# In the Company of Angels



## CryHavoc (Oct 4, 2009)

_“The uniforms of the Imperial Guard are camouflaged in order to protect their wearers by hiding them from sight.

The principle is that what the enemy cannot see he cannot kill. This is not the way of the Adeptus Astartes. A Space Marine’s armour is bright with heraldry that proclaims his devotion to his Chapter and the beloved Emperor of Mankind. Our principle is that what the enemy can see, he will soon learn to fear…”
+++ Chaplain Aston, 10th Company, Fire Hawks Chapter +++
_

Chapter one:

The three guardsmen sat huddled around a small and pitiful fire, their lasguns unattended next to them. Even through the thick fur coats they were issued, they were still bitterly cold -- too cold to be doing a thorough patrol around the supply depot. Not that it mattered anyway -- in the three days they had been occupying the objective they hadn't come across any enemy resistance. They didn't really know what the enemy looked like. The almost never ending ruins of this unknown city seemed completely empty -- a concept that the men of the 28th Tyras regiment found disturbing.

"How much fething longer do we have to hold this old haunt?" Finnis asked, lighting a cigarette in cupped hands.
"Not much longer the commander says. Reckons 'bout a week 'til the 23rd armoured get here. They'll resupply at the depot and we'll all be heading out." Larys replied, idly playing with his combat knife.
"Knowing the 23rd it'll more likely be a fething month." Finnis complained, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. Reilly chuckled under his breath as he stared into the fire. Each of the three men sitting there had seen combat before, more than once. The amber glow of the flickering fire illuminated the crevices and cracks of their scarred faces as they sat there, reflecting in the fire. Perhaps five, ten years ago they would have been conversing alot more or even actually patrolling. But the horros of war had drained any youthful energy they had left -- replacing it with a reserved, steely and solemn vigilance.

From behind them, snow crunched. Without a word the three of them grabbed their lasguns and raised them to shoulder lengths, spinning round to assess the threat. When they saw it was Commissar Rawst they (reluctantly) lowered their weapons.
"Good to see your so...err...vigilant.' Rawst commented, as he walked into the crumbling ruin of the shop, and the light of the fire. Without so much as saying a word he stamped the fire out with his boot, despite complaints from the other three.
"Let's not get complacent men. You are here because you have a job to do. No good in doing a patrol if your not going to do it well, do I make myself clear?" His voice was almost sickeningly arrogant and self assured. He clearly thought of himself as loved among the men of the regiment, when the truth was far from it. He walked over to Finnis, grabbing the cigarette out of his hands and stubbing it out on his palm.
"Feth's sake" Finnis grunted under his breath, avoiding Rawst's gaze.
"Now now Trooper Finnis, it wouldn't do me any good to encourage bad habits amongst the men" he said, as he turned to leave the shop ruin. Finnis swore again, staring at the dying embers of the fire. It was bitterly cold.
"Might as well get to it" Reilly commented, leading the patrol. It was a meager patrol -- just the three of them, but the area surrounding the depot was so large with so many intricate little roads and alleys and paths that for an efficient sweep of the area their men were spread thinly. They walked out into what once could have been a high street. Twisted lamposts like gnarled trees hung above the corners of the broken and fractured roads. Broken glass and the occasional charred skeleton lined the pavement, along with a busted traffic light and the rusting shell of a four wheel vehicle. What life that flourished here, however many centuries ago, was clearly very primitive. All that stood the test of time was the deteoriating architecture of a civilization long gone.
"I wonder what happened to the fethers" Finnis said, spitting as he did.
"Dunno. Reckon some kind of war. You know? Apocalyptic style." Reilly replied contemplatively, as they trudged up the sloped road.
"Well whatever it was, it clearly didn't kill all of them did it? Otherwise we wouldn't have to be here." Finnis remarked.
"Is that who were fighting? I really wasn't quite sure." Larys commented, glancing at the ruins around him. It was hard to imagine something surviving the carnage that must've done this much damage.
"Yeah. Initial recon thought that it was a dead world. Sent a bunch of lightly equipped colonists -- they got slaughtered within the first week. Reports indicate some primitive tribe like human race. Probably descendants of the survivors of this civilization. We've got the technological advantage hands down but it's safe to assume that they've got numbers and awareness on their side..." Reilly stopped in mid sentence. He raised his hand in a halting gesture and the other three stopped. Using hand gestures, he indicate the building at the top of the street. An orange glow emanated from one of the smashed out window frames. A camp fire.

The three proceeded cautiously to the entrance of the building, lasguns ready and loaded. The large, steel doors of the building were open. Silently, they poured into the dark of the building, keeping their lasguns at eye level at all times. The only light was the moon light trickling through the smashed windows into the long room to the right of the entrance. At the far end was a stone staircase that led up to the demolished second floor, where the fire seemed to be. Reilly paused, listening for sounds of movement. There were none.

More hand gestures. The three of them tactically manouvered along the room, avoiding bumping into furniture and eachother in the dimlight. Reilly took point, proceeding along to the far end of the room and up the stone spiral staircase first. He was extra careful not to make any noise as he reached the staircase, calculating each step as he slowly made his way up it, crouched over with his lasgun in his hands. He still couldn't hear any movement on the level above him. Carefully and quietly, he fixed the bayonet attachment on the end of his rifle, signalling to the other two to stay on the staircase.

Stealthily, he made his way to the doorframe of the second floor. With great care, he poked his head around the doorframe. It was definately a fire. Several bodies lay on the floor -- guardsmen. One guardsman hung on the wall, like a macabre decoration. Two figures stood around the fire, one armed with some kind of antique fragmentation weapon and another with a large knife. They stood in perfect silence, appraising their bloody handywork.

Reilly signalled to Finnis and Larys down the staircase, holding two fingers up. The other two nodded, advanced slowly up the staircase and with Reilly. Reilly held his hand up, counting down from three to one with his fingers. On one, all three of them stormed the room, guns blazing. There wasn't much of a struggle as las fire tore through the air and into the backs of their unsuspecting targets. Blood splattered up the wall and they slumped to the floor, one crying in agony. Reilly walked forward, Lasgun still raised with Finnis and Larys behind him.

They walked closer to the fire, where the two had fallen. One was definately dead -- he lay in a sticky pool of crimson-black resin, and the smell of scorched flesh was strong on his nostrils. The other one was bleeding out, crying wildly in pain and lashing out on his back with his knife. Before he could do any damage Reilly stamped down on his head hard. A sharp and sickening crunching noise rang through. Reilly lifted his boot and aimed his lasgun at his victims head, firing it brutally. Blood sprayed up his fur coat. Turning, he surveyed the room. Three dead guardsmen -- from the looks of things patrol 13B. Two of the bodies had slit marks across the throat and the one pinned to the wall was riddled with bullet holes.

"Throne!" Remarked Finnis as he spat again. Reilly brought his microbead up, speaking into it.
"Control? This is Trooper Reilly from Patrol 13A. 13B are down. No survivors. Two hostiles have been sighted and taken down."


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## Sangus Bane (Jun 17, 2009)

Wow... nice... way better than the sh*t I kep writing... 

You should keep writing!


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## CryHavoc (Oct 4, 2009)

Thank you ^^
It's my first real attempt at WH40K fiction.


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## Myen'Tal (Sep 4, 2009)

I'm liking it too, impressive for your first shot at 40k, agree with Sangus Bane, would definately like to see more of this:victory:.

REP!(I think I can now:laugh


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## CryHavoc (Oct 4, 2009)

"Control? This is Trooper Reilly from Patrol 13A. 13B are down. No survivors. Two hostiles have been sighted and taken down." the tinny voice of Reilly reported over the vox. Communications officer Tannik cursed. Slowly, more and more reports of missing or dead patrols filtered in. He clicked his microbead.
"Commander Russk? Multiple patrols have been engaged by the enemy. Patrols 13B, 13C, 14A and 14B are down. Request orders?" He waited apprehensively for a response, breathing a sigh of stress. Even in 'warmth' of the control booth his breath condensed. It was that cold.
"Officer Tannik. Bring all remaining patrols in towards the depot. Alert all gun placements and assemble three defence teams of 12, to be led by Commissar Rawst in a search and destroy."
Tannik replied "Yes commander."
He had been making use of the broadcasting equipment already present within the tower. It was relatively salvageable -- and effective at issueing orders out quickly. He was quite impressed at the primitive efficiency of it. With practiced mastery, he dialled in the frequency for the patrols.
"All remaining patrols rally back to the depot at once, and await further commands. Repeat, all remaining patrols rally back to the depot at once and await further commands. Hostile contact has been made."
He sighed again, staring out of the control booth window. The bright spotlights they had installed lit the supply depot up as though it were under dissections. Below the tower squads of guardsmen patrolled up and down the main paths in the depot and techpriests rushed from rusting vehicle to rusting vehicle salvaging parts. His gaze traversed to the great black outside the over-exposing white of the supply depot's spotlights. The ethereal skyline of the city ruins around the depot chilled him to the very bone. He couldn't help but feel that they were lost in a concrete jungle. However boring it was in the control booth, he'd rather be in there then out _there_. Sighing again, he clicked the vox on, preparing to issue the next order....

**********************************************************

Reilly checked the two dead bodies over, in an attempt to learn more about their enemy. Both of them had shaved heads. Oddly, despite the harsh weather their pale bodies were scantily clad. Just a fur stitched shoulder piece and fur leggings. The muscular, pale bodies were left bare, although covered in strange tatooes. Reilly shivered at just the thought of being that naked in the cold. Finnis sparked up another cigarette, letting his lasrifle hang over his shoulder.

"Fethers really did a number on 13B" Finnis remarked, taking a contemplative pull of his cigarette. Larys said nothing as he looked out of the windows of the second floor. The building looked like ghosts of the academic buildings on their home planet of Tyras. Primitive and decrepid data tablets lied scattered on the floor and over burnt out desks, where charred skeletons lay slumped over them. For a moment, he imagined this kind of devastation on Tyras. It was enough to make him shudder.
_"All remaining patrols rally back to the depot at once, and await further commands. Repeat, all remaining patrols rally back to the depot at once and await further commands. Hostile contact has been made."_ Control replied over the vox line. Larys turned away from the window, lasgun still in hand. Reilly looked at him and nodded.
"That's us. Stay sharp -- there could be more of them."
He bent down, picking up the antique rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. The Techpriests accompanying their regiment might find it interesting he thought, as he made his way towards the staircase, the other two following sombrely.

The heat of combat had left them by the time they had exited the school, and the stinging cold was ready to kiss their flushed cheeks. Finnis swore, spitting into the snow.
"Surprised the fether didn't turn into ice" He commented dryly as the made their way down the high street. There was a sense of urgency in the way they walked -- not quite double time, but not quite walking. There was still an element of waryness and caution as they made their way down the highstreet and towards the depot.
"At least they've shown their face" The usually quiet Larys remarked. He was an intimidating man to those who didn't know them. Tyran through and through -- intimidatingly tall, pale skinned with dark brown eyes. He'd been in the service for fifteen years now and had faced off the likes of Orks, Tau and rebels, alongside his lucky combat knife which he had strapped to his thigh. On the flat of the blade he had a tally mark of how many he had killed with that knife.
"Yeah. Throne forbid we'd have a week off, paid" Finnis joked. He took another puff of his cigarette, savouring the taste. Reilly turned to him, a curious look on his face.
"Where do you keep getting those cigarettes anyway?"
"Found 'em on patrol the other night. A big carton of them -- relatively untouched, lying what looked like a shop. Decided they'd be worth taking."
"Throne, Finnis! Feth knows how long they've been sitting there."
"Not old, Reilly, vintage."
"That's wine you dope."

They bantered for awhile, Larys remaining silent, until they got to the harsh spotlights of the depot gate. It was an old, rickety thing -- something hastily constructed in the last three days. There was general agreement amongst the guard that there was something....naked about not having guard issue walls and an automated gate defending the depot -- just broken rockcrete, slabs of building and lots of barbed wire and sand bags (plus the brick wall of the depot itself). On each side of the crude gate, two weapons teams wielding autocannons signalled to the patrol. _At least we have the superior tech_ thought Reilly as they proceeded into the depot.


The depot was on high alert. There were more patrols going up and down the depot then usual, and alot of activity was going on. The three of them headed towards the makeshift common room next to the control tower. Reilly was sure they would be issued orders shortly enough...


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## Barbaydos (Oct 3, 2009)

this is absolutely brilliant, one of the best stories i have read. my only comlaint is that you have the guardsmen picking a rifle that the reader was previously unawere of!



CryHavoc said:


> "Fethers really did a number on 13B" Finnis remarked, taking a contemplative pull of his cigarette. Larys said nothing as he looked out of the windows of the second floor. The building looked like ghosts of the academic buildings on their home planet of Tyras. Primitive and decrepid data tablets lied scattered on the floor and over burnt out desks, where charred skeletons lay slumped over them. For a moment, he imagined this kind of devastation on Tyras. It was enough to make him shudder.
> _"All remaining patrols rally back to the depot at once, and await further commands. Repeat, all remaining patrols rally back to the depot at once and await further commands. Hostile contact has been made."_ Control replied over the vox line. Larys turned away from the window, lasgun still in hand. Reilly looked at him and nodded.
> "That's us. Stay sharp -- there could be more of them."
> He bent down, picking up the antique rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. The Techpriests accompanying their regiment might find it interesting he thought, as he made his way towards the staircase, the other two following sombrely.
> .


as far as i can tell there is no mention of a rifle on th groud from the corpses of the cultists, just a small critique but i like to get the small details right. keep it up


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## CryHavoc (Oct 4, 2009)

Within half an hour of the three of them returning to base, they had been summoned to the makeshift armoury by Commissar Rawst, for a 'search and destroy' mission, by orders of Commander Russk. The armoury was little more then an oversized garage where munition supplies and weaponry was kept. Inside the garage, 21 over men were assembled, amongst them Tryst -- a flamer with a reputation within the regiment for being a bit more then trigger happy, and like all flamers, somewhat of a pyromaniac. He was a large, heavily tanned man with almost ogrish features, thick red goggles and a cigar clenced in his large yellow teeth.

Commissar Rawst stood infront of the assembled men, in the full uniform of his office. As arrogant and pompous as he was Reilly had to hand it to him -- like most Commissars he was a natural public speaker, and good at his job (afterall his job was to make everyone in the regiment hate his guts.) After acknowledging Reilly's, Finnis' and Larys' presence he cleared his throat and began, the love for his own voice set deep within his tone of presentation.

"As you may be aware from either patrol duty or general hearsay from the gun emplacements, we have been attacked by the enemy. We are unsure of their exact number but reports would suggest that it is a minimal force. It would seem that their goal is not a direct assault at this time, but to inflict terror on us. Will we stand for this? Are men of Tyras weak enough to be scared by these....heathen's pitiful scare-tactics?"
There was a general murmer amongst the assembled men. Reilly snorted almost inaudibley -- after twenty years of service, you begin to be able to distinguish a Commissar's speechcraft.
"Show them then, that men of Tyras are better then that. Show them your steely resolve. Show them your tenacity, show them your ferocity. If they are not willing to accept the Emperor's light then blind them with it! Show them your faith men!"
Reilly snorted again. He had seen one or two Commissars come during his time, but he thought that Rawst definately had the best way with words, although almost on an infuriatingly horrible cliche level.
"I'll split you into three teams of twelve, and we will scour the ruins surrounding the depot for any sign of these ill-born heathens. We'll give them something to fear."
There was a cheer amongst the men as the Commissar set to work organizing them. Reilly, Finnis and Larys were split into three different teams. Reilly looked down his line -- he was in the same team as the flamer, Tryst. And, to his dismay, it looked like the Commissar would be accompanying them as well.
"Oh feth..." he muttered.
************************************************************

The ruins weren't as still as they were a few hours ago, thought Reilly as the Commissar led them clambering over broken debris and through wrecked buildings. And he was pretty sure it wasn't just the presence of the defence teams -- despite the hustle and bustle of equipment, the Commissar's droning voice and the gentle hiss of Tryst's flamer there was something else he could hear. Right at the back of his head almost. It was unsettling.

Their team (designated team Alpha) had taken the northern side of the depot. Apparently, the most amount of patrols had gone down here which suggested a larger enemy presence. It was impossible to guess the what the utility of the building they were searching once may have been, only that it had endless maze like corridors and little to no ceiling left. Nothing but the open sky was above their heads as they made their way like a funeral procession down the many corridors, guns at the ready. Tryst lead the procession, chomping his way through a fresh cigar.

Sounds of combat played over the vox line. Team Beta had met resistance on the east side. Reilly was a tad on edge as he followed the rest of his team. He had developed a sixth sense for danger over his service, and right now it felt like someone was hitting him around the head with a hammer. Something was about to go horribley wrong. He stopped. Something disallowed him from proceeding further. He felt Commissar Rawst's iron grip on his shoulder. A voice, almost sneering, in his ear.
"Something the matter, Reilly?"
Reilly couldn't explain it. There was something, so very wrong, it was almost sickening. His heart was hammering against his chest, his finger nervous on the trigger of his barrel. He turned around, pale and wide eyed to explain to the Commissar, his mouth open and stuttery. The rest of the team was far ahead of him in the corridor. He opened his mouth to speak --
He was cut off by the large explosion behind him, where moments before the rest of Alpha team were....


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## CryHavoc (Oct 4, 2009)

Thank you for your compliments and criticisms! And Barbaydos, thank you for your criticism although i reference 'antique fragmentation weapon' in the hands of one of the two attackers in the first post.


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## CryHavoc (Oct 4, 2009)

*Chapter Two*


Like titans, the two warriors circled eachother in a vicious circle, weapons raised and ready. Pelagius moved cautiously, each step with the calculated deliberation and precision of a stalking panther. He never once let his eye off his opponent, his stance defensive with his Crozius Arcanum held at an angle. Behind him the angels stood as still as statues around the circular edge of the arena in their austere silence, infront of him the hounds of war themselves cheered and whooped, howling in excitement. His opponent, an Astartes of immense height, glowered. Decorated in the full regalia of his rank as Wolf priest and a member of the wolfguard he let his savage arrogance show in his openly offensive stance, wielding a large claymore blade in one hand and his golden coloured Crozius in the other. He sneered at Pelagius through his wolf skull helmet. Pelagius said nothing as they continued to circle eachother. He could feel his bretherin's eyes on the back of his helmet.

The wolf priest struck first. Lightning fast, Pelagius had barely anytime to duck as he saw the streak of glowing silver and the ice blue of the Space Wolf power armour come tearing towards him. With matching speed he brought his Crozius arm up, swinging the terrible staff like a mace towards the Wolf's jaw. The experienced martialist jumped backwards to avoid the vicious blow, swinging his claymore tauntingly. He sneered again, and again Pelagius said nothing as they backed off and began to circle eachother again.

It would be Pelagius to launch the first attack this time, feinting a swing with his Crozius towards the Priest's right arm and coming in with his secondary weapon -- the fabled 'Blade of Reason'. The small dagger like blade scratched into his opponent's shoulder pad, as he counter-attacked with a powerful, bone crushing kick into Pelagius' chest. The blow would have felled any normal man and served to send Pelagius flying across the arena in agony. He landed into the coarse white sand of the arena with a thunk, coughing up blood inside his helmet. He let his blade of reason drop onto the floor as he momentarily writhed in pain. The spectating wolves howled in excitement.

He pulled himself up, only to see the battle - hardened wolf priest charge at him with his Claymore aimed directly at Pelagius. He rolled half heartedly out of the way, swinging ferociously with his Crozius. With a crackle the blow landed, sending the Wolf reeling back. The right side of his helmet had cracked in, revealing tufts of long and grizzled grey hair and a trickle of blood. Pelagius' forehead was slick with sweat as he forced himself on his feet, using his Crozius as a support. Still shaking off the kick from earlier, he charged the groggy priest, knocking his Claymore across the arena with his Crozius and landing a solid hook with his free hand on the left side of his helmet. There was a crack as the blow connected, sending more chunks of bone skittering. The spectating wolves around the edge of the arena fell silent. Pelagius could feel the approval from his bretherin washing over him.

He lifted his silver Crozius up for a third, and final strike -- aiming for the top of the priest's helmet. He brought it down with tremendous strength, but to his surprise the Wolf reacted and brought _his_ Crozius up in a feeble defence, although it was enough to deter the force of Pelagius' attack. The wolf roared in pain, as a fenrisian wolf might do when cornered. He started a fresh wave of attacks, swinging blow after blow with a new found savageness and barbarism. Pelagius struggled to defend himself from his opponent's attacks, finding himself closer and closer to the edge of the arena. The wolf ripped off the remnants of his skull helmet, roaring in defiance as he did. Pelagius took this pause in the fighting to compose himself. The wolf priest was bleeding heavily from his right eyebrow, the blood dying his long and matted grey hair a crimson colour. Pelagius, in response, removed his own helmet, placing it on the floor next to him. They began to circle eachother for a third time, and the wolf spat. He threw his Crozius to the floor as a challenge, bringing his fists upwards.

Pelagius responded, also throwing his Crozius onto the floor. His steely determination did well to hide his nerves -- he was well aware of the legendary space wolf ferocity and strength in hand to hand combat. The wolf moved like a blur, launching a solid punch at Pelagius. He barely had enough time to bring his forearms up in defence. The blow connected and Pelagius felt the bones in his arm reveberate at the force of the blow. Even through the solid of his dark green power armour, it felt like his bones had almost snapped. He would have to move fast.

Without hesitating he ducked his opponents right hook, bringing his left leg around and kicking him on the side of the leg. It wasn't a tremendously powerful blow but it was enough to make the leg buckle. His foe unbalanced, he rolled onto his side and brought his right leg around the back of the Wolf's knees in a scissor fashion. With precise timing he kicked his right leg out, causing the wolf to topple over him. Not pausing for a single moment, he rolled back onto his knees and over the fallen wolf, grabbing the blade of reason that had been knocked out of his hand earlier from behind him, and plunging it into the soft and vulnerable point in the wolf's power armour -- the underarm.

Pelagius grinned to himself, his back exposed to the racket the Space Wolf crowd was making at their apparent defeat. He knew his blow was the finishing blow of the duel, as the complex set of neural wires etched into the blade came into contact with his foe's nerve system. The defeated wolf roared out in the immense pain the small blade was causing him, writhing and shaking on the floor. In mercy, Pelagius withdrew the blade and stood over him victorious. Silver of the blade was dripping red onto the white sand beneath him.

From behind him, the 4th company master Uriel stepped into the arena, a respectful look on his face. Pelagius bowed and step backwards in reverance, standing behind the proud Uriel. The Space Wolves ushered silent as their Wolf Lord stepped forward, the sourness of defeat etched on his face. He kicked the fallen Wolf Priest (who was still writhing in pain on the floor) and bowed his head at the two Dark Angels.
"The ritual duel is finished." He barked, his voice gruff and low. Uriel smiled diplomatically, and extended his hand.
"So the matter is resolved?" He asked with a charistmatic yet firm tone. Reluctantly, the wolf lord took his hand and gripped it, snarling somewhat under his breath.
"Fine. My bretherin and I shall leave this system whilst you go about your duties." He spat the last word out venemously. Pelagius wondered if there would always be bad blood between the two chapters, but after glancing at the Space Wolves, he decided it would be best if Angels didn't fraternise with Wolves. Uriel bowed his head respectfully again and relinquished from the tense handshake. With his other hand, he slapped Pelagius on the shoulder.
"A few words, if you please, Brother Chaplain? As is the custom."
Pelagius, still breathing heavily from the duel, composed himself. He stepped forward, in plain view of both parties. The pain on his ribs was almost unbearable.
"Brother Astartes! Though we gather here today to settle old scores, we must never forget! We are the Emperor's will made manifest! We spread His word, and His light across the dark corners of the universe! And we must continually give praise and give thanks to His eternal glory! Now, follow me in prayer."
Almost reluctantly, the Space Wolf party bowed their heads in prayer. He didn't have to look at his bretherin Dark Angels to know that they were doing the same -- such was the devotion and passion his chapter had to their glorious Emperor.

After they had finished prayers, the two parties left the arena from different exits -- Master Uriel had speculated beforehand that it would be better this way as there would be less confrontation between the two chapters. The Space Wolves aboard their ship, the _"Wings of Lament"_, would undoubtedly be heading straight to the hanger to disembark. They had no need to stay aboard the Dark Angel ship any longer. Pelagius stayed in the arena, which was usually used for combat training. He gathered his helmet, and sheathed his blade of reason back into it's tiny scabbard. With great reverance, he picked his Crozius up.

There was no one else in the arena now except for Uriel and Pelagius. Uriel punched a code into the keypad on the wall and both sets of doors came down hard. What they were to talk about warranted complete secrecy. Uriel turned to Pelagius, all feigned charisma on his face gone and replaced with a look of seriousness.
"So Brother Chaplain, you are certain that our objective is to be found in this system?"
Pelagius nodded.
"Yes Master Uriel. The information I have...gathered indicates that there is a ruin world in this system. I have the coordinates logged onto your data tablet. We can make planetfall in three days."
Master Uriel bowed his head in deep thought. Although the news pleased him, there was no time for jest. They would have to act fast, and in secrecy.
"There is a complication though master..."
"And what might that be?"
Pelagius coughed, then wiped the blood from his mouth.
"Reports indicate an Imperial Guard presence on the planet. It appears they are there to claim the unnamed ruin world. They could interfere with our operation."
Uriel shook his head.
"No, this is perfect. We now have a perfectly valid reason for being on the planet -- as support. The Regiments stationed there will be none the wiser."
"But brother, what if their objective is our objective?"
Uriel stared Pelagius in the face grimly.
"You know the answer to that Brother. We deal with them as it is our duty to deal with them. Our objective is of the top priority. Anyone who intereferes with our operation will be dealt with."
Pelagius nodded, thoughtfully. Those were the words he had wanted to hear.


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