From The Outer Dark
Okay so some 'major' disclaimers/background info to keep in mind while reading. General statement for when this takes place, then the more nitty gritty nerd crap. The story will take place during the beginning of the Clone Wars 19BBY/3255 LY (I'll be using LY for the story from here on out just so you know)/maybe a little before that. The Imperials will show up, but it is not necessarily when they will properly meet. And for Warhammer, this takes place just after Guilliman was made Lord Commander, though the 40k timeline will be a little smooshed so that events occur how you'll see, but overall, yeah, generally, whatever info you know from that means what you think it means, maybe. Now onto the VS crap.
First, this story is heavily based/uses the exact lore and info given from both the Carcharodons Novels and the Deathwatch Novels. (specifically, those that involved Deathwatch Kill-team Talon) So as such, those stories and their characters will be making notable and very obvious center-stage positions for the Imperial side of this story, and I will attempt to keep to the Characters as they were in the books, but this is going to be a generally nicer, Imperium as I usually write since I don't like writing the normal bashing/slaughter the innocent aliens sort of writing that I sometimes see on these sites. Another thing in this first chapter, to ensure that the general lore for each book series is included, will try to recap some significant things for each character's backstory as they are introduced. So that may cause these first few chapters as characters are introduced to be pretty exposition-heavy, and hopefully, that is not too disheartening and is still enjoyable.
Secondly, I will be using Movies/TV continuity only for Star Wars, unless I am mistaken, which, given my long time away from the franchise's extended parts (legends, the new canon, and whatnot), is super likely. This means a lot of the more powerful SW stuff will be left out or not used. As a rule, for this series, the Imperium will perform better than SW regarding raw damage and tankiness. But SW has a better chance of fighting against them in a long-term/light attrition kind of war. Hyperspace travel is a million times better than Warp travel, and it would cause the Imperial Remnant (I know I'm so original) a lot of trouble if they don't adapt/utilize it. This will not be as one-sided as My Warhammer X Mass Effect series, as with SW, the Imperium has a much better equal here, and the galaxy is much more significant in scope. Though, to put it gently, SW is terrible (at least in the movies and shows) at depicting in words scale, as in the clone army is tiny for the amount of space it has to cover. But I'm not planning on showing that, but hopefully, you get my point. Though it is better from what I'm reading in the lore sites and in the visuals, the movies show it better, as in the size and immensity of, say, Coruscant, for example.
Yeah, enough of this, I think I covered the major things to say, but let me know if I missed anything to cover, please, and thank you. Now, please enjoy, and don't forget to review!
'They were dispatched into the Outer Darkness upon that first Day of Exile, there to ravage the foes of mankind until their final atonement. Their Forgotten One gave them remit unbound, to set about the traitor, the alien, and the renegade without mercy, and to harrow them in their places of strength. So began their long hunt. They hunt still.'
The Mythos Angelica Mortis, Chapter 17, Paragraph 98 - c. M36
Chapter One: The Grey Tithe/Return to Damorath
The Forgotten System - Endymion Cluster
The stars shimmered cold and uncaring as the White Maw, flagship of the Carcharodon Astra's 3rd Company, emerged from the warp's roiling abyss. The void where it had exited was unnervingly still, a stark contrast to the tempest the viewer saw raging hundreds of light-years away. There, the warped peaks of the Maelstrom loomed like the serrated fins of a leviathan, threatening to spill into reality itself. The warpstorm was pulsating as he looked at it, its darkness threatening to spill over the confines of reality in a manner he had never seen before. All this and more, the Carcharodon's Lexicanium, formerly the meek youth on Zartak named Mika Doran Skell, now reforged by his apotheosis to the Astartes Khauri, saw through his Wytch-sight.
He was knelt in the shadowed confines of the Librarium aboard the 3rd Company's flagship. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of incense burning in ancient braziers, their plumes rising like specters dissipating into the vaulted ceiling. Flickering rune lights cast an eerie glow over the room, their unstable illumination throwing jagged shadows across the ornately engraved walls. The hum of psychically attuned wards resonated like a distant choir, only faintly perceptible to those born with the touch of the warp.
Khauri's breathing was measured but deep, his posture rigid as he fought to quiet his thoughts. His mind was a storm-tossed sea, each wave crashing with the echoes of the warp's fury and the brutal memories they brought to the surface. The vision of the storm's monstrous approach—the kaleidoscope of impossible colors, the raw, screaming void—haunted him. He had seen horrors in his short service as a Librarian, but none as visceral as the squall he felt emanating from the Maelstrom. A storm he barely saw being contained by the Ward Worlds that surrounded the gale of raw emotions.
Even with them, several waves of that etheric energy had escaped and wretched havoc across the sectors surrounding it. One of these waves had even threatened to overwhelm the White Maw as it had been making its way here. Only through diligence had the small cadre of Librarians aboard stopped the company fleet from being dashed apart.
His training had saved him from being overcome by the first of these tempests. The chants of fortification instilled by his master, The Pale Nomad, had bolstered his defenses as the immaterial claws of the warp had raked at his mind. Yet even now, in the relative calm of the Librarium and back again in realspace, Khauri felt the echoes of that psychic storm press against his wards.
Worse still, deep in his mind, he heard It lapping at the edges of his consciousness like a hungry predator mixed among the throng of It's kin. He had denied It on Zartak, he had denied It on Piety V, and he would deny It again.
The cursed Traitors on Zartak had bound It to him when he was still a child. Its mark was carved into his back, and no matter the ministrations of the Apothcarion or his master, the link had yet to be severed to the Daemon. It always returned, a specter that served to try and torture him with his doubts and fears. Even as he saw It's yellow eyes staring at him from the shadows, Khauri knew it would not approach him yet. It was waiting. Whenever it came, It had always attempted to overwhelm him when his powers, body, or mind had been strained to their limits.
The chamber seemed alive, its runes pulsing faintly in response to his presence. Shelves of aged, leather-bound tomes lined the walls, their spines bearing glyphs of protection and secrecy. On the central plinth rested a hololithic display of the Lost World they had come to. More mundane storms of wind obscured its surface. Khauri, during his previous visits and training there, knew it was caused by the weakened atmosphere of the dead planet. Through the projected clouds, Khauri could almost imagine what the world must have looked like when it was verdant with beautiful blue oceans teeming with aquatic life.
As he watched, a faint vibration ran through the deck beneath him, the White Maw still adjusting its position over the planet. As he felt the movement, he looked down to his right gauntlet. The sole Exile Marking he'd earned the right to make. It was etched into his right gauntlet as a reminder of the penance he carried as a son of the Forgotten One.
The markings were not painted or engraved in the traditional sense but carved into the ceramite with ritualistic precision. Deep, angular gouges ran along the gauntlet's outer plating, forming a lattice of interwoven lines mimicking the jagged waves of an endless, storm-tossed sea. A singular, stark rune was inscribed at the center of the design: a fractured circle surrounding a sharp-edged crescent, its edges jagged like fangs wrapped around the front of the plate. Khauri had wished the symbol to represent the duality of exile and redemption, the crescent reminiscent of the Void Father's watchful gaze even upon those cast into shadow. The fractured circle spoke of broken oaths and scars yet to heal.
These markings were accented by faint streaks of dried crimson lacquer that seeped into the grooves, giving the impression of blood forever fresh upon the surface—a testament to the lives Khauri had taken in the Void Father's name and the blood he still owed. Beneath the carvings, faint etchings in an ancient High Gothic script ran parallel to the primary crescent. Only fragments could be discerned: Exilium, Fides Ad Astra, Sanguinem Non Tradet (exile, faith to the stars, and blood unbetrayed).
Khauri's focus returned as he felt another presence enter the Librarium. He didn't need to turn to recognize his master, the Pale Nomad. Te Kahurangi moved like a silent shadow, his black-fringed robes flowing around his intricately engraved power armor. The tribal talismans hanging from his pauldrons clinked softly, their warding sigils aglow with a faint inner light. His face, lined and heavily marked with tattoos, carried an expression of stoic determination, though his eyes betrayed a burden far heavier than most could fathom.
"Your resolve holds," Te Kahurangi said, his voice as quiet as the void but tinged with a note of approval. "Good. You will need it."
Khauri inclined his head in silent acknowledgment. His gaze remained fixed on the hololith as Te Kahurangi approached, his bone staff tapping softly against the floor with each step. The eldest Librarian's presence was like a bastion in the storm, a calming force against the residual echoes of the warp's assault. Even the apparition seemed to slink away at his approach, for which Khauri was grateful for the Daemon's withdrawal.
"Master," Khauri replied, his voice strained but growing stronger as he spoke. "The turmoil… it is unlike anything I've felt before. It's as if the galaxy itself is breaking. The tides are not being stoked naturally. They bear a purpose, and I sense great upheaval is coming." His gaze drifted to the faintly glowing runes around the chamber.
Te Kahurangi nodded at the thought. "And yet, we are still here," he said, confidence in his quiet voice. "The rising tide will not claim us. But the omens are unclear, so we must be vigilant."
The words hung heavy in the air, a foreboding echo of the trials yet to come. Khauri's resolve hardened, the storm within his mind quieting as he found clarity in the Pale Nomad's unwavering presence. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it as they had faced every tempest: with discipline, purpose, and the relentless tenacity of a predator.
The Chief Librarian gestured for Khauri to rise, saying as his apprentice stood up. "The Reaper Prime will need clarity, not confusion. I suspect Tyberos will want me to be present for the Tithe, and I wish for you to accompany us. It would be good to ground yourself once more on the Lost World."
…
The Lost World loomed in the main viewport like an ancient phantom, invisible yet palpably present in every nerve of the gathered armada. Company Master & Reaper Prime Bail Sharr stood at the command dais of the White Maw, the ancient Tyrant-class battlecruiser hovering at the forefront of the 3rd Company's fleet. His armor gleamed a slate gray; recently returned from the Hall of Reclamation, Sharr had been granted permission to add another set of exile markings to recognize his successes in the last 9 years since the previous Grey Tithe. The most prominent marking was reminiscent of his chapter's namesake, a white shark, jaw curling towards its tail fin to form a razor-toothed crescent set upon a void of black now present on his knee plate.
His Mark III helm perched ominously on his left hip, glowering at anyone who dared look into its black eye-lenses. He was draped in his imposing Mark IV armor. An ancient suit passed down from his predecessors of the 3rd company, the last of whom was his mentor, Akia. The breastplate bore in its center an embossed skull and twin lightning bolts, the crest of the ancient Terran Pacification War, the Chapter's first battle honor. His dual-handed Chainaxe Reaper rested clamped to his powerpack while his plasma pistol and bolt pistols rested in their respective holsters on his right hip.
Even unhelmeted, his features bore the indelible marks of the Carcharodon Astra. Ashen grey skin, nearly scaled in impression, stretched over high cheekbones, with a predatory gaze of inky void-black eyes that reflected none of the starlight of the system's forgotten sun. Around him, serfs worked in carefully curated silence, though Sharr could detect the scents of fear and suspense as had struck all the mortal crew during the crossing. Amidst them, servitors buzzed and chattered, their mechanical limbs clattering against the cold metal as they monitored the ancient ship's systems. Yet even they, stripped of all sentience, twitched unnaturally as if recoiling from an unseen predator.
The planet, known only as the Lost World, hung in the void below, a gray orb swaddled in perpetual mists and shadows, its jagged continents resembling the teeth of some primordial beast. The surface teemed with ancient, forgotten monuments built by nameless hands, many now overtaken by the tides of time and the relentless solar winds that buffeted the system by its dying star. This world, a sacred repository of the Carcharodon Astra's most secret rites, had been the chapter's spiritual home for centuries immemorial, a place of silence, reclamation, and reflection.
In addition, its bleak surface served as a meeting point between the Nomad Predation Fleet and the techpriests of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Here, the Grey Tithe would once again be offered—priceless relics and archeotech torn from the hands of enemies across the galaxy, exchanged for the tools of war: armor, munitions, and the vats to grow the bio-engineered servitors that would crew the chapter's fleet.
The fleet had been called to muster by Tyberos, the Red Wake and their Shade Lord, or as the Imperium Designated him Chapter Master of their order. Somewhere on the planet's surface, Tyberos waited, his monstrous form no doubt an intimidating presence even to the aloof representatives of the Mechanicus. Sharr's fleet was among the last to arrive, and as the White Maw fell into formation among the Nomad-Predation fleet, he felt the weight of an unspoken reprimand. He shook it off; the demands of their eternal war against the xenos and the heretic had delayed them.
Sharr's gaze drifted over the assembled armada: squadrons of escorts from various patterns, packs of glowering strike cruisers, dreaded Battle Barges, and the hulking bulk of the War Barque, the Nicor, at the center. Nearby, the Adeptus Mechanius's fleet was stationed, their presence imposing yet strangely incongruous amidst the Carcharodons' predatory formation. At the sight of the Mechanicus's ships, he immediately began running danger assessments in case the need arose. The first priority, and likely the most difficult to overcome, would be the Ark Mechanicus, who served as Archmagos Explorator Otte Benedict-9 and his guard Magos Dominus Krawph-11's flagship for their fleet. The Cogitare Eternum (Eternal Cogitation) was just shy of outsizing the Nicor in length, though it was nearly as wide as long. And from his previous interactions with the Explorator, Sharr was well aware it had over triple the mass of even the largest three ships in the Nomad Predation Fleet combined.
Sharr's thoughts were interrupted by the soft clang of ceramite boots behind him. The additional faint sound of humming servos announced the approach of shipmaster Teko, captain of the White Maw. His augmetic limbs clanged against the polished floor, a reminder of the brutal campaigns that had caused him to be forced to be taken from the front. Then made the Shipmaster of the White Maw, all of which had happened long before even Sharr was brought to the chapter.
"Reaper Prime," Teko said, his voice a direct but reverent murmur to Sharr. "The Nomad Predation Fleet is fully formed. The final ships have translated successfully into the system and are six hours out, and the Mechanicus delegations are assembling their contingents for the surface."
Sharr turned, his jet black eyes piercing the gloom of the chamber. "And the Librarius? Have they reported?"
"Not yet, my lord. The Pale Nomad is... preoccupied."
Te Kahurangi, the chapter's enigmatic Chief Librarian, had spoken little to Sharr during the transit through the warp, seemingly occupied by caring for his apprentice. The psychic turbulence of the Cicatrix had taken its toll on even the strongest psykers, and the young Librarian Khauri, newly assigned to Sharr's command, had seemed particularly strained. Sharr had little patience for the mysticism of the Librarius, but he trusted Te Kahurangi's wisdom on the matter.
"Prepare my Thunderhawk," Sharr ordered. "I will deliver our Tithe personally. Inform the Pale Nomad to join me on the surface."
As if summoned by an incantation, the chime of an incoming transmission caused Sharr to narrowed his gaze at the terminal it had been routed through. At his directive the holo-lith sprang to life, displaying the spectral image of Librarian Khauri. The young psyker's pale features were set in a grim expression, his black hair slicked back, framing eyes that glowed faintly with hues of azure power. Behind him loomed his master, the Pale Nomad Te Kahurangi. His wizened face bore tattoos that seemed to ripple as though alive to Sharr.
"Reaper Prime," Khauri began, his voice steady but edged with an unnatural tension. "The warp currents are... restless. The Astronomican flickers like a candle in a gale. Master Te Kahurangi believes something unprecedented is approaching."
Before Sharr could respond, the bridge lights flickered. A low rumble resonated through the hull, not mechanical but almost, organic. A guttural groan that raised the hairs on even his transhuman skin. The servitors let out a series of panicked, binary shrieks before falling silent. Sharr glanced at Shipmaster Teko. The veteran's scarred visage betrayed no emotion, but his eyes darted between the displays as if seeking some unseen predator.
Vox traffic quickly became a cacophony across the fleet. Reports flooded in: plasma drives fluctuated, augur arrays failed, and entire decks were thrown into darkness. Even servitors were not spared as the lobotomized crew constructs emitted strange, glitching moans. The air on the bridge grew heavier, suffused with an unholy static charge. Sharr gazed out the viewport toward the galactic east, where the ship's prow was aimed.
He saw as a immeasurably vast wave distorting the fabric of reality, approached. A warpstorm the size of which he had only ever read of since the opening of the Cicatrix was bearing down on the system faster than they could react. Even those unmarked by psychic gifts could sense it now.
Before he could order the raising of shields, it struck, and the fabric of the Materium and the Immaterium strained against one another. For Sharr, it was as if every nerve of his body was suddenly filled with boiling promethium, and while he kept his footing, he saw the world smear into vague after images of what had been there before. For the psykers, the pain was excruciating. Sharr saw in the corner of his bleary vision in the hololith as Khauri dropped to his knees, clutching his head.
To Khauri, psychic screams filled his mind, the pain and misery of millions suddenly passing through him. His master remained standing his staff's jewel glowed with emerald arcs of crackling energy as he chanted warding prayers in a voice that seemed to echo across eternity.
"It is a tendril of the Cicatrix," The Pale Nomad rasped, his voice cutting through the chaos on the vox. "Reality is folding in upon itself."
Indeed reality seemed to scream as the wave reached the rest of the fleet, and ship hulls bent under the ethereal strain. Sharr's vision continued to blur until all he saw was the leering faces of the neverborn. He attempted to bark out orders, but the tempest drowned out his voice in the cascade of infinity.
Then, as if it had never occurred, the wave passed. The cacophony of psychic screams, the grinding of the ship's ancient hull, and the bone-deep tremor of the Materium itself—all vanished instantly. The silence followed was deafening and oppressive like the weight of an unseen predator's gaze pressing down on the bridge. Bail Sharr's enhanced senses strained to find something—anything—to anchor him, but the stillness offered no solace.
Sharr's gauntleted hand tightened on the command dais, his predatory gaze sweeping the bridge. He noticed the crew, both mortal and augmented, beginning to stir. Vox officers hesitantly returned to their stations, their voices a tremor as they relayed garbled reports. The servitors, previously reduced to twitching spasms, resumed their mechanical duties, though their jerky movements betrayed the lingering instability of their flesh. Even the air tasted wrong—a faint metallic tang accompanied by an unnatural chill that clung to the lungs.
The systems of the White Maw, slowly reanimated as the ship's ancient machine-spirit recovered from their violent disruption. Tactical displays returned, static crackling across the hololiths as the augur arrays struggled to provide coherent readings. Sharr's enhanced ears caught the faint thrum of the plasma reactors stabilizing, their rhythm uneven but gaining strength.
But something was still wrong. Sharr felt it before anyone could confirm it. An absence, cold and consuming, gnawed at his mind—a void where there should have been the comforting lodestone he had never known he had. His inky black eyes scanned the viewport, but the familiar constellations, the guiding pinpricks of light that defined his predation routes, were different. The void outside was almost the same but... altered.
An alien ripple of unease ran through him. The Reaper Prime was not prone to hesitation or doubt, but this sensation—the profound disconnection from everything he had known—was unlike anything he had faced. His connection to the galaxy itself, felt severed, as though the White Maw had been cast adrift in uncharted and unknowable sea.
Sharr heard through the holo-link as Khauri said, pain evident in his voice. "The Astronomicon… I cannot sense it."
"Nor can I," Te Kahurangi said gravely. "The Void Father's guiding light has vanished from our sight."
Sharr's eyes widened a fraction; that was it, the Astronomicon was absent. An unfamiliar cold chill ran down his spine, and he looked at the captain of his ship.
"Shipmaster Teko," Sharr demanded, his voice a low growl. "Where are we?"
The Shipmaster righted himself from where he had braced himself against the railing. He moved swiftly to the closest command station, his hands flying across the controls, his face grim, as if what he saw made no sense. After a tense moment, he said, "Unknown, Company Master. Astro Cartographicae maps can only locate us as far as the Endymion Sector. Beyond that, we are unable to assess our location."
Sharr prepared to respond. To give the order to recheck the maps. To open a vox-link to the Nicor. To contact the Maw's Lead Navigator, Alera. Even to directly communicate with the Mechanicus vessels, he saw they were now scrambling around one another with renewed speed. But before he could do anything, Te Kahurangi's voice came through the vox, cold and unyielding. "This is no longer our galaxy, Company Master. The storm has cast us somewhere, else."
Sharr's hands tightened on the command dais as he stared at the chaotic void beyond. There was only one other being that he knew he needed to seek guidance from, and that was not present, the Shade Lord Tyberos.
…
Descending through the sparse atmosphere of the Lost World, Sharr's Thunderhawk bore the scars of countless battles. Carbon scoring blackened its hull, deep rents carved by lascannon strikes and shrapnel told stories of war fought in the abyss. Inside, the Astartes of his command cadre sat in silence, their helms betraying nothing of their thoughts. The only sound was the deep thrum of the engines, steady as a war drum, as the barren surface below grew closer.
Through the narrow viewports, the barren surface of the Lost World loomed ever closer. Its jagged peaks and desolate plains stretched toward the horizon, lifeless save for the skeletal ruins of some long-dead civilization. The harsh and unyielding landscape mirrored the Carcharodons' own austere existence—adrift yet ever-enduring.
The winds stirred the dust in aimless spirals, sculpting shifting dunes around rusted remnants of an age long past. The landing site ahead was a stark contrast. The landing site was a hive of activity. Dozens of towering transports stood wreathed in steam as their holds were filled, great Mechanicus constructs lumbering across the grey dust to ferry away salvaged war relics. Automata toiled in tireless efficiency, their artificial limbs and scanners extending to catalog and secure cargo under the watchful optics of their Tech-Priest overseers. Hooded adepts moved in procession, crimson robes flaring in the dry wind as they chanted binharic litanies.
Nearby, Techmarines moved with the practiced efficiency of those who lived half their lives in communion with the machine. Their forms, similarly crimson-clad wove between the crates and cargo, directing servitors and adjusting the mag-locks securing vast containers of war-tithe. With them, Void-brothers from every company except Sharr's, worked in disciplined silence, hefting crates of salvaged relics from their dropships with the ease of those long accustomed to such labor. Whatever words had passed between their commanders, whatever weight had settled over the gathering, they paid it no heed. Their duty remained unchanged, their focus absolute.
Even as the afterimages of the warp storm flickered in the corners of their sight, the storm that had appeared to severe the Chapter from the wider Imperium, they continued uninhibited. Where mortal minds might falter in the face of such uncertainty, the Carcharodons moved without hesitation, their purpose unshaken. If any among them harbored doubts, they gave no sign. For them, the hunt continued, and the void remained their true home—storm or no storm.
And at the center of it all stood Tyberos. Clad in storm-grey plate, his presence was an anchor against the shifting tides of war. Tyberos, the Shade Lord of the Carcharodons, watched the exchange with the stillness of a predator waiting to strike. His Red Brethren stood nearby, their hulking forms motionless as statues, weapons at rest but never idle.
Sharr's Thunderhawk's retros flared, its descent kicking up a cloud of upturned salt and limestone dust. Sharr was already moving before the ramp had fully lowered, his boots striking the ground with a measured pace. His warriors followed, fanning out instinctively, though none raised their weapons. This was a meeting of kin, no matter how dire the circumstances.
As Sharr approached, Tyberos turned, his eyes hidden behind the like twin abyssal voids of his helm's lenses. The Shade Lord did not speak at first, merely regarding Sharr with an expression unreadable behind his helmet. The silence stretched before he finally spoke, his voice a whisper that carried unnaturally over the distance, "You know of our predicament, Reaper Prime?"
Sharr's fists clenched—not in anger, but in something more profound as the truth of the light going out struck him like no enemy ever had. "Then we are truly adrift." His voice was steady, but the weight of uncertainty pressed at its edges.
Near as he was, the Shade Lord was an undisputable monolith of warplate and controlled fury. Tyberos tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. "We are not lost, Sharr." His voice, though quiet, was unyielding. "We are the Carcharodons Astra. The void is our home, and the hunt continues. We will endure."
Sharr exhaled slowly. He had spent decades knowing his purpose, his course set by doctrines older than memory. Now, the tides had shifted. He was not lost, but he was in uncharted waters.
He met Tyberos' gaze. "Then tell me where the currents lead."
The Shade Lord gestured toward the Mechanicus vessels, the offerings they gave in exchange for their Grey Tithe already being secured on the Carcharodon's ships. "The Mechanicus have agreed to continue the Tithe and then quit the System with us. We shall travel as a shiver in the warp to Angstrom, where we will convene with their leaders. We must prepare for whatever war will come. And it is likely we will learn more about what has occurred by then."
Sharr was not entirely sure what he meant, but the Chapter Master spoke with such authority that he dared not challenge him. Sharr suspected the Pale Nomad likely had spoken with Tyberos as Bail had made planetfall. The fact that Te Kharungi had chosen to wait on the ship with his recovering apprentice only seemed to confirm the theory.
The murmuring of distant constructs and the heavy clang of loading mechanisms filled the silence that followed. Around them, the sacred exchange between the Carcharodons and the Mechanicus continued as if nothing had changed. As if the Imperium's light had not been smothered. As if they had not been swallowed by the void and spat out.
But Sharr knew better. He could feel the shift, the weight of the unknown pressing at the edges of his thoughts. He had always fought with certainty—certainty in the hunt, certainty in the will of the Chapter, certainty in the path laid before him by those who had come before. Now, the very foundation of the tides had changed, and he stood on the precipice of something deeper.
Tyberos watched him in silence, his presence a reminder that whatever lay ahead, they would not face it as lost souls adrift in the dark. The Shade Lord had already set his course, guided by a vision only he and likely the Librarius could understand. It would be Sharr's duty to follow and carve their path through the maw of the abyss.
Finally, he nodded. "Then we prepare."
Tyberos inclined his head ever so slightly, the ghost of approval hidden beneath his helm's abyssal gaze.
Without another word, the Company Master turned, his cadre falling into step behind him. Around them, the Carcharodons worked, indifferent to the shifting tides, bound to their duty as ever. He quickly began Voxing the White Maw and its accompanying vessels, coordinating the orbital drop for his portion of the tithe with the rest of the fleet.
The Void Father had called, and the hunt would continue. And whatever war awaited them, they would be ready.
…
Aegis Nex System - Endymion Cluster - Endymion Sector
The Inquisitorial light cruiser Black Edict ghosted through the void, the Aegis Nex System's cold starlight glinting off its armored hull. The storm had passed, leaving only the echoes of unease. The Edict was the personal light cruiser of one Inquisitor Lambda, handler of Deathwatch Kill-team Talon.
The chamber hummed with the low, pulsing thrum of the Black Edict's plasma drives, their distant roar vibrating through the deck plates like the slow, measured breath of a sleeping beast. The ship's astartes quarters had all the imposing spartan austerity expected of such an order—cold, functional, and without unneeded comforts. The walls were reinforced adamantine, laced with hexagrammic wards that pulsed faintly in the dim amber glow of lumen-strips. Angular shadows stretched across the floor, interrupted only by the great black Aquila inlaid at the room's heart, its surface lined with intricate micro-filaments that pulsed with an eerie, silver-blue light. The wards here were deep, woven into the very fabric of the ship—protections layered upon protections.
Within, the Astartes of Kill-Team Talon gathered in the vessel's reinforced strategium, their hulking forms dwarfing the chamber's human attendants who scuttled around at the edges of the room. The chamber was quiet, save for the faint hum of the ship. The Black Edict had been their home since they had been assigned to the inquisitors of the Cabal, ferrying them across the void. Their mission was done—their enemy, the rogue and heretical High Inquisitor Omicron, and his Cell the Veil Obscura had been exposed and its known collaborators either destroyed or brought under Lord Sigma (brother of Lambda and yes those are his and her codenames they are never named in the books just referred to as that or the boy and the girl by Omicron). And yet, there was no peace in victory. Even now another unforseen event had occurred as they'd entered the system.
At the long metal table, Lyandro Karras, codenamed Scholar and Codicier of the Death Spectres, observed the dataslate in his hand. The soft glow of the display illuminated his ghost-pale features. His psychic hood* was lowered, revealing his noble countenance. The lines that crept around his blood-red eyes were the only sign of his fatigue after many months of harrowing battles and voyages across the stars. After a moment, he looked up and swept his gaze across the warriors of Talon, old and new alike.
Closest to him was Darrion Rauth, the Exorcist, codenamed Watcher, who sat by the left side of the table relative to Karras. Rauth's presence was unnaturally subdued, and Karras' Othersight couldn't feel it. His blackened gauntlet rested idly on the pommel of his combat blade, and his dark diamond-hard eyes flickered with some unknowable thought. Karras alone knew the reason for his unusual presence. Rauth's soul was absent from his body*, bound in rituals by his chapter as was their custom to allow them to be made the perfect counter to Daemonic possession. Something that Karras had seen personally many times now.
Rauth, ever watchful, adjusted the bindings on his left gauntlet and, seemingly aware of Karras' attention, looked up from his own dataslate and gave him a solemn but silent nod of kinship. With that acknowledgment, Karras turned away from the craggy, scarred veteran and toward the rest of the team.
Across from Karras, Maximmion Voss, a sergeant of the Imperial Fists, Codenamed Omni, leaned against the far wall in what appeared to be a rare moment of relaxation. His face was heavy-browed, and his brown eyes attempted to mirror the expression of peace his face held. He was shorter than an Astartes usually was and so broad of build, he was nearly as wide as tall. Karras noticed in his aura how deceptively he had hidden his feelings, but Karras could see the sharpness in him. His aura shone with orange hues traced with blue at the edges. Of all of Talon's warriors, he was the most adaptable. He was able to balance the team's temperaments against that of the Inquisition.
Nearby, Ignatio Solarian, the Ultramarine codenamed as Prophet, adjusted the suppressor mounted to his stalker bolter with drilled precision from his seat next to Rauth. His cybernetic eye flickered as he scanned the hololithic projections at the center of the table, showing their location relative to Damorath, he was undoubtedly calculating the tactical implications of their return to the Watch Fortress. A strict adherent to his chapter's teachings, Solarian had been perhaps the most reluctant to accept the nature of Talon's purpose and the most likely to speak about it. Still, experience had hardened his resolve long ago, and now he was among the most committed to their cause in Inquisitor Lambda and her brother's service.
A quiet growl of amusement from the team's newest member drew Karras' gaze out of his assessment order. Fjolmir Icefang, yet to be given a codename by the team's 'specialist,' the savage yet disciplined Space Wolf, sat on the far right of the table. The young Thunderwolf Cavalryman sat with his arms folded, storm-gray eyes observing everything with a quiet, amused skepticism. Unlike the rest, his armor was still freshly stamped with the insignia of the Deathwatch, its black paint unblemished by age or battle.
The trophies and pelts he wore over it spoke of at least four decades of noteworthy service. He had fought alongside them, but he was still learning the ways of Talon and, by extension, the watch, still finding his place within the brotherhood. His Thunderwolf, Lokar, had remained below in one of the ship's sealed containment bays, much to the chagrin of the ship's crew.
A hiss of pneumatic servos signaled the activation of a vox array. A towering ceramite sarcophagus loomed from a reinforced alcove in the room's corner—blackened ceramite marked with faded heraldry, a bleeding heart emblazoned across its pitted surface. It was ancient and inert, save for the tiny flickering runes along its edges. Then, a voice.
"You are too quiet, little brothers," the vox-speakers rumbled, the voice like a distant avalanche. "I can hear you thinking. That is never a good sign."
The words belonged to Chyron, former battle-brother of the Lamenters. Suspended in his sarcophagus and removed from the wider Dreadnought chassis, he could be present with the rest of the team.
A sharp snort came from Siefer Zeed, seated at the long table's distant edge, his booted feet propped up against it with a reckless ease that made the others glare at him. The Raven Guard outlier was grinning. His sharp features contorted into something between amusement and mockery. His bright red hair—unnatural for one of Corvus Corax's lineage—stood out in the dim lighting. He idly tossed a small throwing blade from one hand to the other, the dull edge flipping end over end.
"Thinking, old one?" Zeed smirked. "I leave that to Karras and Solarion. I just try to stay alive."
Across the table, Karras fixed Zeed with a neutral gaze. "Then you should have died long ago," Karras said flatly.
Zeed's grin widened. "I keep disappointing people."
A loud chuckle from Voss echoed in the room, the brief flicker of camaraderie breaking the ever-present tension.
Yet, beneath the surface, that tension remained. The mood had been different since Omicron's fall. There was a weight among them now, an unspoken burden that none could fully shake. The scars of that fight ran deep—not just in the flesh but in the mind.
Icefang sat apart, arms folded across his chest. The Space Wolf had only recently joined them, a late addition from to aid in their battle against Omicron. He was still unsure why the rogue High Inquisitor had to die, but he was yet to question it.
"Strange, isn't it?" Voss said in his deep voice. "To return to Damaroth after all this time. Feels like a lifetime ago."
Karras nodded. "We have changed. The question is, has the Watch Fortress changed with us?"
Solarian made a sound of disapproval. "The Watch does not change, brother. It endures."
"That's what they all say, isn't it?" Zeed chuckled. "Right up until the moment, everything burns."
A deep sigh came from Chyron's sarcophagus.
"The Imperium burns. It is its nature. But these embers… these flames burn different."
"I expected more from the storm," Maximmion Voss remarked, idly checking the edge of his combat blade. "All that talk of displacing waves, yet the Black Edict held steady."
Ignatio Solarian, seated beside him, nodded. "Agreed. It seems we were shielded here, both by the ship's wards and the system's heliosphere. But the rest of the sector…" He trailed off, his expression grim.
The events surrounding Lord Inquisitor Omicron's downfall had left an indelible mark upon them. They had seen the depths to which an Inquisitor of the Imperium could fall, and they had stood against it, aided by the Ishari. That alone was enough to mark them as more than just one-time allies to the enigmatic Eldar. Something that all of them found most distressing.
"And you, Fenrisian?" Zeed asked, his voice edged with curiosity as he attempted to change the subject. "How did you fare?"
Fjolmir Icefang snorted, his breath misting slightly in the cool air. "The storm touched me not. Fenris teaches its peoples to endure the Realm's rage, and that tempest was little different." He glanced toward Karras. "Yet the hunt we have joined is… intriguing. Your ways are not those of the Rout, but they bear the scent of the old packs."
"The Deathwatch is no pack," Zeed muttered, sheathing his throwing blade. "But we bleed the same."
There was silence for a moment before Karras straightened. "We have returned. That is what matters. We will debrief with the Watch Fortress soon enough."
At that moment, the ship's internal vox chimed, and the grating monotone voice of a servitor crackled through the link. "Kill-Team Talon, prepare for transit. We have reached the Watch Fortress."
The Astartes rose one by one, preparing to cross the threshold to the corridor outside their briefing room. Chyron's sarcophagus, suspended by an immense 15 cm thick plas-steel chain, loomed over them all. His sarcophagus was attached by clamps and conduit lines that linked him to a reservoir of life-sustaining mechanisms nestled in the wall behind him.
Nearby, the small contingent of serfs, garbed in deep crimson robes adorned with the sigils of the Ordo Xenos and the Mechanicus, stood waiting at the edges of the chamber, hands folded in solemn preparation. Three were the Tech Priest Errant, specialists of general maintenance and rites, and their servitors responsible for maintaining the ancient machine spirits of—especially those as venerable and sacred as a Dreadnought's shell.
"Initiate disengagement rites," one of the senior adepts intoned, his voice crackling through a vox grille. Then, he repeated the mantra in binharic.
With practiced precision, they moved forward, each step calculated and reverent. One knelt by a console built into the chamber's wall and pressed a rune, causing the chain to push itself away from the alcove. Slowly, the chains pulled Chyron around. The great sarcophagus shifted slightly, its base resting against the chamber floor with a muted clang.
Another adept, her form more akin to a small walker herself, moved her reinforced arm clamps into position and approached with the massive clamps designed to secure the sarcophagus before transport. Two serfs followed behind, uncoiling the thick, snaking cabling that fed auxiliary power and nutrient fluids into Chyron's coffin. As each line was carefully detached, bursts of coolant misted into the air, hissing as they vented pressure.
The Lead Priest intoned her mechanical voice only bearing the faintest traces of her identity, "Primary stabilization systems offline. Preparing for re-seating."
Chyron's vox crackled, "Do not tarry. The Watch does not wait for the infirm." His voice was immeasurably deep and edged with the metallic tamber of his ancient armor.
A single mortal serf shuddered under the force of his voice, but the adepts continued their work undeterred. A pair of heavy-lifting servitors stepped forward, massive piston-driven arms locking onto the sarcophagus and lifting it with slow, calculated care. His Dreadnought shell, still secured within the adjoining reliquary's armory bay, would soon welcome him again.
With a final hiss of disengaging seals, the last cables were drawn away, and the massive coffin-like form of Chyron was moved toward the transport cradle. It would take time to reconnect him to his chassis and reintegrate his motor functions and weapons, but soon, he would walk again—ready to bring death to the foes of the Emperor once more.
Karras watched the process in silence before finally turning away. The Watch Master awaited.
…
After several hours, Squad Talon was finally granted access through the numerous checkpoints and gates they had to pass through. Upon arrival at their destination, they were ordered to surrender their weapons, helmets, and other equipment deemed a risk. Chyron, now fully reintegrated with his dreadnought, and Fjolnir's wolf were also instructed to wait outside.
The Council Hall of Watch Fortress Damaroth loomed in solemn silence, its obsidian walls rising like the fortifications of a dark citadel. Above them, hololithic projectors flickered, displaying shifting star charts that illuminated the projected movements of void-born threats, imperial fleet formations, system designates, and the surmised scars left by the recent warp storm. To Karras the vast chamber felt cold—not from the temperature, but from its imposing presence—it was a hall forged for prosecuting wars, and where oaths were sworn and the fates of entire civilizations sealed.
At the center of the chamber loomed the strategium table, a monolithic slab of black adamantium, its surface etched with the sigil of the Deathwatch. Polished to a mirror-like sheen, it reflected the stark lumens from above, the deep shadows of its edges swallowing the flickering light. Around it stood the highest officers of the Watch Fortress, summoned at the decree of Watch Master Pellas Mir'san, the Winter Blade.
The ancient Salamander was an unmoving bastion at the head of the table, his presence as steady and implacable as the volcanic homeworld that had forged him. His ancient warplate, reforged countless times, bore only the faintest echoes of Nocturne's green beneath the abyssal black of the Watch. The great drake-helmed war mask he possessed rested before him, polished to a gleaming sheen, its red eye-lenses gaze locked upon the gathered members of Kill-team Talon like a silent judge. Mir'san's gauntlets remained clasped behind his back, his stance the measure of absolute control.
To his right stood Watch Epistolary and Master of the Fortresses Librarius, Marnus Lochaine, his force sword's pommel resting point down against the floor, both hands laid upon it like a knight before an altar. The cerulean hues of the Storm Wardens showed on his left pauldron beside the sable of his warplate. The psychic hood he wore thrummed faintly with restrained power to Karras othersight. Lochaine's eyes, like the distant edges of a gathering tempest, flickered between the holo-displays above, where streams of numerous runes scrawled shifting constellations.
Beside him, Watch Reclusiarch Corbulis Valdorus stood like an executioner at rest, his skeletal helm set upon the table before him. His gaunt, severe features were lined with the deep etchings of war and devotion, the white skulled wings of the Angels of Redemption gleaming in stark contrast against the jet-black of his plate. The great ebon warhammer Vigilus rested against his shoulder, its pure adamantium head carved into a symbol of vengeance. His was the voice of the long departed, and his silence carried the weight of imminent judgement.
Standing across from them, arms crossed over his broad chest, was Watch Captain Thaniel Ectros. The White Consul was clad in reinforced plate, his storm shield planted against the floor like an unbreakable bastion. His power maul remained mag-locked to his back, the ceramite of his gauntlets scored from the blows of a hundred sieges. He was the last line of defense, and he carried himself as such—measured, wary, unshaken.
The Fortresses three other Watch Captains stood nearby, their presence acknowledged but their voices unspoken as the council convened.
Before them, standing in absolute silence, was Squad Talon. Their arrival had coincided with the storm's passing, and now they were the direct subject of this gathering.
Mir'san was the first to break the silence. "We convene in the wake of the Warp Phenomenon. While it was not the original reason for our meeting. But I feel it would be unwise to not spend this time we are convened to discuss it." He looked to the Epistolary, "What do we know, Brother Lochaine?"
Marnus Lochaine stepped forward, his voice like distant thunder. "A warp storm struck the sector as a hammer upon glass a few hours ago. The tides surged, and for a moment, the void itself convulsed. The stars have faltered, and have been displaced beyond recognition." His gaze flickered across the table, looking at Reclusiarch Valdorus. "We have been unable to establish contact with the wider Imperium via the Astropathic Network and the Badab Sub-Sector has seemingly vanished at the center of the Endymion Sector."
Mir'san's gaze turned toward Squad Talon.
"And you returned in its wake." His words carried the weight of command. "You hunted the Rogue Inquisitor. Sigma and Lambda have compiled their report. Now is your turn, Talon. I expect you to be most thorough with us."
Lyandro Karras stepped forward, his crimson eyes unwavering. The Death Spectre's face was carved from stone, his voice precise and without hesitation.
"As you all may remember, contact with Lady Inquisitor Epsilon was lost nearly two standard years ago we were sent to find her. Operation: Shadowbreaker was our last attempt to recover her from the Tau, but the Eldar intervened. She did not survive."
A murmur passed through the assembled officers, but none interrupted.
"Afterward, we pursued Omicron and his followers to a warp anomaly known as Al Rashaq. Its properties were unlike any rift previously recorded. Time within it did not function as it should—and if one was sufficiently empowered with the ethereal gifts of the warp it could be manipulated."
Lochaine's grip on his sword tightened, his gauntlets groaning in mild protest. "Time manipulation…"
Karras inclined his head, his scarlet gaze unwavering as he spoke.
"Omicron deceived Lord Inquisitor Sigma, as well as Lambda when she was first awake, and Epsilon, before her death. He wove a careful lie from the truth, He claimed the anomaly at Al Rashaq held the key to the Imperium's salvation. He promised his fellow Inquisitors the ability to shape fate itself, to alter the very course of history in Mankind's favor. Sigma, ever driven by his vision of a stronger Imperium, believed him. Lambda, though a lesser piece in Omicron's grand deception, was ensnared all the same. But Epsilon saw the truth— but too late. She had begun to suspect his true intent, but when she uncovered undeniable proof, she realized she was already ensnared in his plot."
Karras's voice remained measured, but there was a weight to it.
"Epsilon sought to escape his influence. She fled beyond Omicron's reach, vanishing into the borders of the Tau Empire under the guise of her ongoing research. Some of you may recall that her last official directive had been the study of the Genestealer corruption in the outer sectors—an endeavor she pursued even after she absconded. She did not work alone. In secret, she formed an alliance with the Tau, bargaining with them in exchange for use of their facilities. Together, they sought a cure—something that could purge Genestealer taint from the flesh, severing the synaptic tether to the Tyranid Hive Mind without the need for fire or blade."
A murmur passed through the assembled warriors. Even Lochaine, ever composed, narrowed his eyes at the revelation.
"But the beyond either races expectation the Eldar had been observing them," Karras continued. "The Eldar, already knew of Al Rashaq, were attempting to follow all leads on it. For it was already known to them, they knew it was a wound in time, one they had long feared and been trying to find in order to close it. Through their visions and ancient records, they had seen its potential for catastrophe should it fall into the wrong hands."
He turned his gaze to the assembled commanders.
"Epsilon did not live long enough to act on her knowledge. She was marked for death the moment Omicron learned of her defection. We were sent after Epsilon by Sigma himself, unaware of the full scale of what had transpired. By the time we arrived, the mission was already compromised. The Tau were relentless in their defense, believing us to be there to destroy the research on a Genestealer cure. When we cornered her in the Tau's holdings, she had no illusions about her fate. In the process Brother Broden fell, crushed beneath the rubble of their fortifications. And as you all doubtlessly remember the majority of Kill-Team Scimitar was slain in the assault, our objectives slipping from our grasp."
His jaw tightened.
"Then was when the Eldar struck, Epsilon fearing their intentions attempted to escape, dying in the process as she attempted to shoot me. In a last ditch effort I syphoned her memories into me and learned Omicron's plan. The Eldar demanded I go with them so tehy could learn all that Epsilon knew and in that moment, I made a choice. I accepted the aid of the Eldar. Not out of trust, nor out of any illusion of kinship—but because, without them, the mission would have been lost. And, more importantly, the greater battle against what Omicron planned to do would have been lost before it had even begun."
Karras exhaled slowly, the memory of those revelations as clear as if they had been spoken yesterday. A silence followed his words, the weight of them settling over the chamber like a funeral shroud.
Thaniel's voice, though calm, held a razor's edge. "And what was the ex-High Inquisitors intent?"
Karras's crimson eyes did not waver. "Omicron sought to not only rewrite history, but—to take the Emperor's place."
The weight of those words was a blow heavier than any weapon. Even the grim veterans of the Deathwatch, for all they had seen, understood the sheer scale of such heresy.
Lochaine exhaled, his voice hushed. "The arrogance…"
Ignatio Solarian, the Ultramarine, spoke next. "Then attempted to reach El Rashaq while Scholar was indisposed with the Eldar. Omicron took Lambda with him and most of his followers, intending to use her as leverage against Sigma. We went with Sigma after scholar returned and he slowly realized the truth. But Omicron forced his cooperation with Lambda—he awakened her from stasis without the antidote in her system. She was minutes from death."
Valdorus frowned. "And yet she lives."
"The Eldar intervened again," Solarian confirmed, his voice full of hatred. "With their aid and Karras', she was healed for long enough for Sigma to be freed of Omicron's manipulations."
Siefer Zeed then interjected. "Then Sigma managed to kill the traitorous bastard"
Mir'san let the words settle. Then, with slow finality, he spoke. "Then it is done? Has the new High Inquisitor Sigma been able to halt his masters work?"
"Lambda believes he has." Said Scholar.
Mir'san exhaled. "Then the matter is sealed, for the moment."
The chamber remained heavy with silence, the weight of Karras's revelations lingering like a specter over those assembled. The implications of what they had recounted was possibly staggering. The betrayal of Omicron, the deception that ensnared Sigma, Lambda, and Epsilon, and the final revelation of the High Inquisitor's Pheonites tendencies was a grim reminder of the frailty of mortal devotion. But there was little time to dwell on the past. Their war did not pause for mourning of what was, nor for reflection on what could be. It was Watch Master Mir'san who eventually broke the silence again.
"Then we must discuss other matters that have brought us here. The warp storm that ravaged this sector, while it has seemingly disappeared, it has left devastation of another kind in its wake. It has cut us off from the Astronomicon and reports from the local system already indicate widespread unrest—mass hysteria on every inhabited world and moon, from the manufactorums of Vashtal to the frozen labor colonies of Neamos. Even the void installations are seeing disturbances. The people falter, their faith shaken by the cataclysm they have endured."
Thaniel Ectros folded his arms, his expression grim. "Aegis Nex is vital to the sector's war effort. If it collapses, so does everything else. Without its manufactorums, and stockpiles, our ability to maintain operations here is crippled. The Ordo Xenos, the Deathwatch, the Tempestus Scions garrisoned on Damaroth—none of them can sustain a campaign without those supply lines."
Lochaine, gave a slight nod. "Reports indicate rising instability across every key world. There are signs of industrial sabotage, workers abandoning their posts, heretical cults taking root in the shadows. The populace sees the storm's passing as an omen—some believe it was divine punishment, others a harbinger of something worse to come. Fear breeds insurrection."
"And insurrection breeds opportunity." The words came from Izrafel, the Flesh Tearer's voice a low growl. His gauntlet flexed, as if already anticipating the violence that would follow. "If the enemy lurks in that system, they will not let this chance pass. I do not believe in omens, but if I did, I would wager that one is on the horizon."
Mir'san's expression remained impassive, but the directive in his tone was unmistakable. "The Inquisition has already begun deploying suppression teams across the system, but they are stretched thin. The Deathwatch will intervene where necessary. Kill-teams are being dispatched to each major world—priority targets include the Magos-Administratum of Ankaris, the refineries of Ogygia, and the astropathic relay station at Pyrrhus. The stability of these sites must be ensured before full-scale production resumes. If we fail in this, the next war in this sector will be lost before it even begins."
A pause, then his gaze settled on Karras and his warriors. "Talon will not be among them."
Siefer Zeed arched an eyebrow. "Oh? And here I thought we'd finally get some action instead of skulking around and chasing ghosts."
Mir'san ignored him. "You have your own orders. You will proceed immediately to the Scriptorium. Each of you will have your accounts taken—every detail of Omicron's heresy, your actions, and the events that transpired in the wake of the storm. This is not a suggestion."
"It is necessary." Lochaine spoke now, his tone factual. "The full truth of Omicron's fall must be recorded, both for the Ordo Xenos and for the wider Imperium. His corruption ran deep, and those who still doubt must see the evidence laid before them."
"Let them doubt," muttered Fjolmir Icefang. The Space Wolf crossed his arms, his wolfish sneer visible beneath his fangs. "We know what we saw. We bled for it."
"And if we do not set it to record, then others will twist the narrative in our absence," Karras added, his voice calm but firm. "You know well how the Inquisition operates. Truth is malleable unless it is sealed in ink and oath."
Mir'san inclined his head slightly in agreement. "Precisely, Talon. Once your reports are completed, I will rendezvous with you and Lambda at the docking bay. I need to speak with her and with you regarding your next mission."
At that, the room fell into a brief but expectant silence. It was understood, unspoken, that whatever was coming next would not be simple.
Karras met Mir'san's gaze, nodding once. "Understood, Watch Master." Said Squad Talon as one.
Mir'san regarded them all for a final moment before turning away, his dark eyes unreadable.
"Then go. There is much yet to be done."
*These were essentially two different starts I had to this chapter, the first section with Khauri and then the other with Sharr. I couldn't choose between the two so this is what we get, hopefully its not too bad and it still makes sense.
*I couldn't write a good description for it, I wanted to describe this articulated metal hood with crystals and psychic facets that could fold back sort of like a normal 'hood' but I couldn't describe it in a way that wasnt two whole paragraphs of nonsense so thats what I got.
*This is based off the Deathwatch books Exorcists lore so it will be inaccurate to the newer lore for them just so everyone is aware and that the Deathwatch books lore is what I will be using
Now Canon divergences for those who have read the warhammer books included in this…
For the Salamanders books I can't think of any major ones those who have read it would notice yet but I have any I'll let ya know
For Carcharodons the Only major ones are Khauri's development will be reset a bit so it can happen here, and Sharr will be a 'little' nicer but still his callus shark dude attitude will remain, Te Kharungi and Tyberos should be totally the same but let me know if you see any major differences in how I am writing them that aren't for the sake of this stories plot. Then the major changes is the Nomad Predation fleet having a lot more Servitors they use, which it technically not the norm for them. But again these one will be Vat-grown and replace the majority of their slaves more for ease as in the books its protrayed as a constant thing they need to do and in changing it, it will help if their not needing to raid Imperial Worlds and driving a major wedge between them and the Deathwatch and Salamanders, and it helps (slightly) with the Republic. But yeah thats the only major change for them
Then the Deathwatch Books (now confession I only have read the final book, and I can't find the original one and the short stories to buy in paperback, so I may get some of the characters abilities wrong) Karras and Rauth will know more about each other and their respective Chapters secrets, as I found the way Rauth just went 'nuh uh' in the book when Karras attempted to get them to own up to one another after Hepaxamon told Karras about Rauths 'corruption' but yeah they will know more (essentially that scene will instead be that the two opened up and learned about one another as I found the inbook scene really annoying and needlessly grimderp in that they just decide not to talk about the obvious thing of 'so you made a deal with a Greater DAEMON' and then they just go yeah sounds about right and move along as though nothing happened which I found really dumb)
Okay this should be it. This will likely be a backburner story meaning it will be updated infrequently as I want to focus on First Contact but when I do update it should be with bigger updates and long chapters. Next chapter will likely be from the Star Wars Perspective, so hopefully its enjoyable, also question for the Star Wars Lore people, where do you think would be a good location for these guys and the Imperial Sector that is brought through I am currently using the following map to try and find a location, ' ' currently Im thinking either between Daslkehnt and Lamaredd since its near Tatooine and Hutt space which is where I wish the story to have a lot of events occur or between Toong'l (which won't have Yuuzhan Vong nor will they appear as that is a bit to big of an event to add with the Galactic Civil War and now Warhammer) and Gand. But the map is very vague on what those locations mean so I'd appreciate some help if you don't mind in letting me know it either is a good idea or where you guys think would work better.
Now PLEASE REVIEW and let me know what you think, next chapter will likely be next chapter will likely be with the Republic and Jedi so lets see what they sense, if they sense anything.