugged in." Karl interjected, who had finished wiping his beard of spat ale. "Poor bastards don't realise half the time they've been removed."

Mac however had finished wiping his face of the sticky beverage, muttering in his native tongue. Translated perfectly, they heard his disgust form being used as a spittoon.

"I strongly suggest you wear an interface suit the next time you wear the armour, my lord." Horgrym called out, cleaning his tools. "It helps lessen complications from the joining."

Alaric looked behind him with a frown.

"Didn't have any choice. I was freezing my arse off on that rock." Alaric told him.

"Where's the rest of the armour now?" Hicks questioned, putting his datapad back in its carry case.

"Horgrym laid it out on the floor the moment it was peeled off." Alaric said, pointing behind him. "He's taking it down to the forge to be repaired."

Hicks walked over, squatted down and had a closer look at the armour now that it was arranged into separate parts. Horgrym limped over loudly and observed the human's reaction. A few shakes of disbelief were the reaction the dwarf got.

"How is he going to fix this?" Hicks asked, picking up a cracked gauntlet and peering at it closely. "Serious metal fatigue all over the place. Like the constancy of cheese!"

"I don't know." Alaric said with a shrug."Maybe it can't regenerate on its own if it's extensively damaged."

He recalled the memory of Gri'nyr and the damage the amour took as a result of a phase-blade to the breastplate. And when he uncovered the armour all that time later, it was fully repaired. He had to wonder how long the armour took to regenerate from a blade that practically rendered it useless. And how long it would take to repair with a far more extensive amount of damage.

"Through elbow grease, hammer blows and strong ale." Horgrym boasted, rubbing a thumb on a greave's dented edge. "Especially the ale. Helps numb out the cramps in the arm."

At that moment, Maja came walking out of the theatre's storeroom, mildly flecked with coagulated blood on her apron and pocketed gloves, holding a medical gown in her bare hands. She had an annoyed frown on her face on the sight of Alaric nearly naked as she approached him.

"My lord, you're going to catch a chill like that!" she scolded, shoving the gown in his hands. "Put this on."

Alaric unfurled and donned it, tying it off at his waist. This was met with laughs from his squad.

"You are kidding?" Sergei said. "After that ice ball, this ship is a tropical paradise."

Ja'anya walked over towards Alaric, but she stopped when she was within a foot of his proximity. Despite being covered in a crust of stale blood, there was an overpowering sterile stench coming from Alaric. It was so strong that if anyone lit a match next to him, he might ignite into a fireball. Alraic noticed that she was salivating in response and spitting. The yautja olfactory senses were located in the mouth after all. So, this would be the equivalent of a runny nose.

"How much antiseptic did they use?" Ja'anya asked, almost gagging from the fumes. "It's making my mouth bleed!"

"Doesn't matter, I can still smell acorns." Alaric said, taking a sniff of the air. "Why am I smelling acorns? Is anyone else smelling acorns?"

Everyone else just shrugged at him. They had yet to reveal why Alaric was smelling acorns and the true reason he had been healed.

"Regardless, you need a bath!" she decided, grabbing him by the arm.

Before Alaric could protest, Ja'anya dragged him out of the medlab to get cleaned properly. All he could do was shrug to his squad and to Kra'vyx as the door shut behind him.

The nearest bathroom where Alaric was dragged off to by Ja'anya was actually equipped with a bathtub. Though in reality it was arranged more like a hot tub built into the floor with inbuilt seats. Alaric was sitting on the shallow ring with the water level over his waist as Ja'anya sat on the edge and went about washing his body with a large sponge and there was an array of scented soaps for their use. His boxers were discarded in a corner, and she was wearing only her tunic.

Again, dwarves did not like being in water unless they could sit with their heads clear off the surface. There was, however, an actual hot spring facility on the Karak that was a popular destination for dwarves looking to unwind after a long day. The one Alaric is soaking in was meant for utilitarian purposes and having a bath after a messy bout of fixing engines was one of the reasons to use it.

Nobody wanted unsightly oil slicks fouling up the hot springs.

Alaric had insisted to Ja'anya that he wasn't helpless to clean himself, but she would not let him lift a finger. Still, she was defensive of Alaric potentially hurting himself so soon after he more or less recovered. So, rather than argue, he just let her clean him up. And she did so with fervour.

His silver and blue enamelled dreadlock bands had been removed from his hair, piled up and soaking in a sink. His hair twitched as they had when he first had them placed, having to now get used to not wearing them. And Ja'anya was now washing his hair, kneeling behind him, wearing just her tunic and lathering up the strands with one of the soaps as she followed each individual spike. It was not too dissimilar to how yautja would clean their dreadlocks. The smell of pine needles filled the air as she scrubbed bubbles into Alaric's head.

Despite the aromatic scents of the soaps provided, some of which was very pleasant for the nose, Alaric was still smelling acorns. Persisting right at the edge of his olfactory senses with every sniff.

"Are you sure you're not smelling acorns?" he asked Ja'anya as she scrubbed his arm.

"No." she idly answered as she delicately reached his scarred shoulder.

She took more care on this part, hesitant to be too rough or risk opening his wounds again. But as she scrubbed, she learned that the scars were superficial with no risk of opening up. With that, the huntress resumed scrubbing with the usual effort. The swabs that Maja had been daubing on Alaric's interface wounds earlier was actually a liquid bandage to prevent infection and accelerate healing. And, most importantly, it was waterproof which allowed this cleaning session to proceed.

Ja'anya finished scrubbing his arm, taking a moment to run a finger along one root scar before going back to his hair. It had plenty of time for the suds to soak in.

"Can't say I remember the last time I got this filthy outside of a training exercise." Alaric said, looking at the suds in the water that was slowly changing colour around him into a sickly pink. "The only time close was when I inadvertently went swimming in sh..."

He was silenced when Ja'anya poured a jug of water over his head for the rinse, sending a soapy torrent down into the bath. Alaric's hair had completely wrapped around his head because of this, turning him into a wet mop. He spat loudly as his soapy hair invaded his mouth as he pulled at it. Ja'anya suppressed a chuckle as she reached for a sponge and started to use another of the soaps on it. This one was scented with a sweetly smell like honey.

But despite that, that linger earthy smell persisted right at the threshold.

"I can still smell acorns." came Alaric's muffled protest from behind his sodden follicles.

"Don't worry, this one ought to change that." Ja;anya assured, holding the sponge close to her face and having a sniff of the soap that permeated it.

Alaric pulled his hair back with a finger and peeked an eye out from his impromptu mask to see Ja'anya had her back to him and was lathering up the sponge with the soaps. His eyes narrowed with mischievous intent as he slowly turned around to avoid making the water ripple and reached out to her. Ja'anya, oblivious to this as she finished lathering up the sponge, let out a squeak of fright as, once his wet arms were wrapped tightly around her and pinned her arms down, she was pulled into the bath by Alaric who fell backwards into the deeper centre They splashed down, sending water all over the place and under the surface, Alaric letting go and moving back in place while she flailed her arms and legs around for purchase. She stood up once she got her bearings, spitting out soapy water as she saw Alaric sitting back in place like nothing happened. Even keeping his face covered with his hair.

But he was able to peek through the strands and took in the sight. Her sodden clothing stuck to her body in a manner that was highly suggestive, amplified by the clods of suds that had frothed on her in particular regions. She looked at him with a wide-eyed glare as her mandibles clicked loudly in a threatening manner. Alaric casually pulled his hair from his face and Ja'anya saw a smirk on his face.

"I've been waiting to do that since day one." he said with a suggestive wink.

Ja'anya's brow widened, her mandibles relaxed, and she laughed as she remembered that she did this to Alaric the first time they shared a bath. Alaric chuckled as well, having got his revenge. And seeing that she was already in, she might as well enjoy herself. Ja'anya reached for her sodden tunic and pulled it over her head. With her top now bare, she reached beneath the water for her loincloth and pulled that off before tossing it and her tunic to the side. She then jumped onto Alaric with a playful growl.

At that precise moment, Bardin and Treval was outside the bathroom door with a bundle of warm clothing for Alaric once he had finished cleaning. Treval had his finger on the intercom to announce their presence in his usual bombastic manner when they heard a loud splash, and the sound of a squeaking huntress, over the speaker.

Bardin's cybernetic eye narrowed when he heard the commotion coming inside. From the sounds of it, they were both now in the bathtub. And, from the laughter, they were enjoying themselves. Treval, with a big grin on his face, took his finger off as they decided to leave them for a bit longer. Bardin looked down at the clothes bundle in his arms. These were in size for Alaric, but he was going to need something extra now that this had happened.

"Better get another set for the lass." he said to Treval, turning on his heels and walking back to the stores. "Come on."

Treval made the motion of following Bardin for a few steps before he skulked back to the intercom. He was about to press his finger on the button and eavesdrop on the action inside before Bardin briskly walked up and grabbed him roughly by the beard.

"Come on." Bardin repeated forcefully, dragging his fellow crewman away.

Treval could only grunt indignantly as he was hauled off. Again, pulling a dwarf by his beard was considered highly insulting unless the situation dictated otherwise. This was one such situation as a punishment for insolent dwarves. And Bardin did technically outrank Treval on the ship.

After his bath, Alaric was as clean as he was going to be. Considering that he had a prior commitment to uphold.

Alaric sat outside of the Karak's morgue on a carved stone bench. This wing of the medbay was dedicated to the interment and eventual disposal of the dead. The decorations, of a morbid but reverent nature, reinforced that fact. Murals of the rites of Khazdryn funerary practices could be seen on the walls, typically either internment in stone coffins or cremated in the forge, and the customary ancestral faces.

The dwarves had a saying that they were born from the Stone and when they die, they return to the Stone. This would lend credence to the sight of that petrified dwarf body that Alaric had seen from his time inside the prison temple.

He and Ja'anya were dressed in khazdryn style clothing that was provided for them after they had cleaned up. It was necessary to dress warm as the morgue was kept at a low temperature. Though the choice of clothing that was provided was eclectic to say the least, they were well made as all dwarven products were. Alaric's looked more or less like he was in standard issue cold weather gear for a dwarf. Thick and durable top and leggings, notably with a jerkin lined with wool fleece, boots and finger-less gloves on his hands. Ja'anya, in garb more fitting for a maiden, similar to what Kila was wearing, was intrigued in particular in wearing a coat with a fur lined hood on it that Bardin had randomly picked for her. She kept pulling it up on her head and pulling it down again. Kra'vyx told her that his head was never cold when he was wearing his thermal jacket back on the ice planet.

Alaric thought she looked rather cute with it on. So much so that he actually pulled it up when she finished paying with it. She only nuzzled up to him with a purr in her throat and he held her close.

The door opened and Stonefather Kazrik came hobbling out, Forge rapping the deck with a shakier step and was accompanied by his funerary retinue. These dwarves, numbering four in number, would pass for monks and nuns in human terms by their garb and the smoking stone censers in their hands. With his more robust physiology, he had recovered from his inhibiting efforts sooner than Korrina. But if he didn't have his staff, he would not be walking this straight. The keeper however was still bed ridden by comparison, but she was showing signs of improvement.

Lysandros and Cryus walked out after them. The old spartan was still wearing his armour, but he did not have an oxygen mask on while Cyrus was in more casual clothing. His bout of lung problems had abated for the time being. There was no doubt that, having served in the same conflict millennia ago, Lysandros and Cyrus were paying their respects to the deceased subject in the morgue. The veteran gave Alaric a confirming nod, Cyrus held a fist on his chest, before they departed.

"My Lord, he's ready." Kazrik reported. "It took some time, but we have cleansed him as much as we can. The corruption ran deep. We may proceed with the funerary arrangements when you wish."

"I understand." Alaric said. "I'll just need a moment."

The stonefather nodded, understanding what Alaric had intended to do.

"As long as you need." Kazrik assured, bowing his head and hobbling off with his retinue.

As the dwarves left, the stonefather nearly losing his footing several times that hinted he had still not fully recovered from the trauma he had endured, Alaric looked through the open door. He saw that the morgue's lights were on a low light. Illuminating tables where the dead would lay. Ja'anya could sense the apprehension in Alaric's heart.

"Alaric?" she asked.

"I'm fine." he told her, about to take a step before she pulled him back.

"No." Ja'anya said, taking his arm in hers. "You're not doing this alone."

Alaric paused from her insistence but then held her arm in response. She nuzzled her hooded head to his. They then walked into the morgue as the doors closed behind them.

The morgue was always a sombre place, regardless of culture. Here was where the hallowed dead were interred before being consigned to their final resting place. Be it traditional burial, cremation or cast into space, whatever what been been decided. Candles were lined up the aisle, bathing he surroundings in a warm but dim glow. Thankfully at this moment, it was not occupied by the deceased.

Except for one berth.

Up ahead, illuminated by an overhead light that mimicked the light of the heavens shining through clouds, was a large plinth. A plinth with a shrouded body residing on top, a body that was not a dwarf or a yautja. From the shape the cloth had taken from its placement, it was definite that it was covering a human. Alaric walked up to the plinth, Ja'anya at his side. She sensed that her love was keeping his grief well-hidden but she could sense it in his eyes. With slight hesitation, Alaric reached over and started to pull the shroud down.

The remains of Dionekes, though restored as best as they could be by Maja and her team, were still sorrowful to look at. His broken body and armour were stained from the carapace that had grew throughout it and some slag was still stubbornly caked on. The helmet had evidently broken in two parts, the helmet proper and the corinthian-style face plate. The rend in the eye was still there, subtly showing the pallid skin of the occupant still within the armour. Where his mouth would be was a gold coin. A drachma that was the currency of ancient greece and a custom of paying for their passage across the River Styx. No doubt laid by Lysandros.

Alaric slowly held a hand out and placed it on Dionekes' chest, bearing the massive rend from Spellbreaker in the rib cage. His bare fingers could feel the pitting, cracks and remnants of xenomorph carapace that took up the entire surface of the armour during its possession. He then slowly reached up to the helmet, his fingers running over the rend over the visor where the brow was. He could make out the closed eye beneath. The image of the eye, brown and illuminated in a purple light by Typhon's being, appeared in his mind.

Then Alaric reached up and held the face plate in his fingers. His heart was beating hard in his chest as he summoned the will to do what he had come to do. Ja'anya reached out and placed her hands over his in a show of support for him. That was enough to stir him to action and he took a firm hold before starting to pull.

It took some effort but, with a slight crunch of crystallised slag, the face plate came loose from its fittings and Alaric lifted it up and off of Dionekes, catching the coin as it slid off. Alaric held his breath as he laid eyes on his earliest known ancestor. Through Gri'nyr's beloved spartan wife.

Dionekes, a spartan warrior from Antiquity, was in a peaceful slumber. Being in a completely sealed environment suit, coupled with the subzero temperatures of the ice planet, meant that decomposition had not set in during the thousands of years after his death. His black hair was long, reaching to his shoulders and bore fragmentary vestige of having been combed. No doubt from preparation before his rearguard action to allow Gri'nyr and his brothers time to escape. He had a short beard that had since become patchy since Typhon's possession and also the punishment the body took during the battle.

But, to further cement the linage that had been set, there were definitely facial similarities with him and Alaric.

Ja'anya looked down on Dionekes. This was not the monster that held her life in his grasp but a man that Alaric was descended from.

"Alaric?" she asked, reaching up and holding his face, tilting him to see her.

If Alaric was close to tears, he made no sign of it. But his eyes did. They showed the sadness of what he was experiencing. Lamenting the loss of family, no matter how far removed it was. He only pressed his head towards Ja'anya and she obliged him, foreheads touching. She stretched her mandibles out to press against his cheek.

"I'm okay." he told her. "It's just... well. It almost like... seeing my father here." He looked down on Dionekes. "But I know my father is alive. Somewhere. And I'll find him."

Alaric had to wonder about one thing as he gazed upon Dionekes that nagged his mind during the battle. Since Gri'nyr had a part of his consciousness housed within his armour that Alaric later claimed, did Dionekes have the same capacity with his armour? Was he actively fighting Typhon from within, causing him to fumble at certain moments to aid his descendant?

Unfortunately, with the armour rendered completely inoperable from damage and the Primarch's corruption, far beyond the forgemaster's skill to repair, that will never be known. But Alaric liked to think that he did. And now, with the demise of Typhon, he was at peace once more. No more would body snatching hive minds defile his remains. Nothing would harm him now.

He would forever reside undisturbed in the fields of Elysium.

Alaric carefully put the face plate back into position, making minute adjustments to ensure it was on properly before placing the drachma back over the mouth. Ja'anya reached into a pocket and she pulled out something that she had made. It was a wooden carving of a rose. A solar rose. The same kind that she had made for her father as she gently laid it to rest on Dioneke's chest.

Having paid their respects, they left the morgue.

Varlin was waiting for them outside. Sitting on the bench and having a smoke from his pipe. His cane was propped up against the bench next to him.

"So what now?" Ja'anya asked.

"We're going to cremate him." Alaric said. "And then scatter his ashes. To the stars or to the planet below."

Varlin lit his pipe and took a quick puff as he waved the match out.

"Or..." Varlin started, smoke streaming from his beard. "We do have a process of converting the dead into minerals." He then chuckled. "A new, less dirtier meaning of the term Family Jewels."

"You can do that?" Alaric asked.

Varlin merely winked as he familiarly tapped his eagle pauldron, the eyes of which glinted with a diamond gleam.

Meanwhile on Lai'kairis proper, things had not been so smooth. The news of the battle in the Column Docks and its almost apocalyptic end had by now spread throughout the whole station. The panic of the clan ship's imminent destruction had largely subsided, with the occasional paranoid yautja refusing to return until definitive proof was attained.

Much of the station had been damaged from the seismic activity of both the battle and the gravitational distortion of the singularity in the wake of the Primarch's demise. There was hardly a place where something had not fallen down. Most of the damage was located at the levels adjacent to the docks. Of which some of the column elevators surrounding the central column were out of commission. Shattered like tree trunks snapping from too strong a wind. It was fortunate that each elevator pod was a self-contained vessel. No chance of yautja getting spaced during the battle.

The population could only set about rebuilding from this most destructive of any disturbance that Lai'kairis had yet experienced. Even the great attempted invasion by the black yautja a tohusand years ago had been less damaging.

Furthermore, vocals members of the public were already spreading rumours that Alaric, the human who was the cause of all of this trouble, was a god. A vessel of Cetanu no less, here to claim the souls of the unworthy. Images of the final moments had been circulating, the miage of a divine being wreathed in holy flame fights a demon comprised of darkness. This of course was met with loud objections from the more sceptical of minds. How can a human, a race that they hunted on a regular basis and are frail as anything, possibly be a god? Let alone a yautja god? The more religiously inclined however have been flooding the temple with offering to the gods for the survival of their home and lives. Of which the majority was towards the shrine of Cetanu.

Only the Black Warrior could possibly defeat such a demon. And most faithful of the temple were already repainting the mural of Cetanu. From a multi-mawed monstrosity to the angelic figure that the surviving surveillance footage showed. A complete reversal when one thought about it.

In the council chambers, the ruling elders were in hot debate about the lingering issue of the Karak and its inhabitants. The issue of allowing them to stay on Lai'kairis

"No!" one elder yelled. "Absolutely not!"

"If it wasn't for their help, we would not be here to argue about this!" another countered.

The high elder, sitting on his throne at the head of the table, watched the two sides debate heavily on the subject at hand. A subject that had gone on for nearly the whole day without rest. As the leader of the council of elders on Lai'kairis, he had to remain impartial and not take any sides.

Kal'deris, while not physically able to actually join them, had already cast his vote in allowing the Karak to stay. The grand healer Sy'arwyn had also cast her vote in favour of allowing the Karak to stay. Several other elders, seeing the pragmatic benefits of new technology and advancements, also voted in favour. The High Priestess was extremely vocal about allowing the visitors to stay. Especially since they saved the life of her granddaughter, and eventual successor, Ly'enta. Not to mention the rest of her friends.

Furthermore, she kept referring to ancient texts interred in the temple vaults. Texts written during the peak of their race's civilisation. Of how when an ancient evil of the Dark Times would resurface and be slain by a warrior worthy of the gods. This was shrugged off by sceptical elders who considered it superstitious nonsense.

The other camp was headed by the loremaster Hy'dorles. His argument was a strong one. In that the Karak had, however unintentionally, brought about a threat far greater than anything that had been witnessed. Not since the Dark Times. Plus, humans had an unpleasant habit of trying to steal yautja technology.

But at the same time, it was the human Alaric who had ultimately slain the Primarch.

The debate had reached a deadlock. An equal number of votes had been tallied for each side. Half and half. And in this event of inaction, it was the high elder who would break the deadlock and make a decision.

It was not such an easy task as the High Elder had to weigh each choice and the consequences of each of them. Yes, on the one hand, the Karak and it's occupants had caused such an unprecedented amount of carnage to Lai'kairis upon their arrival. Ancient xenomorph's and a demonic being made by an extinct race. But on the other hand, they were able to slay the abominations while their own warriors were powerless to do so. Not to mention that the Karak and its crew possessed technologies that was in excess of their own. That would be a massive boon if they were on their side. Not to mention that they had even offered to lend their assistance in repairing the damage to the docks.

There was only one course of action left if such a topic had reached a stalemate.

The High Elder reached to a large amulet dangling from his neck, obscured by jewellery and tribal motifs. Giving it a sharp tug, it popped out from it's fitting and held it out. It was a simple golden disk decorated with typical yautja symbols of a mortuary kind, with a hole in the centre set with a clear crystal that was flawless like a diamond. Pressing a button on his throne's armrest, a pedestal emerged from the floor in front of him. Mounted on it was a receptacle made to hold a disk-like object.

The High Elder carefully inserted the amulet into the slot with the degree that one would if handling the remains of the deceased. Segmented clamps locked it in place. the high elder pressed some buttons before, after a resonating thrum of energy, the gem started to glow. The recesses of the pedestal lit up as the he pressed a button.

A series of electronic stuttering, almost like a variant of morse code, emitted from the pedestal as the gem flickered in unison. What it meant was unknown to those watching but the high elder knew exactly what it meant as he tapped in sequence in response on a keypad. The gem flickered again in response, relaying its coded message and the high elder responded in kind. This went on for several minutes, yautja and pedestal beeping in conference, before the gem glowed brightly. Nodding, the High Elder addressed the council as the light in the crystal faded away.

"Kai'rys has spoken in their favour." he said, retrieving the amulet as the pedestal released its clamps. "They shall stay."

The decision had been made. The Karak and its occupants were allowed to remain on Lai'kairis.

Hy'dorles practically stormed out in a huff from the result, loudly declaring that they had made a grave mistake. The High Priestess on the other hand felt some pride that her decision had been honoured. But most could say that the other elders were glad that the debate was finally over, one way or another and they could get back to what was left of their earlier appointments.

They can resume arguing about this later.

It was the end of a long day, and the next day was where the celebrations would commence. It was the evening meal by the time that the council's decision reached the Karak. Varlin had called a gathering in the mess hall and many of the crew, who were able to, were in attendance. For those who were no, a holographic projection was provided. A stage had been set up at the end of the hall that would allow the thane to see everyone.

The Archangels were sitting at one of the tables closest to the stage. Alaric and Ja'anya were sitting with them too. Lysandros and Cryus, along with Korrina in a wheelchair, were at another table. The unbound keeper of the Karak had recovered enough to be able to move but not without assistance. Kra'vyx, his mother Zel'tyr and his friends were at another table and Kal'deris was with them. The elder was being carted around in another wheelchair, accompanied by a nurse, as he was having trouble staying on his feet for long periods of time.

Lumbering in the back was the golem Igneous. Fresh from being fixed up after his scrap and subsequent defeat with the Praetorian. All the minor scrapes and scratches had either been filled in or buffed out. On his face were the scars he received. These were too deep to simply smooth out and were filled in with gold, adding a faux war paint to his usual scowl. This was done on his own request as a reminder of his mistake. Plus, it would add a factor of intimidation for the next fight.

Varlin, adjusting the com bead in his ear and tapping his cane on the stage floor, addressed the crowd as he tapped on his mouthpiece and made the speakers thump.

"Thank you all for coming." Varlin began, putting his cane under his arm. "It has been quite a day for all of us. We have received word from the yautja council." he paused for a moment to let that news sink in. "After much heated arguing and passing of insults, as is normal for a debate, they have voted in our favour. Split decision from their High Elder."

That prompted a small commotion of relief from the assembly. Some of whom clapped towards Kal'deris. The elder, surprised by this reaction, could only wave his thanks.

"They have also accepted our offer in assisting with the repairs." Varlin informed. "I'll have the full details for the repair crews within the hour. There are some places where they are... too big to access."

That provoked a bit of raucous laughter from the engineers in the crowd. Krags, who was sporting a bruised nose from his fall the day before, calmed them down. Varlin then addressed the Archangels.

"In regard to the manlings, considering their purpose here for diplomatic intentions, they have been granted a total of three orbits on Lai'kairis." Varlin revealed. "Even their council must acknowledge their help in containing the Primarch at the docks where their own warriors failed."

"Orbits?" Andrzej questioned.

"The length of time it takes for Lai'kairis to orbit the planet below." Alaric explained. "It takes thirty days to complete one orbit. Like Luna back at Earth."

"So, three months." Hicks calculated, making a note of that in his datapad's calendar. "That's more then we ever thought."

"I had it at one day." Sergei said, juggling his tankard between his hands.

"But, the condition was that they were to stay in residence on the Karak." Varlin added.

"Fair enough." Andrzej said. "I don't think we'll be as welcome on the station proper for the next week or so. Did they say anything about being allowed out under escort?"

"Nothing as of yet, no doubt they're deciding where you can and cannot go." the thane replied.

This was not without reason. Even humans would not allow alien visitors access to their vital systems. And that feeling was mutual for the yautja who were always wary of human interference. The legend of Machiko Nagouchi was the most known example, her exploits resulting in the near destruction of the clan that had taken her in. Not that the clan really accepted her from the start based on her account.

"Now, for the young hunters, preparations are already under way for your initiation hunt's celebration."Varlin revealed. "The feast will be taking place tomorrow night. So you'll have plenty of time to get ready."

"About time!" Fel'tak praised.

"Well, that's about all the information we have so far." Varlin finished up. "I will inform you all should there be any changes. Until then, dismissed and have a pleasant evening."

With that, the assembled crew started to peel off and out of the hall, ready for the night shift or turning in for the night. Igneous' thundering steps echoed as he left. Lysandros got up and left, supporting himself on his spear while Cyrus followed and Korrina was wheeled along. The Archangels meanwhile were going over what they now had to work with.

"Well, that took some of the apprehension away." Andrzej said, finishing off his drink. "Three whole months. Command is going to have a field day with what we can tell them."

"Not to mention souvenirs." Sarah added. "That'll be what's important. Think they have a souvenir stall?"

"If you fancy tacky baubles." Hicks quipped, typing rapidly on his datapad. "R&D would appreciate higher quality wares."

"They have to be earned." Alaric reminded. "They don't take kindly to thieves. The sort of 'take it and lose it' type."

"Very." Ja'anya added.

They were joined at that moment by Zel'tyr and Kal'deris who was wheeled by his carer. The sound of rumbling wheels giving them the heads up. Andrzej stood up, followed by the squad and bowed his head towards the elder.

"Thank you Elder Kal'deris for this opportunity for understanding between our peoples." Andrzej thanked in hopeful optimism.

The elder was not as positive as he merely tilted his head.

"Don't make us regret it. This is a serious gamble on all our behalves." Kal'deris sternly warned, before he rubbed the large scar on his abdomen. "In more ways then one."

And this was true in many regards. This was the first major diplomatic mission between humanity and the yautja and it was paramount that it succeed. Outside a common defence against xenomorphs and the Black yautja, the Three World War being the most known example, both races were at odds with each other with many battles and skirmishes throughout the years. Mostly a result of attempting to colonise planets holding yautja installations or during hunts. The absolute worst case scenario was a war and the United Earth Federation; already occupied with marauding Kul'suvar raiders, xeno extremists and insurrectionist cells across the Frontier Worlds, could not afford one.

At least not without a technological edge that gave them equal footing with the Yautja. On planets, humans could hold their ground but space belonged to the hunters.

"They won't let you down." Alaric assured. "Archangels never fail a mission."

"I'm staying on the ship tonight." Zel'tyr told them. "They say Kal should be able to walk unassisted tomorrow."

"Oh, I don't know." Kal'deris mused as he was begin wheeled off back to the med bay. "I sort of like being carted everywhere."

With that, the elder was whisked off back to the med bay with Zel'tyr following. Kra'vyx and his friends left too to their quarters, keen to get an early night for the festivities. Fel'tak was his bragging self as usual while Mal'fax was holding his tongue and Ly'enta trailed after them. The Archangels too decided to have an early night, leaving the table and leaving Alaric and Ja'anya.

"I have my own quarters back on the clan ship." Ja'anya said. "I haven't been back since you returned."

"Actually,"Alaric said, holding her close. "I was thinking about asking you to move in."

"On this ship?"

"Of course. I think you'll like the accommodations."

Ja'anya thought about this and she smiled.

"... I would love to." she decided.

Footsteps were heard and they both looked. There was Kila and her fellow shield maidens. All were kitted up in a more streamline; not to mention feminine, version of the standard Khazdryn armour suit, of which Kila's was more ornamented to denote her higher rank amongst them. She addressed Alaric with a curt bow of the head.

"With your permission, my Lord, shall we assist our Lady in gathering her belongings?" Kila asked.

Ja'anya tilted her head.

"Our Lady?" Ja'anya said, taken back by the title.

"But, of course. You are our Lord's significant other." Kila reminded with a wink.

Varlin came walking up, his cane rapping loudly on the stone floor to get her attention.

"You better take Kargrym with you, Kila." Varlin cautioned. "Just in case the locals get a bit rowdy from your presence."

Kargrym Bloodfist was one of the sergeants of the khazdryn soldiery. A heavy trooper at that. And he was as hard as they could come. A veteran of the wars against the Primarchs. He had seen horrors beyond count, lost many friends and family along the way, and retained his sanity. He had seen xenomorph swarms engulf entire planets. He had even been on the front lines of such battles. And since going up against those scenes of utmost carnage, there was nothing that could faze him.

He was their insurance in case anything went awry while retrieving Ja'anya's belongings.

The veteran had taken point of the procession, the shield maidens in turn formed a protective circle around Ja'anya. His armour bearing as much customisation as battle scars. His pauldrons bore additional armour and mounts for shoulder mounted guns. His limbs and torso was augmented with exosuit servos to accommodate the heavier loads his position would utilise. His gauntlets, to fit his name, were painted blood red. A reminder of how he used his fists to dispatch foes if they got past his guns. Even to the point where his knuckles were bleeding. He had his gauss rifle in hand, with axe bayonet mounted, and on a chest scabbard of his armour was a large wide bladed dagger with an added knuckleduster. A gauss revolver was holstered on a thigh, customised by the addition of a scope and a munitions launcher mounted under the barrel. No doubt used for shooting grenades, flares or any other relevant ordinance.

Kargrym's beard, decorated with blood red gems mounted in bronze, reached down to his belt and was silver with threads of it's former black streaming through. Despite this show of seniority, this was not due to age as he was relatively young by dwarf standards. Rather it was a result of the strenuous battles that he had participated in. His eyes were a penetrating shade of opal blue. His face, to further add to his image of a hardened soldier, bore a cross-cross pattern of scars. Like a xenomorph had slashed him one way and another slashed him in the other. If that was the case, it was a miracle that he still had his eyes and nose.

Compared to the shield maidens, an honour guard in their splendid armour and polished shields, he was the equivalent of a rough and tumble mercenary. But, as he himself was fully aware, he was the meanest and toughest warrior on the Karak. And he took his job seriously.

The trek to Ja'anya's home was uneventful as the yautja were more concerned about repairing the damage inflicted upon their home to take notice. Nonetheless, some yautja were giving them looks that bordered on the resentful. Considering that Ja'anya was wearing foreign clothing. When they got to Ja'anya's place, they were greeted with a sight. The outer face of the walls had been vandalised. It looked like it was all done while she was not home. No doubt with all the chaos in the docks, some yautja took the opportunity to express their disgust of her. Especially as there was a single word scrawled across her door.

Kila walked up and she frowned as she saw the graffiti. Her knowledge on yautja language and the glyphs they used for writing was minimal but she could just sense what the word was.

"Does that say what I think it does?" she asked aloud.

"Prey Whore." Ja'anya translated with barely disguised annoyance.

"Did they slop that on before or after our Lord slew the Primarch?" a shield maiden wondered.

"Probably don't care either way as long as they can spout filth without repercussions." Kargrym muttered, finding a nearby crate and dragging it over. "Get to it before we have a crowd of irate hunters with us." he ordered, sitting down on the crate and planting his gauss rifle on his lap.

With Kargrum taking watch, Ja'anya walked up to the door and unlocked it. The door slid open and she walked though. Kila followed after her, along with another shield maiden. The rest stayed outside with Kargrym. Ja'anya looked around her abode for a moment before she started to decide what to bring. For one, she picked up Alaric's marine boots and greaves that were still standing by the door where he left them. He would be glad to see them again. The dwarves had brought with them collapsed boxes and these were being set up to receive their contents.

It wasn't even a minute before a crowd of yautja came to see what was going on. Word had already spread that the Karak had been allowed to stay and, naturally, that did not sit well with most of the populace. And now there were dwarves, a race they never even heard of until now, walking around their station. Naturally, the more curious yautja were perplexed by the sight of them. Not at all like human dwarfs, those afflicted with dwarfism, that they had rarely seen in human space.

And then there were those yautja who more directly illustrated their displeasure. Some of whom where throwing things. Not directly at them but still in their direction. Kargrym watched one bit of rubble roll up to his foot. He simply kicked it aside and and went about polishing his gauss rifle's bayonet.

Ja'anya was making a conscious choice to stay out of sight when she heard the slurs being aimed towards her. Having translator implants and hearing all this perfectly said, the shield maidens outside had already kept their shields at the ready. Kargrym, who was unimpressed by this menagerie of insults, calmly placed his rifle aside and brought up his pipe from a pouch on his belt. He then got a match out from another pouch and lit it by striking his armoured thigh.

He was about to light his pipe when he heard it.

"Fucking stunted mutants." a yautja could be heard.

It was that insult, concerning height, that finally provoked a reaction from Kargrym. And it was a dry one at that considering that the one who said it could not be seen.

"Brave soul you are, hurling insults from behind the bigger hunters." Kargrym called out, calmly setting his pipe alight. "When you're not too busy kissing their arses. Must have shit on your breath."

That quip had the desired effect of poking at the hunter's pride. So much so that the hunter in question, who happened to be notably shorter then any yautja here, barged out from the crowd. Kargrym frowned when he saw the size difference between him and his fellows.

Suffice to say, the dwarf was even less impressed

"Huh? And you call us 'Stunted.'" he said, pointing out the obvious hypocrisy. "You're more in line to kiss their arses then we are."

"What did you say?!" the yautja demanded.

Kargrym ignored him as he continued to smoke on his pipe, blowing out initial wisps of smoke with indifference as he held it in his teeth and extinguished the match with a pinched finger. This show of indifference further provoked the yautja.

"Hey!" the yautja shouted. "Runt!? I asked you a question!"

The yautja walked right to the dwarf, looming over him as the dwarf continued to ignore him. Kargrym then looked up and fixed the yautja with a penetrating leer that spoke just how unimpressed he was with this show of dominance. Smoke seeped from his beard in the same manner as a dragon being annoyed by a persistent knight.

"So I heard." he said, taking another puff as he stood up to face him. "But, you asked without manners. So, I chose not to answer. Do you speak to your own elders like this? If a youngling did that with us, he would've got a clap around the ears. But if you got something to say, say it to my face rather then between the arse-cheeks of the others."

This provoked several muffled chortles from some of the other yautja. No doubt his own friends. The hunter glared down at the dwarf. Evidently showing restraint to not take his head right then and there.

"Your kind are not welcome here." he spat, before glancing up at the door. "Especially the prey whore inside."

Kargrym looked back at the line of shield maidens who had by now established a shield wall to prevent entry into Ja'anya's home. The door opened and Kila came walking out to reinforce the line. Ja'anya was still inside but she was no doubt listening in on the disruption as the door closed again.

The dwarf veteran looked back up at the yautja, his pipe twitching in his mouth in thought.

"You want us to leave?" Kargym inquired before tutting. "Well, the thing is, we are here by invitation of your ruling council. The High Priestess, your gods representative and High Elder, your supreme leader, in particular. That puts us beyond the authority of plebs such as you."

This blatant jab at his position stoke the flames of pride and the hunter yelled out a string of profanity, some of which was intelligible enough for the implants not to pick up, in a show of dominance. The veteran was once again unaffected by this show.

"Sounds like your parents should've taken the belt to you." Kargrym postulated, hand at his waist to emphasis the thought. "Shall I do what they couldn't bring themselves to do? Shall I spank you in front of everyone here? Some good old public humiliation never goes wrong. I should know."

That proved to be the final straw and the end of the yautja's restraint. The hunter had only gotten his hand on his knife when Kargrym, with speed that over a century of experience could bestow, had drawn his dagger from it's chest holster and was poised between the yautja's legs. The old dwarf grumbled loudly as the yautja, feeling cold metal between his legs, gingerly let go of his own weapon.

"You yautja haven't changed at all." Kargrym said in disappointment, his brow furrowing. "Not only are you still so easy to rile up, but you're still so obsessed about what's above the neck that you forget what's important below the belt."

The dwarf veteran pressed the blade further still, provoking a nervous glance of the eyes from the hunter that forced him to take a few steps back. Cold razor sharp steel between him and his cloth. Kargrym, pipe still in his mouth, took a puff and blew smoke up into the yautja's face, provoking a cough from the hunter.

"Now, listen carefully. I sharpen and maintain this blade every morning when I wake and every night before I sleep." Kargrym sternly warned. "I could carve my way through a bulkhead if I wanted to. Or..." he then pulled up the cloth flap to show just how close, to pressing into the skin, the blade was to the yautja's covered unmentionables for all to see. "I can just nick your balls off right here and now." he slowly tilted the blade so that it caught the light. "One swift move of the hand, intentional or accidental, is all it takes. And once they're severed, you'll be hard pressed to spread your seed in the unlikely occurrence of you finding a willing woman. Chances are you'll bleed out long before then."

The dwarf reached over and took the yautja's knife. Pulling it free from it's sheath, he tossed it behind him where it clattered loudly. One of the shield maidens stepped over had kicked it behind the shield wall. Kila was shaking her head at the predicament that this outspoken yautja had gotten himself in.

One does not simply pick a fight with Kargrym if they had no intentions fight in the first place. The only one who would was Treval, who was considered the most unhinged crewman on the Karak. He and Kargrym have a sparring relationship in the training ring.

"We'll just take that butter knife." Kargym said, keeping his dagger poised at the groin. "Compensation for your insolence. And that's taking it lightly."

He then reached up and grabbed the yautja's dreadlocks, which were just long enough for him to reach and pulled him down so that they were eye level. The yautja was by now close to pissing himself when he felt just how strong Kargrym was when he yanked him down. The dwarf veteran took another puff from his pipe and blew more smoke.

"Now, you have a choice." Kargrym proposed, his tone unchanged. "You can either be the first eunuch on this ship for who cares how long, provided you live long enough not to bleed out, or you can apologise for your actions and leave us be." he then made sure that everyone was hearing this next part. "Besides, you think the God Slayer is going to be pleased when he finds out you've been harassing his lover?" he inquired loudly before fixing his attention back on the hunter. "And considering that he slew a being from your legends that you yourself could never hope to slay, I'd say you'd be right fucked. What do you say? Are you going to apologise for your behaviour?"

The yautja, now feeling the dagger was going to draw blood if the dwarf pressed it any further, could only nod desperately.

"Good." Kargrym praised.

He then roughly pushed the yautja back away from him, who tumbled to the deck. He frantically checked between his legs, sighing raggedly when he felt his balls were still in position. Kargrym, looking at his dagger, walked up to the door adjacent to Ja'anya's home.

"And just to show that I was serious about carving through a bulkhead." he called out, flipping his dagger in his fingers so it was inverted.

Kargrym lifted his hand up and, with a loud screeching of punched metal, stabbed his dagger right through the door like it was made of cheese. The only thing stooping his fist going through was the cross-guard. He then pulled it out with a sharp screech that made some yautja wince to reveal a clean hole punched through.

"Any other questions?" Kargryn inquired, checking the edge of his dagger and finding no damage.

The silence he got spoke louder then any answer.

"Good." Kargrym praised, before walking back to his seat and sitting down. "You can all go about your business and let us go about ours."

Suffice to say, after that show of strength, they were not disturbed for the rest of the evening. In fact, the yautja gave them a wide berth on the way back to the Karak with Ja'anya's luggage in tow. Kargrym would toy with his new knife, getting the feel of it, before snapping it in his armoured hands. Muttering over the shoddiness of yautja workmanship, he tossed it onto a nearby pile of recovered rubble.

The door opened and Alaric led Ja'anya through to his, or rather their, private quarters. The huntress could only look with wide eyes from what she saw. It was like a palace compared to her former dwelling. Something reserved only for the elders and the elite hunters. Those who had earned the privilege from their hunts and the trophies to back them up.

In a way, Alaric had earned this from slaying the Primarch.

They had an entire wing to themselves. Complete with a recreation chamber, dining hall, library, bathroom and, of course, a bedroom. But, the crowning achievement was the trophy room that had already been decorated with relics of Gri'nyr's. From the heads of particular dangerous xenomorphs of the Primarchs' swarms to examples of advanced, and in many cases lost, technology. Remnants of the countless races that the Primarchs had consumed.

Reminders of all that life now extinguished and as to why the galaxy was as bare as it was.

As they stood in the foyer, Kila and her fellow shield maidens had been bringing in Ja'anya's baggage. Kargrym was waiting for them outside, smoking pipe in his mouth and running a whetstone along his dagger's edges. The sounds of shrill metal abraded by stone filled the air, punctuated only by the exhalation of smoke. He checked the edge with his scarred thumb, content in it's sharpness as he saw a thin rivulet of blood seep out from his skin

"And that is the last box." a shield maiden said, placing it on the ground and dusting her hands with satisfaction.

"Anything else, my Lord?" Kila asked.

"No. That will be all, Kila" Alaric answered.

"Of course, my Lord." Kila nodded before nodding to Ja'anya "My Lady. Have a pleasant night."

The shield maidens then bowed and they left them alone, the door sliding shut behind them. Ja'anya could only look around as she took in the sight of where she was now. This was a massive step up to what she was formally used to. Not what she was expecting to happen first thing when Alaric came back from his initiation hunt. At most, she thought that it would involve them going on a hunt together.

"Going to take a while to get used to this." Ja'anya said, softly clicking her mandibles in thought. "Huntress to Nobility in one day. Not what I was expecting first thing when you came back. Among other things."

Alaric held her close.

"You'll get used to it. I had to." he assured before he felt a yawn come up. "Suppose we should get to bed. Gonna be a big day tomorrow."

Ja'anya rested her head on his shoulder.

"Yes." she agreed. "It will be."

And with that, Alaric led her to the bedroom. Ja'anya looked around at her new home as they walked. Taking in all the sights, at the sheer grandeur of Khazdryn, Yautja and Hellenic design melded together. The door opened and Ja'anya was greeted to a wondrous sight in the bedroom. A majestically made four poster bed that looked as luxurious as it would be to sleep in it.

Ja'anya could not resist having a running jump upon it. And she did, running as fast as her khazdryn clothing could allow before jumping upon the sheets. She bounced as one would with the squeaking of springs and, as the bed itself was large by yautja terms, she was in no danger of suddenly tumbling off. She laid back with a content sigh as Alaric walked up with a smirk on his face.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked.

She tilted her head and smiled up at him.

"How can you tell?" she said, knowing it was a silly question.

Alaric smiled down at her as he started undoing his jerkin.

"Intuition." he said, pulling it off.

Before long, they had shed their clothing; piled up at the foot of the bed, and were both were under the sheets. Just cuddling up and relishing in the feeling of the others' presence as the lights dimmed into a soft glow. And before long, in each others' embrace, they had both slipped into a peaceful slumber.

Resting for the celebrations that would take place the next day.

Meanwhile, far from Lai'kairis in another region of the galaxy altogether, celebrations were the last thing on the mind. Failure was the subject at hand. Failure to accomplish the most vital of tasks.

On a lush planet that would fit every meaning of the word 'Paradise'. Within an ancient and magnificent city of stone and metal. A city whose architecture of mirrored stone outclassed anything that could be found in the major races of the galaxy. More ancient, powerful and majestic. The heart of the largest and oldest empire in the galaxy. An empire that spanned thousands of worlds under the rule of one emperor.

But while it may be vibrant on the surface, only when one scratches the surface does the rot reveal itself. For like any great empire, it could only grow so much before it became unstable. Could only become so powerful before it started to collapse on itself like many empires in history. Only through strong and ruthless dominion over it's subjects does it's domain hold together. Mistakes would be rectified, procedures of pacification updated and the ones who caused said mistakes would be punished.

Severely.

In the grand palace that towered high over the city as a monument to power, Mal'kah was waiting outside the large ornate doors to the throne room. Doors decorated with images of the greatest victories of the empire. Victories of domination over lesser races with the yautja standing ascendant above all else. The elite hunter, still in his armour, had arrived back on the planet hours before and was made to wait while his lord was busy with other matters of state. He had taken the time to settle some things, eat some fresh food and to finalise his report. And all the while, trying to think of the best way to let his failure hit softly for a lesser punishment.

That would depend entirely on what sort of mood that his lord was in as he waited outside the doors. But the tension in his thoughts would be cut as he got a not so subtle hint.

The sharp ringing sound of agonised screaming could be heard coming from inside the throne room. The kind that would emanate from someone feeling the very life being snuffed out, or maybe torn out, from them. Mal'kah shut his eye and rubbed his plate as he recognised the nature of the scream. A particular tone of screaming that he heard many times before.

It was an execution. But, from how long the screaming was going, it was not a swift affair. It was slow, drawn out and, above all, painful beyond comprehension. But after a while the screaming stopped as one would stop a record. Sharp and abrupt and only silence filled the air once more. Mal'kah rubbed his ears as the scream persisted in his head for several agonising moments.

Someone else had fucked up, Mal'kah thought in suppressed dread. He's not in a good mood.

After a minute or so, the doors swung slowly open, silently with ominous and acrid air wafting through. The stench that would make it's presence known when death was dealt. Two yautja guards in highly ornate armoured suits came out. Dragging a limp body between them as they moved in sync and without saying a word. It was another yautja, clearly a warrior of Elite rank from his armour. He hung listlessly from the arms of his carriers, eyes lifelessly looking up at the ceiling. Were it not for the fact that slow breathing could be heard, he could very well be considered dead.

That said, was he actually dead or was he alive but with the mind gone?

Another yautja came walking out. This was another warrior, of a lower rank then the one being dragged out, who had so far kept his emotions contained. But now that he was out of the throne room, he let out a very tense ragged exhale of resurfacing fear. He then noticed Mal'kah standing at the side but the elite hunter's presence did little to strengthen his composure, other then standing to attention.

"Enjoying the sudden promotion?" Mal'kah inquired with some dry and blackened humour.

The yautja only rubbed his neck as this quip did little to lighten the mood of having seen his superior getting the life sucked out of him.

"Your turn." he half reported, half croaked before he walked off. "Hopefully, he cooled off. For your sake"

Indeed, Mal'kah thought. For my sake.

Mal'kah took a deep breath, steeled himself for the reckoning that was to come and stepped through the doors. The doors shut behind him as he walked towards the great throne, the sound of them closing filling the unnerving silence. It was a notable distance before he reached the end. The throne, larger then what would be considered normal, reached up to the ceiling and was set upon a large flight of steps. The better to give it's occupant a commanding view over their subjects. The seat itself was crafted in a style that was not yautjan. The decorations carved into the stone evoked images of ancient trees inlaid with glyphs of precious metals and sparkling gems. And, like many of the buildings, it was carved from mirrored stone.

His lord, clad in the same majestic and imperial robes as before, was standing with his back to Mal'kah, looking out the large windows as the setting sun cast the city with a warm glow. A contrast to the cold dread that permeated the throne room. A crown was upon his head; gold, laden with precious jewels and decorated with large sweeping spikes. Not unlike a crown of thorns. His hands, equally ornamented, were behind his back constantly clasping the other in a sign of irritation. Mal'kah stopped at the steps that led up to throne.

"Good evening, Mal'kah." the Ancient tersely greeted, not even turning around to do so.

"My Lord." Mal'kah greeted back with the customary bowing of the head before noticing something different about his superior's composure. "You are looking refreshed this day."

And indeed he was as the Ancient turned to face the elite hunter. The last time Mal'kah had seen his lord, before he had left to his mission, he was looking very tired and drained. But now, his complexion was more vibrant and youthful. The colour had returned to his skin. He looked centuries younger then before, but his mind was the same.

"Do you think so?"the Ancient asked incredulously. "The last few days has been most tiring. A rebel uprising along the fringe that just refuses to get crushed. Threats of insurrection by our vassals that have to be dealt with. The list is almost endless." His brow then furrowed "So, did you succeed in the task I have assigned to you?"

Mal'kah braced himself.

"I believe you already know the answer, my lord." he stated.

The Ancient blinked ominously as he did indeed know the answer.

"Obviously." he said, flatly with just a hint of displeasure. "I saw the state of Qul'dan as they wheeled him off your ship. Disarmed as he was and rearmed as he is. And my detachment of elite troops under the command of Tan'kor have not returned with you either." he then flicked his robes with indifference. "I had already seen about replenishing their numbers from a pool of potential candidates. Though in truth, the quality has degraded somewhat lately. Tell me, is Qul'dan still unconscious or is he up and about by now?"

Mal'kah could not help but notice the complete lack of regard for the former underling. As for Qul'dan, the brute was still slumbering from his surgery. A side effect from the amount of sedatives, and the numbers of beatings with a stun rod, that was needed to put him under in the first place.

"You are not alarmed by what Xyl'tai would have to say about the death of her son?" He asked.

His lord simply scoffed loudly at the mere prospect of familial concern from one of his subjects.

"To her, Tan'kor was little more then an experiment." he clarified. "A side venture of her obsession of trying to perfect genetics. As if our kind is not pure enough as it is."

"By fucking her brother?" Mal'kah question with a raised brow.

The Ancient's shoulders dropped and an exasperated sigh rumbled from his throat from the mention of that specific detail. Something which, among the right circle, was an all but open secret. And a taboo one at that.

"No, by using experimental mutagens. Of course, by fucking her brother!" he snapped back, waving his hand to the side trying to put the thought out of his head. "Something about bringing out desirable recessive genes. Only thing it did was spawn a hunter who loved sticking sharp things into his face. Nothing like her other son who is professional to a fault."

Mal'kah tilted his head.

"Even with his 'faults'?" he questioned.

The Ancient notably paused at that seemingly minor detail. A detail that was considered highly taboo to most puritanical yautja. Far more then incest.

"A necessary compromise." he tersely corrected. "His skills of assassination, not to mention adapting to adversity on missions, are second to none and served us greatly. Even at the cost of... contaminated blood."

Contaminated blood, among other similar euphemisms, was a byword for 'crossbreeding with non yautja'. Something which was explicitly forbidden in the Dominion, and indeed frowned upon by most yautja clans. The derogatory insult 'Prey Whore' being aimed towards the women in particular. But, despite efforts to prevent such couplings, cases had been known to crop up every now and then. Typically from getting a slave pregnant or vice versa, which was seen as the more scandalous of the two. Usually, it would result in the execution of said hybrid and severe punishment towards the parents. But, in the rare occasion that it proved beneficial; such as being a proficient assassin, some cases are tolerated. Tolerated but not universally accepted.

It is no wonder that when such things occurred within the yautja clans, the affected party would seek exile far away in a remote corner of the galaxy or find a more tolerant clan to join. But such things were few and far between for the yautja were not ones to leave loose ends. The expansive Trade Confederation, regarded as the most neutral of states, always offered refuge to outcasts in exchange for their service. Many gladly took this offer of employment and as such are fiercely loyal to their benefactors.

A pragmatic choice in a hostile galaxy.

"Now, to more important matters then the discussion of incest amongst peers." the Ancient decided, walking down the steps as he brought the conversation back to more relevant concerns. "First and foremost, your mission had failed."

Mal'kah simply stood straight and kept his focus on weathering the admonishment as his lord walked right up to him. Only inches from his face, Mal'kah could see the anger kept under a tight lid gleaming behind the Ancient's eyes. He could feel the phantom itch returning to his eye plate and was using all his will to not reach up and rub it. His lord could feel the tension of apprehension building up within his subordinate.

And he was relishing every moment of it.

"Not only did you fail to finally snuff out Gri'nyr's cursed bloodline, twice I might add, but you managed to make his descendant stronger than before." the Ancient continued in a calm but stern tone. "And, if I might add again, he now has a relic ship the size of a dreadnought under his command. Something which WE are the only ones supposed to have access to. How are we supposed to maintain our dominance if our enemies can match our might?"

He was no doubt referring to the surveillance footage gleamed from Mal'kah drones and cruiser. Of the khazdryn ship that rose from the snow and ice of that planet. Evidently, he had received those pieces of data the moment that Mal'kah had landed. The veteran simply frowned at the idea that the failure landed entirely on him. He had done his duty as required unlike some others he could mention.

"That was entirely the fault of Tan'kor and Qul'dan." Mal'kah clarified. "Tan'kor used those young initiates as bait to lure the ooman into a trap. Naturally, thanks to highborn hubris, he underestimated Alaric. He got your troops killed in the process and ended up being shoved down a grinder of razor ice for his failure. Qul'dan wouldn't listen to my advice and treated the whole thing as a game. Decided to take his time with pummelling Alaric rather than killing him as planned. That serum you provided caused him to become overconfident and ignore the fact that the effect is only temporary. Ended up wearing off at precisely the wrong moment and rest, as they say, is history."

The Ancient, glossing over these trivial of matters, had one question in mind as he withdrew his leer from Mal'kah's proximity.

"The Primarch on the other hand?" he inquired. "What became of it?"

"Slain. Permanently." Mal'kah reported. "I had received word from our contacts of Lai'kairis that it had smuggled itself to the sanctuary ship aboard that dreadnought where it was destroyed. But not before nearly destroying the column docks that hold the two hemispheres together." He then brought up a more significant problem. "Even if it had succeeded in killing Alaric, that would mean taking Lai'kairis as a mobile hive. You know full well the capabilities of that station. What it's designer had in mind."

The Ancient was unconcerned by such a notion as he turned, let out an unconcerned scoff and walked up towards the throne.

"A small price to pay to achieve the greater goal." he spoke aloud before he stopped halfway to face Mal'kah. "Besides, I would not have had you release it without having the right weapon to discourage it from attacking the Dominion in the first place." he reminded with a very intent tone. "You of all people should know that."

Mal'kah took a quick glimpse of the throne upon the steps and, blinking his eye, he noticed an ornate box resting on the cushions upon the seat. A very particular box made of aged interlocking metal. One that he had seen several times before, when his lord was in a particularly foul mood, and he knew just what was inside. A tool of his lord's preferred method of execution.

Thoughts were already filling his head as to what plans his lord had in mind. Was he to suffer that fate?

The Ancient relished in observing in Mal'kah's unnerved state. He always loved watching his subjects squirm like the worms they are whenever they saw the box. Feeling the slowly encroaching noose tightening around their necks. But that was not to be.

"However, you are lucky that I had already administered... punishment before you arrived." the Ancient revealed as he picked up the box and sat down in the throne. "Took out my frustrations for the day. Such is what comes when ruling an empire as vast as this. Was there anything else that I should now about? Any possible development we could turn to our favour?"

Mal'kah cleared his throat as he was about to drop a bombshell.

"Alaric had... unlocked his inner power during the fight with Qul'dan. How he lost his arms." he recounted. " And during the battle against the Primarch on Lai'kairis, he had become... what was the word? Ah yes. 'Precursor'."

The Ancient rose in his chair when he heard that word. Like one would if they had caught wind of an unexpected occurrence. A word that he had not heard for a very long time. A word that was all but forgotten except by a few half-mad scholars he imprisoned for having merely mentioned it. The last one of which was over two centuries ago.

"You are certain?" he inquired with a cautious interest.

The elite hunter, smiling inwardly when he detected concern in his lord's voice, prepared to show the last part of his report.

"See for yourself." Mal'kah said, reaching for his wristcomp and tapping some buttons. "The raw unedited footage straight from Lai'kairis, received but an hour ago."

A holographic display projected from high in the ceiling, creating a rough three dimensional diorama of the column docks. There was the khazdryn ship, now identified as The Karak, docked in a berth. A crowd of yautja forming around it before the hatch opened and Alaric came out, shortly followed by the Archangels and the initiates.

Mal'kah could sense his lord's disgust of humans stepping foot on Lai'kairis. He could make out the faint grumbling emanating from his throat. So the elite obliged him by skipping out the unnecessary parts.

Now the hologram played the scene of the Praetorian's emergence showed, coming from the Primarch's remains. They watched how it virtually tore the Lai'kairis arbitrators apart. A brief fight between the Praetorian and a golem took place before the golem was sent flying into a parked ship. Alaric stepped in to slay it. It culminated, after much struggle, in the Praetorian being bisected and then beheaded by Alaric.

But then the Primarch itself emerged from its gigantic remains. The Ancient was visibly surprised to find this being inhabiting, and subsuming, the body of a long dead spartan. In this form, he was able to effortlessly subdue Alaric with a punishing kick that sent him into a bone breaking impact with another ship. And none of the other visitors had much luck as the Primarch commanded the dead to rise. The Ancient showed visible interest in this ability. The only ones who had any amount of success were the two spartans but even then, it was only marginal. The elder warrior was soon coughing blood after copping a hit and the younger warrior was lit up like a lightning rod.

The Primarch, amongst the chaos of the battle, singled out a smaller yautja huntress and catching her in an aethyric grip. Another, older huntress who was now doubt the mother, attempted to rescue her daughter and was only caught in the same grip. The yautja noted of how the Primarch was intently focused on the younger huntress. Like he was sensing something about her, and it was not her abnormally smaller size.

But it was at that moment that Alaric rejoined the fight, administering an equally punishing kick right at the Primarch's head. Catchign the two huntresses in the air before landing back on the deck. The yautja watching assumed that the armour had repaired him to the point where he was able to rejoin the fight. There was no way that a human could survived such an attack without some sort of technological assistance. Further emphasised when, as Alaric resumed battle against the Primarch, was sent slamming into the deck and smashing his shoulder, the armour wove roots around the damaged area and realigned his shattered limb.

This was a both a sign of Alaric's stubborn determination to slay the enemy and also that his body was starting to fail him. Only the armour was holding him together at this point. And as the battle raged on, wrecking more of the docks in the process,

And then came the finale. Alaric's ascension. Erupting from within the Primarch's spectral form liken erupting star. Wreathed in white flame and deflecting or negating an increasingly desperate Primarch's spectral attacks. His transformation in a cocoon of light took place and his precursor form, armour black as night and eight glowing wings revealed. The axe transformed, much to the Ancient's shock, into a scythe of haunting design.

It culminated, after a brief period of darkness that blotted out the feed, in Alaric cutting open the Primarch with the scythe and ripping out his soul shard with his bare hand. Then the soul shard shattered in Alaric's grasp and with it, the Primarch's final and irreversible death. The souls that made up his body began to tear him apart. The Ancient, watching this, could feel his heartbeat even faster at this sight. And then the roiling mass where his shard shattered detonated.

The feed at that moment cuts off and the whole display is reduced to a scrambled blinding mess of light particles. Evidence of the sensors in the docks being overloaded and shutting down. Mal'kah, having watch this before, shut his eye at the precise moment to avoid being blinded again. His lord, not knowing this, was left cursing as he clutched his eyes from the sudden photosensitive shock. The elite hunter then shut off the display as his lord rubbed his vision back into focus.

Even though his Lord was not showing it once he regained his sight, Mal'kah's attuned senses of the hunt could detect it. Ever so faintly, under all that malevolence and superiority, he could sense the oldest and strongest emotion coming from the Ancient as he held the box tightly to his chest.

Fear.

The Ancient, for the first time during this meeting of failure, was now silent. And it was a while before he spoke again with only the wind and the near set sun outside keeping them company.

"This... complicates matters further." he said, rapping his fingers on the box possessively as a child would with a teddy bear.

"Complicates?" Mal'kah said, decided that the word was utterly irreverent for what they had watched. "It's virtually what the oomans call a 'shit show'."

"Oomans and their obsessions with scatology! Did you find out anything else? What happened after?"

"From what I heard; this ascension almost killed Alaric. But, from means I have not been able to determine, he has made a full recovery."

This was a most dire kind of news yet. If Alaric was able to truly unlock the power of his Precursor Blood, and survive, there was no telling when he would be able to do it again. The Ancient rapped his fingers in thought of the prospect. It was a double edge sword. Obviously, it was the greatest threat. But on the other hand, from what they know so far, Alaric could very well kill himself in the attempt and save them the trouble.

But they would not take that chance of letting him tap into that power again.

"Be sure to have our contact on Lai'kairis keep tabs on Alaric." the Ancient commanded, resting the box on his lap. "I want to know the instant anything that offers a remote chance of eliminating him occurs." he then held a finger up with guile. "But not too soon. We need time to prepare the right countermeasure, now that he has managed to tap into the power of a greater being." he then growled. "Something that had been denied to me."

"And what of Qul'dan?" Mal'kah inquired. "Is he to be punished for his failure?"

The Ancient rapped his fingers on the box in thought. Toying with the idea of inflicting a hefty dose of pain and suffering onto an underling who deserved it. But, knowing how prideful that yautja was and the humiliation of his defeat, he decided against it.

"I would think having his arms ripped off would sink the message of not fucking up again finally work its way into his brain." he decided. "Should he fail again... well, he'll hope that he'll die by Alaric's hand." he resumed his authoritative manner "Now, I suggest that you take time to rest and prepare for the next, and hopefully last, encounter with Alaric." the Ancient commanded. "When the chance arises, we must exploit it. And, most vital of all, not fuck up a third time."

"As you command, Emperor Xel'khalos." Mal'kah said, bowing as he did.

The Ancients fist clenched at the mention of his name. Something that was never to be known to anyone but a select few. There was no telling where spies might be eavesdropping.

"The Seventh." Mal'kah added as he rose back up, secretly relishing the reaction he provoked.

With that, Mal'kah turned on his heels and departed, the doors opening for him as he approached. It wasn't until the door closed that the Ancient let out a rumbling growl from that act of passive insubordination.

"Xel'khalos the Seventh?" he muttered, rapping his fingers on the throne's armrest. "How long before I'm Xel'khalos the Eighth?"

The yautja looked at his fingers, flexing them to see if that cramp had returned. It didn't and he was relieved.

That moniker was little more than a cover. To throw off any suspicions about the length of his reign. One of which had outlasted any other monarch known. And, more importantly, far exceeded the lifespan of a typical yautja. Such things would only arouse suspicion in his more sceptical subjects. To the more oblivious, and some would say zealous, populace, he was the latest of a line descended from the first emperor. That conqueror of the Primarchs and founder of the Dominion of Xel'khala.

But in truth, that was just a fabrication whenever he would be close to death and would assume the identity of a new descendant. A ruse that he was not fond of performing but was necessary to maintain power. And it was also helped by the fact that he kept the populace in the dark about a great many things. An ignorant population is more easily controlled. And any who probed too deep, by intent or accident, would be removed from the equation.

Xel'khalos decided at that moment that it was time to retire. It had been a long and grinding day and he needed an early night. Taking the box in hand, he got up and left he throne room. Walking down the lavishly decorated corridors, lined with various tapping of royalty and vanity. Royal guards lined the halls and corridors, resolutely standing to attention as he passed. Servants, of many different races and dressed in modest clothing, hurriedly bowed out of fear as he passed, lest they be punished for not doing so.

One servant, a crustacean-like humanoid, was too busy adjusting a framed mural to notice the emperor walking up. Xel'khalos briskly smacked it over the head forcefully as he walked past, and the servant recoiled from the unexpected attack. The yautja chuckled as he heard the commotion behind him. That cheered him up a little, seeing the lesser enslaved races cower before him. On any other day, he would've had the servant executed for not bowing. But then that would involve having to organise a replacement and it was too late in the day for organising that.

Finally, he reached his private chambers. Stepping through, he walked through the hall to his bedroom. Passing all of his most valuable of trophies, all the most stunning examples of acquisitions that his Dominion claimed. Armour, weapons and mounted examples of that artifact's creators. Races that he had all but wiped out and many more that was slain to the last as an example to those who would think to defy the Dominion. As he did however, we walked past a large mirror that was covered by a curtain. Xel'khalos paused when he walked past, his fingers gripping the box tighter. He could feel his heart quicken in his chest. As one would when they make a haunting revelation. Gingerly, he stepped back and, peeling back the curtain tentatively with a finger, looked upon his reflection. His breath hitched in his throat, his fingers clenched tighter around the box as he saw that all too familiar and unwelcome sight.

This was the true him. Seen only by him when looking upon his reflection. To those he ruled over, he was the emperor. But to him, in the privacy of his own sight, he was anything but.

A walking corpse greeted him in that parallel word of mirrors. Emaciated, sickly pale under the pristine robes he wore. His eyes were replaced with lambent glowing orbs. His clothing was unchanged, contrasting the difference between vibrant life and his half death. Merely concealing his monstrous inner self. Upon his forehead, burning as fiercely as the day he got branded, was the glyph. The symbol of Gri'nyr's bloodline upon his withered flesh. A permanent reminder of the day he had almost crushed his rival. And a taste of the fate that would be awaiting him if he did not find a solution.

Such was the price of Soul Drain.

Xel'khalos cast the curtain back over the mirror as he felt his anger grow. He looked to his hand and flexed the fingers. The cramp had still not returned. But for how long? How long would he go this time before he needed to drain another soul to keep his own going?

The practice of Soul Drain in itself was reviled, yet coveted, by those familiar with it. It was a violation of the natural order of the universe. The order of life and death. An eternal cycle that all were bound to. Nothing lives forever and sooner or later, death claims it's due. Soul Drain was a means to prolong one's life at the cost of another. The life force taken revitalises the receiver, restoring youth and failing bodily functions while leaving an empty husk in the 'donor'. Hollowed as they are, they are extremely susceptible to outside suggestion, making them perfect slaves to carry any order their controller demanded without question. Not to mention a unique resistance to Aethyric influence.

Xel'khalos in the early days of his reign was certain to secure a steady source of souls to maintain himself. Under such guises as being personally selected to join his entourage or some other honour of similar standing. Those deemed useful in the long term were spared and those who were not, or were only for some short term goal, are drained. The oblivious masses were to blind to realise the truth, considering the prestige such a position would bring, and those in the know would try their best not to get their liege's attention. And this had gone on for thousands of years.

Whenever Xel'khalos would rejuvenate himself, his appearance became more youthful but not regressing to the point where it would arouse suspicion. He had learned to control his appearance. But when it came closer to needing sustenance, his true form would bleed further into reality. In his case, it would start at his hands at they become gnarled, withered and hard to move. Revealing the aged husk that he really was. The warning that was told to him by his nemesis rang true all those years ago rang. Little by little, he was becoming something else. If it was to hold by human terms, he was something akin to a vampire. Or, to be more fantastical, a lich. Draining life to prolong their own immortality. Life that only keeps them going for so long before the flame needed tending again.

And this in turn led to a gradually dire problem. In the passing centuries, Xel'khalos had been needing incrementally more souls to sustain himself. It was unnoticed at first but it became noted when he found himself ageing more rapidly then before after each consumption. Like a candle that burned twice as bright but only for half as long.

He would feel thin. Overstretched. Like an old length of rope being pulled taut and starting to fray.

And with every drain, despite the relief it brought, the hunger just grew. Little by little and demanding a heavier price with every subsequent use. More souls just to sate the hunger if for a time. But he had found a workaround when such afflictions arose from time to time. The stronger the soul, the longer the rejuvenation lasted. This had been his preferred method, with the cover of a tournament every ten years hosting the strongest warriors for the honour of joining his personal guard being placed. It was the reason why he wanted Gri'nyr's soul.

Someone so versed in the Aethyr, not to mention bearing Precursor Blood, was perfect.

But as of late, such souls were increasingly hard to come by. He had already done such a thorough job in wiping out his rivals, be it Gri'nyr's clan and their affiliates. As a result, his own subordinates were too precious to feed on. He need such souls intact to oversee his Dominion, govern the worlds in his name and enforce his rule. Unless they failed him of course, in which case they were fair game.

Perhaps, in his own haste to wipe out his enemies on that day, he had inadvertently cut himself off from the best food supply.

With a frustrated roar, he stormed off down the hall accompanied only by the rumbling echo of his anger.

He would defy his fate. Just as Alaric had persistently done so.

He would outlive Death itself.