# The New Word (Complete)



## Myen'Tal

What is up, heresy online:victory:!? Bringing you something I recently wrote down, hope you guys enjoy :grin:!


_The New Word_​

Chapter One: Underground Metro

Lyra Savakis. The Superiors saw a young girl in her early twenties, chestnut colored hair styled in a fishtail braid. Four years’ worth of training had given her middling, athletic build a more robust edge over some of the other girls. Her skin was a natural light shade of beige, on the verge of becoming bronze in her prime years yet to come. Bright oceanic eyes gazed through a window on the metro-bus taking them through the hidden places of a vast Hive city. Her face was like most of the other girls raised alongside her in the scholas: sculpturesque, hard, and radiant. Nothing stood out about her, but the Canoness must’ve noticed something in her that no one else could.

An endless stretch of underground walls are blurred by the constant motion of metro-bus. It must’ve been speeding at a minimum of eighty miles per hour; she could even feel the pressure in her gut despite her power armor. A silver bullet in the dimly lit darkness. Engines scream to the top of their capacity. Thrusters and stabilizers constantly wobble to keep the anti-grav train in suspended motion. The nightscape of Helike came through the darkness on occasion. The capital of the Hive planet Tyrannus.

Her wary eyes fell upon anyone in her vicinity; usually, she’d be sitting in her seat with a look of mild contempt plain on her face. Having to travel with the common citizenry often provoked similar expressions. Those were the days she would proudly where her helm to hide it. There was no reason to in this instance, the train was nearly empty save two dozen battle nuns of the Adepta Sororitas. Many dressed in resplendent blue battle robes that one would usually don over their armor. Half of the women riding the train wore none. The initiates must’ve felt empowered by the bolters that glinted in the light. Lyra knew that she did.

A tiny smirk crossed her lips at the memories that surfaced. Oh holy of holies, grant her the strength that saw her through the massacres of Dynara and Itanos. Bless her with the strength and immortal essence of St. Celestine, and reunite all mankind under the one true Imperium of man.

The metro-bus began to skid into a gradual halt. It slid forward for a few more kilometers before coming full stop before a station atop a great vista overlooking Itanos. The Hive city awaited them like a tempting mistress, calling to them to explore every inch of its surface in a never ending adventure. She could see the estates of the nobility and the Imperial palaces reach out into a star littered night. Below her was the heart of villainy and corruption: the under city. The city of lights looked to be in the midst of a festival. Fireworks spiraled up into the stars like surface-to-atmosphere battery barrages. 

A shame the deed of the day would be killing. To stamp out anything that moved if it resembled the hedonistic cultist, the abhorable demon, or the pitiful undead. Whichever one crossed them first.

Arva was sunk into an adjacent seat, blinking the sleep from her bleary-eyed stare. She extended Lyra a nod. “I’m ready to crack some heathen heads. How ‘bout you, Lyra?” Her exhaustion was completely acceptable. The hour was late and the last minute debriefings had stolen some of their energy. Like Lyra, she too was dressed in thick royal blue robes. The pair of them looked like clerics, not initiates belonging to the Order of the Emperor’s Grace. 

“I am ready.” Lyra eventually spoke, staring down at her bolter intently, inspecting every piece of it like she always had since the beginning of her training. 

Sister Meril’s matronly voice grated through her V.O.X. grill, taking on an aspect of war Lyra had never quite experienced before. “Whoever dies this day, I certainly hope you two are not among them. Give our foes the flames of retribution and the honed steel of your ammunition. All of you!”

Arva and Lyra both bowed their heads slightly and uttered in reverent tones. “Through fire and steel, we give the enemy our absolution.”

A proven Sister shouted from the front of the train. “On your feet! Sororitas! On your feet! The train has stopped! Ready your weapons! Be ready to kill anything! Welcome to Itanos!”

The air was crisp and cool; the essence of winter had touched the city, though no snow was falling outside the station. The noise of anti-grav cars and ground vehicles disturbed the night, but could not drown out the sounds of gunfire. When the train left, all of them would be trapped in the heart of Itanos. Where that was, Lyra did not have the faintest clue, but she was here to deliver the Emperor’s will. With any luck, she’d do so under his cloak of protection. 

Canoness Kaska Rosi glided off the station train. Trailing her resplendent armor was a Golden Fleece cloak, laced through the open maws of stuffed Falxian Lion Heads. The metro lights made the sienna skin on her naked face gleam like polished stone. Dark jade eyes swept through the throng of her soldiers and trainees. Her lips uttered benedictions and prayers on the star struck recruits. The bodyguard and able bodied sisters formed a tight noose around them. “One dozen initiates and a hand full of battle sisters… Not odds I would like, but there’s no time like the present to start shaping this rabble up. Move them out!” 

Meril laughed at the tenseness in her girls’ posture, trying to relieve the hesitation in their expressions. “Do not let fear cloud your judgment now; you were all only boasting a day ago! Perhaps we should pray as we march?”

_“From the lightning and the Tempest”

“Our Emperor, deliver us”

“From plague, temptation and war”

“Our Emperor, deliver us”

“From the scourge of Kraken”

“Our Emperor, deliver us”_​


----------



## Myen'Tal

_The march had taken them from the lonely Metro-Station overlooking the hive city of Itanos. Canoness Kaska led her humble troop deep into the Itanos under city to lead the rest of her Order in the midst of a massive battle being waged there. The Imperial Guard of the 89th Itanos Volunteers along with elements of the 5th Conorag Bloodhounds, 7th Hammers of the Golden Throne Armored Regiment, Order of the Emperor’s Grace, and the Sundered Legion 3rd Company Space Marines to fend off an assault from the forces of chaos. The Thousand Sons had plagued the sector for centuries, bringing war to the peaceful planets within the Tarmathon Sector. An army of cultists have been mustered to wage war upon the surface while the Thousand Sons disappeared from the solar system two years prior. _

“I am ethereal. A being of flesh as much as I am one of imagination. I sit upon the edge of your mind, listening intently to your thoughts and telling you how to proceed with your pitiful, pathetic life. I am your heart’s true desire, the reason it beats so impulsively, all to pump fresh blood into that exhausted, limited mind of yours. Imagine me and I shall come to you, speak to me and you shall hear my whispers, Empower me with souls and see your greatest desire fulfilled upon a whim. The name I have given myself for the sake of all mortals is Nyst, a greater demon and champion of Tzeetch. Why am I so much more powerful than my kin, because I was created and shaped by twisted eldar minds that worship my lord and patron? You may sup from this cup of knowledge mortal, go ahead, it is my gift to you, take it.

Lriean Tarithinon checked the rising levels in disgust coming over him. The Greater Demon perched atop a ruined throne looked through his mind and soul. She could feel him out in a heartbeat. The greater demon possessed the form of a mutated centaur, a mythological figure from the ancient days of the mon-keigh. Its lower body was covered in slimy, diamond hard reptilian scales, supported by four stallion like legs. Reptilian feet armed with thick claws and a glistening tail nearly the size of Lriean himself made the rest. Upon this lower body was the form of a slender woman, her naked skin a pale blue that was barely visible in the ill lit darkness. Such a forbidden sight remained hidden behind two columns of beautiful black hair coming down either side of her face. The soulless pits of her eyes leered at him and she smiled, revealing a shark’s mouth of teeth and slithering green tongue. 

The infamous demon the legends called Nyst, reached out with her humanoid arms and beckoned him to come closer. Lriean did not feel much obliged to do so. Instead he dropped the silver cup in his hand, raised his las-gun at the greater demon. Staring down any demon always took a deep long look into oneself. After all, the Warp was forged by the dreams and desires of the sentient races. Nyst knew what he desired. She had what he desired playing through her fingers. Ar’ka’ram’s soul stone burned furiously in the demon’s grip. A legendary Exarch from the artificial planet of Ulthwe, sister craftworld of his home Teyl-Jhen. How many Farseers and Autarchs would pay handsomely for that, it could be worth far more than this warp thing knew.

He braced himself for the demon to try and strike him through sorcery. “Let’s not play this game with each other. I don’t like it. You must be tired of it after the millionth time. I would hope so anyway.” 

Nyst snarled in her many voices voice, appearing unsatisfied with the reaction from the eldar outfitted in loose Imperial fatigues. “I do not believe you actually understand your peril, little Lriean. But alas, maybe I’ll oblige you.” 

The greater demon stared at the jewel, full of longing for the soul within. Her alien pupils shrunk to the size of a small coin, gazed out into nothing. Lriean watched her commune with the warp and watch a dozen different futures in the span of a few breaths. He blinked and the moment ended. Nyst cracked the stone with a powerful bite. A demonic roar erupted from her throat the likes that Lriean had never heard before, bursting with satisfaction. Ar’ka’ram screamed out for the last time, evaporating into Nyst’s very being. She cast the stone before the eldar’s feet, nodding her approval as it shattered against cold steel. “I shall part for a time, little Tarithinon. Perhaps we shall meet again when you are more sensible? I haven’t given up on you yet, Lriean Tarithinon.” Nyst lazily rose to her feet. She hissed at the alien archeologist. A passing warning as she faded away into mist.

“Ashes and Dust, Lriean. I am ethereal, you are but the former.”

Lriean kneeled down to pick up the shattered fragments of the soul stone, letting it fall through his fingers before he sighed hopelessly. He soaked in the sight of the ruins around him. Dank, dark, and foreboding. None of that had deterred him from arriving in the city of Itanos and finding this subterranean ruin deep within the bowels of the hive city. The cultists that had originally been here had let the place fall to ruin; many of the light fixtures had been busted or flickering in and out of existence. And the plascrete walls had been caved in during the warfare that this place had saw probably years ago. 

Why a throne appeared at the end of this chamber was beyond him. This was no longer an age of kings, but one of governors and palaces. He studied it a little while longer, imagining Nyst lounging there like a Queen of shadows. Heroes of the Honored Dead had attempted to dethrone the Demoness from her position of power more than once. No one had succeeded over the centuries, not even the fabled Tiger of Teyl-Jhen: Farseer Raihan Tarithinon. Maybe Aryriel, Raihan’s only child would have attempted to follow in his father’s footsteps. He was more of a warrior than a demon-hunter. And his exile during the war for Tarmathon IV did him no favors. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to visit him one day, he could use some well-honed muscle like him working with the crew. 

“Qu’nalan.” Lriean lifted two fingers to tap into the comm-bead linked on his left ear, listening to the soft static for a moment before a voice registered him. 

The tone was darker than his and more hushed. “Lriean. Did you acquire the stone?”

“I ran into a little trouble, well more than that, but I managed. The stone is useless now.” 

A moment silence spelled out the disappointment. “I see. Well get back up here, it’s time to leave this place in search of something else. Qu’nalan out.” 

Didn’t Qu’nalan know that there was a war waging out there right now? What new leads could he possibly have that they hadn't talked about? Well, he would know when he spoke to him in person. Time to leave here. Whatever this place was. 

Lriean threw his las-gun over a shoulder and began to trek off into the distance. 

_“Lriean.” _

“Huh? Who goes there?” The relic hunter called out, placing a cautious hand on his las-gun. He cast glances into the darkness, yet saw nothing. 

Taryi’s voice carried over the darkness, echoing in the haunting quiet. It interrogated him softly. “I am only curious. Why don’t you possess the soul stone of Ar’ka’ram? If you needed aid, you should have called upon me. I would have gladly come with you.” 

Lriean gently dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “No offence, Taryi, but I don’t think your acquired skills would have helped me much.”

The Howling Banshee emerged from the darkness in the direction he was heading. Her curly auburn hair bounced with every step, threatening to cover her bright jade eyes and the dark inked tattoos partially covering her face. She was clad in sleek armor that fit tightly around her slender frame and held a two handed executioner in her hands. Taryi Iuduo loomed one full head over the strangely dressed Lriean. Her gaze fell over him like a stern mentor rebuking a student who had just made a grave mistake.

“Then what happened?” She interrogated again, curiosity peaked at the actions of her fellow kin. 

The archeologist kicked aside some bones. “Nyst is what happened, I never thought I’d bump into such a strange demon of legend, but here we are. Talking about it after the fact.”

Taryi’s eyes widened a fraction, uttering the name to herself as if contemplating what implications the name had. Then the look in her eyes suddenly steeled into a sterner expression. She looked Lriean up and down. Took in his current state of being. “You look no worse for wear. Why is that?”

“She simply left after taking what she wanted. I’m not sure what else I’ve could have done, given the circumstances.”

“Or course not.” The howling banshee stated, unimpressed. “Let us move, I’m sure you desire to leave here as soon as possible.”

The two began to retrace their footsteps back the way they came. They stepped through a ruined corridor with its walls gutted and littered with rotting carcasses and skeletons. On what portion of the walls that had held out for all these years had various types of graffiti and messages sprawled across their surface. An elevator shaft soon revealed itself that would take them out of the dreary pit they had descended into. 

Lriean pressed the button according to the highest level. The elevator doors squealed shut. “You didn’t by chance find anything of use down here, did you?”

“No.” Taryi studied him with an incredulous look, examining his face to see if he was being serious. 

“Just wondering.” Lriean said distracted. Other things were weighing down on his mind. “What was Qu’nalan doing before you came down here?”

“Waiting for you.” 

Taryi’s shadow fell over Lriean like a giant even from across the elevator. She wasn’t only taller than him, her figure was far more robust in muscle mass than his own. Taryi was a proven and veteran warrior, Lriean was an accomplished archeologist. He kept his dark blonde hair cut short plain and short, finely kempt and nearly covering his large silver pupils. He was well aware that Taryi’s shrine greatly respected strength. There was no telling why she agreed to join the expedition or even bother listening to Lriean. She didn’t have an eye for the tedious side of unearthing artifacts and it definitely bored her. When the boredom becomes too much, she simply leaves the job for a week or two. That never failed to distress Lriean more than anything, considering the constant dangers his work put him in. He may have been the leader and brain the rest of the team connected to on paper. But in reality, he had no leash on either of his companions. 

A bell ringed within the elevator and the doors came squeaking open. The open night sky proved a welcome change, even mostly covered by towering sky scrapers raising countless stories into the next level of the Hive. Taryi and Lriean entered a small plaza, completed with a small garden and Imperial chapel in the midst of it. There was a massive demon looming around the chapel, easily matched Lriean’s height, built of crimson sinew and muscle. A wicked tongue licked hungrily at the air and beady red eyes stared into their souls from afar. The bloodletter held a demonically forged blade in its right hand, nothing else in its left, but it looked poised and ready to strike. 

“Qu’nalan!?” Lriean called out, but there was no answer. 

Two more appeared out of the shadows, coming to stand near their comrade and leering as they began to slowly approach. Each of them looked menacing in their own right. The pair of Eldar instantly grabbed their weapons and stormed off into two different directions. 

Lriean kicked his las-rifle from single shot to full auto and opened up a salvo of las-bolts that punched the one of the far left- the one nearest him- in the chest several times. The monster took the bullets in stride and laughed confidently at the upstart. It roared out the demonic challenge before three blood letters sprung into a charge of their own. Lriean opened fire again at the same target. The first blasts hit the beast’s legs and torso before working their way up to the thing’s face. The blood letter shielded himself with the massive bulk of its arm, raised its sword up to cleave Lriean who simply rolled out of the way as he fired. 

The Eldar Relic hunter sprang to his feet, ducking beneath an arched swing meant to cleave his head off. He brought his bayonet up, but the blood letter’s arms were still covering its face. Instead he swung the knife on the edge of his las-gun into the things gut, managing to stab twice before the red demon brought its elbow down on his temple and sent him spinning away. The minion of Khorne pressed his advantage. The hell blade swung around its head, brought down in an overhead strike. 

Lriean dived and rolled away from the attack, barely managing to not be scathed by it. He threw the las-gun at the demon to temporarily halt its momentum. In that space of time, he drew his shuriken pistol and unleashed a flurry of laser fire that would have shredded a lesser man in an instant. It merely injured the blood letter, causing it to recoil from Lriean and use its sword as a shield. 

Taryi twirled around the first blood letter to reach her, stabbed in with one side of her executioner, impaling the thing in the gut. She remembered to twist before departing the blade from flesh, bringing the blade back around to parry the second blood letter in a shower of sparks. The two power weapons clashed for a few seconds. Each one struggled to gain an edge over the other. She flipped backwards before the blood letter could bring his blade back for another strike, cleaving the first she had engaged in two with an effortless strike. 

With a howl of rage, the first member of the hellish pack departed. It gently melted into a fine mist and fell back into the realm of nightmares. The second seemed undeterred, instead pumped its blade into the air and roared triumphantly over the screams of its dying comrade. It called to the shadows in a diabolic tongue. 

“Cursed thing, I’ll slay you and your entire ilk!” 

More blood letters came roaring out of the darkness, blades burning brightly with hellfire and murderous intent in their eyes. They stormed forward across the plaza to lock arms with the pair of eldar and claim their souls for Khorne. They split into groups like the first three: two for Lriean, the other three for Taryi. They howled like wild animals in the night, already covered in the blood of many innocents. 

“Lriean! Taryi! Look out below!” A voice shouted from the rooftops, Qu’nalan stood atop a housing block over-looking the plaza, clad in the armor of the Dark Reaper and cradling a tempest launcher in his arms. 

Qu’nalan fired twin rockets into the rushing hoard of blood letters, aiming for the pair that were chasing after Lriean. The first rocket scathed the blood letter that Lriean had been blasting away since the fight began, the other one had landed perfectly between the other two lagging behind. The blast gouged out layers of asphalt and blew apart one of the blood letters in a gory display of blood. The second was flung across the plaza by the blast, twisting an arm and snapping it on impact with the asphalt where Taryi was currently fighting. 

Disengaging from combat, the howling banshee gracefully darted from the other blood letters to the injured one, effortlessly leaping over it and inserting one end of her blade between the thing’s spine. She spun on her heel toward the other three, staring them down as they meant to surround her. A knowing smile crossed her lips and she charged into them. Lithe and agile like a lioness, Taryi easily climbed up, leapt over the hunched blood letter, and took off one of the slavering creature’s leg below the knee. 

It naturally collapsed, trying to reach out for the Aspect warrior with the intent of savagely pulling one of her arms off. In a split second reaction, she answered with a quick thrust from her blade into the demon’s gaping mouth. The blade erupted out the other end in a spray of blood. It slowly began to fade back into mist, but still kept a firm grip on her arm. 

Grunting in surprise, Taryi twisted and pulled against the demon’s superior strength. All the while she watched the other two charge her down. But an idea popped in her head at that moment she heard the rocket come down. She fell gracefully onto her back, rolled to one side with all her strength, pulling the fading demon on top like a human shield. The first rocket buried itself deep into one bloodletter’s gut. It promptly blossomed in an explosion of blood and mist, the shear force sent the second flying and bought her a little more time. 

The red hide protecting her vanished. Once again her strength was her own to command. Taryi flipped to her feet and let her executioner fly from her fingers toward the last one trying to erect itself near the chapel wall. The blade impaled the demon through the stomach, carving itself into the cold metal of the chapel and pinning the blood letter against it. 

“Lreian!”

Lriean kicked his kneeling blood letter in the teeth, bringing his bayonet from his re-acquired las- rifle right into the beast’s eye socket. Not even flinching from the grotesque pop, he slid the bayonet out of the gun and proceeded to fire the remainder of his ammunition into the blood letter stuck upon the chapel. The las-bolts hit accurately and in dense succession, repeatedly blasted away at the minion’s face until only exposed, bullet ridden brain matter remained. 

“Are you two alright?” Qu’nalan asked, but did not stop for an answer. “I’m making my way off this roof top!”

Lriean shrugged at Taryi with a grim smile, wiping the sweat off his face. “What’s next? Haha, zombies!?”

The howling banshee smiled back, shrugging carelessly as well. “I wouldn’t joke about such things here. Who knows, perhaps it will be.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

“We can move the imperial guard companies up through the Tesian Highway,” Canoness Kaska was surrounded by generals from all aspects of the Imperial forces participating in Operation Phoenix. A tactical display highlighted the many different zones, representing allied or non-friendly territory. Within each of those territories a series of troop formations and base-outpost locations dotted the immersive map. 

She continued discussing the trivialities of war with her cabinet of advisors. “From the District one-thirty-one slums… there we can launch a spearhead through the traitor’s decimated center. The window will be small before the hell spawn plug it back up again. If the timing is faulty, we’ll have to redirect our heavy artillery onto them.”

Lyra observed the inner-workings of the command center in a look of silent fascination. Masses of adepts, Imperial guard, and agents of the Adeptus Mechanicus labored like slaves under the demanding conditions of maintaing a headquarters. Twice as many servitors were working at the cognitors, or moving and setting up equipment, and working on that blasted telecommunications array that had been down all night. The Bodyguards of the High Command lingered in every corner of the room. All of them eagle-eyed and glaring each other down like there would be a reckoning soon to happen. 

Lyra remained uncertain on Kaska’s intentions, however. Why had so many initiates been brought into the presence of the most powerful men and women on the planet? Emperor be merciful, even the inhuman Adeptus Astartes had sent an envoy Captain to make sure everything was in order for the coming purge. Veteran Chapter members stood guard over the front entrance. They had bolters clad across their puffed out chest and had their helm slits locked onto their commander. The Emperor’s Grace newest recruits –which had swelled to nearly a hundred during the battle down in the hive- sat aside from the maintenance and evil-eyed guards at recess tables meant to seat the entire command center at full capacity. 

Hedia occupied herself with smoking a cigarette with Keleos and Lexina. They kept their eyes on the Superiors and boasted of the kills they claimed when they appeared distracted. Lyra couldn’t see the point in bragging. Every kill scored by an unproven earlier in the night had been taken from a shambling horde of undead. She sniffed apprehensively. Even a twelve year old could dispatch a thing already dead and crippled by a previous death. Given that the child had the right weapon and been drilled in its use. 

Lyra’s personal reward was the experience of standing beside five hundred of her own in the midst of battle. The rank and file of the Order thrashed every attempt by the zombie horde to swamp the makeshift battlements and trenches raised with corpses crushed beneath rubble. The Initiates had their chance to fight from the front under the Order’s Battle Standard. The Celestians kept their flanks shielded while the regular sisters threw up a wall of burning promethium with a hundred flamers. Canoness Kaska was forever at their back, screaming at her troops to fight, but not firing a shot. They all knew her gaze was watching them for the slightest fault. Just one weakness to be denied the dream of fighting the Emperor’s wars.

It was strange that Kaska never mentioned the pride that her girls’ possessed. Lyra knew they would rather die in the midst of a flesh-eating horde of rotten corpses than being reduced to the menial roles in the Schola for the rest of their lives. Especially after enduring the training. There was little motivation that could harden the resolve of a Battle Sister more. They were all living proof that a destiny could be something far more than their origins would have settled them with. On occasion, Lyra caught the Canoness’ sideward glance aimed directly at her. It was nigh imperceptible. No one else had even noticed. 

Arva lifted her face from the dataslate she had been going through for the past hour. “We didn’t lose anyone. Did you notice?”

Lyra gently inclined her head. “Of course. Those vile undead weren’t a challenge against all of us fighting together.”

“Glorious,” Arva corrected. “Our victory over the forces of Chaos was glorious. They came in endless hordes in front of our guns. We scourged their unholy disease from our dominion on the battlefield… Ever wonder how much longer until we’re fully initiated?”

“After we strangle our first traitors?” Lyra suppressed a nagging giggle in her throat. “Deliver our absolution to the repentant. Exercise faith in our abilities, our sisters, and Him on Terra. We should be welcome after we’ve done all those things a few dozen times over. I would imagine things playing out that way, at least.”

Her comrade tucked her head into her hands. Her sigh was one of resignation. “If we love our Master-“

“Then we shall obey His commands.”

Across the command center, Celestian Enora seated herself in a great chair just behind the Canoness. Even in full battle plate, she crossed her legs and folded her arms with a half-finished cigar in her mouth. None other than Delphine’s shadow fell over her. Enora looked up, instantly realizing that the other guard was ready to strike her until she relinquished it. Enora flashed her perfect teeth in a smile. Fresh smoke came wafting out from her lips, she beckoned Delphine to join her. 

This one had piqued Nyst’s interest. One look into Enora’s eyes uncovered the lock guarding her mind. She flexed invisible fingers with magic-imbued puppet strings attached. Resistance proved a thorn in her side at first, Enora struggled and kicked back with mental strikes. A typical firebrand. The Greater Demon tightened the web around the struggling human trying to cope with the pressure overtaking her mind. Enora immediately slackened the moment she succumbed. Her eyes gently fell shut and her snuffed vessel came under possessive influence.

_“Come now, love. A puppet’s dance to entertain me for a while. The Master has spoken. Canoness Kaska must face her fate in this very place!”_

“Enora?” Delphine’s voice cut through the suffocation of silence inside Enora’s mind. “You look spaced.”

She breathed in heavy, rugged gasps. They came in no small amount of anticipation. “Here.” Enora pressed the cigar stump into Delphine’s hands. The devil behind the veil made Enora wink like her casual self. “There’s something I need to do. Hold my seat, would you?” She climbed up to her feet and began stalking away from the others.

Enora’s little acquaintance stared at her retreating back, slack-jawed. “What, by the High Lords of Terra, do you have to do besides guarding the Canoness!? Hey, Enora!?” She talked far too loudly for her own good. Yet a distraction was something she could ill afford in this moment. “That’s not frakking funny, okay. It’s insubordination. Kaska will you whipped through the streets!”

“Gods, be quiet!” Enora craned her head back at Delphine, her face twisted and devilish enough to freeze her in shock and horror. Just the emotion Nyst was aiming for. Transfixed on Delphine, whatever remained of Enora ripped out her bolt pistol and lined a shot on Canoness Kaska through an omniscient seventh sense. 

“Canoness!” 

Kaska’s head popped like a hammer swing into the back of an overripe fruit. Splinters of bone and a stream of brain matter fell from the gaping wound in her skull. Fresh blood spurted from the ruined mess. The corpse wavered for a moment, then crumbled in a heap over the tactical map. The first screams hadn’t swept through the room before Nyst unloaded Enora’s clip into the nearest seniors of the Sororitas. Their bodyguards were on their feet in an instant, but not before ten more of the senior staff collapsed like lifeless dolls. 
Delphine smashed into Nyst shoulder guard first, throwing her over the table atop Kaska’s stiff, leaking corpse. Enora’s companion was quick on her feet when she realized the danger. The Celestian lashed out in a strange sideways uppercut, the admantanium covering her knuckles fracturing Enora’s jaw like a piece of glass. Nyst’s superhuman strength slammed Delphine into the command room floor hard enough for an audible crack to be heard within that armored shell of hers. Blood from her own ruptured organs gushed from her mouth even as a possessed Enora locked her in a chocking grasp. She poised herself to tear the tendons in her neck in one twist. 

A sure thrust of a power blade parted the flesh around Enora’s sternum. The electro-magnetic field sizzled the blood and hideously burned the flesh. Her demonic keen of agony was enough to bleed Delphine’s ears into deafness. The Second Blade, Anatolijus Petrakis, towered triumphant over the corrupted sack of flesh. Delphine could only read the Second Blade’s lips, muttering something to the creature inside Enora. Her blade flashed again. Enora’s head toppled away, rolling beside Delphine’s.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Doors laden with bronze and steel buckled inwards from the combined efforts of Lriean and Qu’nalan. The chapel built for the Imperial faith fell short of impressive. Lriean strode through the pews and incense burners until he reached the little altar under stained glass portraits. No priests. Images of howling Blood Letters came to mind, already soaked in the blood of innocents. He shook away the thought, spun around to face his friends. “The hell was all of that back there, Qu’nalan? Not even a signal to say there’s danger lurking nearby?” 

Qu’nalan possessed an appearance of an Eldar who had spent half his centuries perfecting the art of killing. Like Lriean himself, Qu’nalan stood a head missing under Taryi. His figure was compact, except his arms, having been honed with carrying his tempest launcher across countless battlefields. Lustrous leather black hair he kept trimmed into a short shag, a nice complement to his square jaw and stern brown gaze. The sheer dark of the Dark Reaper armor fit him like a glove. Made him into a warrior of silent contemplation whenever he don his equipment. One who knew death and respected it in all of its countless forms. 

Qu’nalan threw the tempest launcher onto the altar and stood there, perplexed. He always tried to do this. Every time he entered a religious sanctuary unfamiliar to the Eldar race, he always desecrated the altar in whatever way he could, so long as the shrines were empty. A leering grin formed on the Dark Reaper’s thinned lips, his voice ghastly. “I was given little time to even maneuver before they emerged from the alleyways, like spectral ghosts. They must’ve seen me waiting for you outside the ruin, and figured they’d wait to come after you two after I fled. They would have torn me apart had it not been for your perfect timing.”

Taryi approached him from behind, laid a gentle grip on Qu’nalan’s shoulder. “Your sense of courage aside, you mentioned something interesting to share with us?”

“True.” He replied. “Our employer came to us earlier in the night. She’s waiting to speak with us.”

Taryi didn’t hide her grimace, shaking her head at the Dark Reaper. “How intuitive. What was the message? A warning, perhaps, about unknowingly delving into a demon infested pit of hell?” The tone wasn’t comical, far from it actually, but her laughter lit up the place.


The coin-sized piece set between Qu’nalan’s fingers glimmered with an intricate circle of runes in its center. He named but one and set it down on the altar. A holographic image formed in the air above the emitter, taking the shape of Spirit Seer Mae in her long elegant robes and heavy shock of auburn hair that fell to her calves in twirling locks. Mae’s mystic voice cycled through the technological commune purer than the sharp clarity of a crystal. “Fate must smile upon you again, Lriean. You’re the one to usually undergo the commune during the first signs of danger. You possess the stone?”

Lriean rubbed his left temple rather intensely. “No.” He answered apologetically. “I encountered some serious trouble at the foreseen location. A demon- quite massive in scope and something I’ve never really before… I’m certain it was Nyst.”

Mae suddenly turned away from the three Eldar, keen disappointment in her deep breathing. “I have misread the runes… I’m divining a streak of misfortune, myself, never mind you three children.”

Lriean’s female companion muttered an encouragement. “The dark pantheon has a way of twisting the strands, Seer. Fate is a fickle mistress, anyway, our past is proof enough of that.”

“Of course,” The Spirit Seer looked up with somber eyes, brimming with hope. “I know that kind of treachery more than most. You have been keeping my daughter in good health, Lriean. For that, you have my sincerest thanks.”

“An Amazon like her doesn’t need much help,” Lriean rolled his shoulders. “Qu’nalan and I are far more grateful for her aid. It’s proven invaluable in a handful of tight spots.”

Lirean could feel Taryi’s stare boring through his back, even when addressing Lriean’s employer. “Mother. Ar’ka’ram is no longer of this world. How much longer until we’re allowed to sail back home?”

Mae‘s chastisement came gently. “Not one soul of our kin should be forsaken to the fate of damnation. Your loss is the Craftworld’s loss, and all of us will mourn the passing of the venerable Exarch. However, my dear, the path you must take on this planet shall be long and arduous, I’m afraid. There is a place, lost to the ages of man and their rapid evolution, where ten thousand lost Eldar souls are buried.” 

They all uttered the name written down the ages in legend. “The Ghost Crypts.”

“Yes.” The Spirit Seer affirmed. “The servants of the Changer will pose a constant threat to your progress, but I must implore you to continue seeking out this site of buried massacre. Be wary, Nyst’s omniscient gaze will forever be tracking your footsteps, noting your progress.”

Grim laughter reverberated off the enclosed space within the Chapel, pulling everyone’s attention into Qu’nalan’s direction. The Dark Reaper fell into rickety wooden pew, sighed heavily. “Just the three of us? Unless you plan to give us a small war host, we won’t cover a fraction of this place! Not even in a century’s timeframe.” 

A moment of silence permeated and chocked the air inside the chapel walls. 

Mae simply sounded worried by something, contemplating her next choice of words. “Destiny isn’t something to desire in every instance of life. Those chosen by the Gods to challenge Nyst have known nothing but the eternal depredations of Chaos. My old mentor simply reminded me that it was the way of things, the “infinite scheme of the universe”. His words may still be true, even after his passing. I believe that if you three were fated to combat this creature, it is because she chose you for her new game of conquest. The Gods always have a plan, and that includes the darker powers… I cannot expect the three of you to handle this task by yourselves. Hmm, perhaps, working in collaboration with the Inquisition can be a means to an end for both sides of the coin.”

Lriean barely flinched at the name; it had no more fear attached to it than any other demon out there. Even so, the eldar relic hunter loathed the idea of working with actual fanatics. “Hah! What? I’m sorry, Seer Mae, but that sounds like the farthest thing from pleasant or sane, for that matter.” 

Mae finally caved. “The Council has received a personal invitation from the Ordo Malleus. An Inquisitor of some repute on Tyrannus is requesting Eldar expertise on scourging the infestations of Chaos that are not so visible to the naked eye. Lriean, I’ve appointed you for an emissary. I will contact the Ordo Malleus at once, prepare for your arrival and stay in the capital, and discuss the details with the necessary contacts.

“I shall arrange a contact for you to meet; she may prove to be a great boon on this subject. Go to the research facility of Gythium: the fortress monastery belonging to the Order of the Emperor’s Grace. It is based in Helike. She will meet you there.”


----------



## Dave T Hobbit

Interesting so far.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Thanks , I'll try working on more sometime around the weekend, hopefully I'll more up by thenk:.


----------



## Myen'Tal

For an Imperium built upon lost technologies, the Fortress Monastery of Gythium brimmed with the cutting edge. The home of the Emperor’s Grace glittered from the highest peaks of Hive Helike’s government palace complex. Massive walls and battlements, gold pleated, bristled with countless artillery pieces and massive cannons primed to strike the largest battleships from Tyrannus’ atmosphere. The complex within was built on intricate networks of High Gothic bridges, flanked with fully bloomed flowerbeds, connecting one hundred and thirty seven isolated research spires and living quarters for the Adaptus Sororitas into one fortress. Waterfalls that could sweep away a smaller city came falling from the Hall of the Order, swelling every pond and pleasant stream inside the Courtyard of the Keep to near over-flowing. 

From the highest Saint to the lowliest Schola girl, all those who stood for the Order of The Emperor’s Grace assembled in the Courtyard of the Keep. Soldier, fanatic, and servant stood organized together ten thousand strong, rank-and-file, enjoying the glistening rays of the sun from one of the coldest peaks on the planet. Envoys from the Sundered Legion and the Imperial Guard permitted to attend the mourning were also present, bringing with them an Honor company garbed in full ceremonial wardrobe. 

The massive statue of the Emperor himself overlooked the gathered flock of his faithful. Soon-to-be Canoness Anatolijus Petrakis stood proudly beneath his ever-watchful gaze. Her armor was gold pleated and silver admantanium, draped over with royal blue and snowy robes of her Order. Flowing long hair aged to snow, came down in flat bangs on her gaunt and slightly sunken features. Uplifted in her hands, the Hammer of the Mithridite caught the sun’s glare against the polished onyx and silver pattern. 

The speaker network carried her voice throughout all of Gythium. “I knew Canoness Kaska Rosi, only in her prime years as commander of our sacred order. To her death we salute.”

“Our honored Canoness, we serve, hail the holy throne of Terra.” Ten thousand voices echoed the short Psalm, ten thousand fists clashed against their chest plates. 

“Her soul has been accepted among the saints that reside beside the holy Throne of Terra. We all must embark on that voyage one day. But sisters, let it not be in these grim, dark days, when war is being waged on a galactic scale, the very genocide of Mankind at hand.
“Canoness Kaska has passed down her role as commander of the Order of the Emperor’s Grace. I, Anatolijus Petrakis, shall swear to do everything in my power to deliver my Order, all of Tyrannus, and all of the Tarmathon Sector into an age of peace and prosperity. So that we shall once again look to the future with hopeful eyes and await the Emperor’s inevitable return.” She lowered her sword, sheathing it once again in its scabbard and greeted her comrades once more with a stern gaze. 

Lriean watched the innumerable ships sailing just above reach of the sky. Regiment ferrying transports ascended and descended through the atmosphere, accompanied by a legion of lesser vessels. He laughed inwardly at being literally on top of the world, observing the wake from a battlement overlooking the courtyard. He couldn’t help being somewhat impressed, seeing the capital of an entire Hive belonging to the largest race in the galaxy had to impress very much. Qu’nalan and Taryi were leaning over the pulpits, listening to the Order’s new commander. 

Sister Celestian Philemon Demarchis of the Order of the Sacred Rose hadn’t left Lriean’s side the moment they entered Gythium. Her thick layers of clothes were a mix of ebony and ivory, matching her braided hair, but not her youthful age. Philemon had her gaze beaming down into the assembly, a defiant smile on her lips and a fist curled against her chest. Lriean noticed her glances at him several times. She attempted to ease the tension with a welcoming smirk before turning her attention back onto Canoness Anatolijus. The only thing he knew about her, was that she had served the Inquisition all her life, apparently. No one had spoken a word after an hour’s trip up to the Hall of the Order, but Philemon appeared ready to broach the silence.

She spoke to him in a firm, welcoming tone, taking her hand off her chest to shake hands with the alien. “I welcome you, Lriean Tarithinon. Qu’nalan Morlankris and Taryi Bel’thorn, on behalf of the Inquisition and the Order of the Sacred Rose, I bid you welcome.” Philemon gave a low bow and turned back to Lriean. “Your employer mentions that you are from a highly respected house. Mae spoke similar of Taryi as well. I’m honored to receive all of you.”

He took her hand in a firm shake. “Oh I see, you must know all about me. Mae does love to talk about her prodigies.” They shared a polite laugh.

“Prodigy is it?” Philemon teased lightly. “I was told all Eldar are masters of their craft, impregnable even.”

The alien archeologist leaned in closer. “When you live a thousand years, it’s hard not too, eh?”

Philemon inclined her head in agreement. “True enough, Lriean. Though I must admit, I was expecting some fearsome alien assassin to greet me this morning. A pleasant surprise that you look nothing of the sort.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Ms. Demarchis.” Lriean winked in confidence. “There’s more warrior here than you think.” 

Lriean gestured down at the assembly. “What’s all of this happening down there? It looks like you’re gearing up for a war.”
The sister of the Sacred Rose’s face of cheer suddenly sank into sadness, as if someone had just struck her. Her voice took on a more somber tone. “Sisters from the Emperor’s Grace are mourning the loss of their Canoness. A tragic tale, a weak and frail Celestian under the name of Enora apparently succumbed to demonic influence and murdered our commander before anyone could take notice. How suspicious…” 

“My sympathies,” Lriean replied. “But tragedies aside, I believe you know why I’m here.”

Philemon arched one brow at the comment. She studied Lriean’s expression to see how serious he was being. “Of course I do, did you expect anything less from Ordo Malleus? I mean, I understand you aliens are often ignorant of our ways-“

Taryi grinned from ear to ear, glare dagger sharp and gleaming. “And often with good reason. Why try to understand blind faith in genocide and xenophobia? It is a pitiful outlook on the universe. Those who would wield such weapons against us –well, there’s no point in debating their inevitable fate, is there?”

Philemon stepped back; face fresh with the shock of a verbal lashing. A long period of silence fell upon the lone battlement while Philemon contemplated her next choice of words. Lriean sharply mouthed a rebuke, but Taryi brushed him aside like chafe. Philemon smiled in unhidden disgust. “I can smell the scent of charred and unclean flesh all around you, enough to churn my stomach.” She turned to Lriean, disdain weighing heavily on her frown. “I suppose every scholar and wise man requires a blood hound to guard them in the darkest times. Just keep her on a leash, and a very short one at that.” 

The Eldar archeologist immediately set about easing the tension, but Philemon hastily interrupted. “Let’s not draw this out any longer than it needs to be. I will take you to Inquisitor Arruns Ulpius.”
*************
The tensions between the Banshee and the Sororitas lightened the further they pushed into Gythium’s mosaic halls, filled with splendor and reverence in equal measure. Philemon must have swallowed her pride and forgiven the transgression. By all the dead Gods of the Eldar, Lriean knew Taryi would never apologize over such a slight. Their human envoy formally invited them into the halls of the Ordo Malleus. “Please, do not be afraid to enter, or we’ll have to drag you before Arruns’ presence.” Lriean could taste the threat in her tasteless joke.

Placid streams poured through the recesses between sweeping mosaics mounted along entire stretches of hall paths. Each of them depicted the race of men enduring in their current era: infamous victories and notable conflicts involving the Ordo Malleus and the elusive characters that commanded the organization to every corner of the Imperium’s galaxy. Desolated battlefields, filled the never-ending hordes of lifeless Orks and Hives engulfed in the flames of battle, brought by the nefarious Eldar. Banners from a hundred different Astarte Chapters hung from the great ribbed vaults. Each piece of heraldry was some fraction of history and culture woven into the fabric that made up the Inquisition. The four of them emerged through a massive archway, held in place with columns cloaked in strange patterns of scripture, and completed with the Imperium’s iconic Aquilla unfurling its wings from atop the arch. 

A mysterious figure cloaked in black fabric and a witch helm that shone like the moon, sat in an oval chair by a collection of glassine tables on the edge of a waterfall. The chest piece of wraith bone over his chest was a deep crimson, similar to the semi-crystalline stones on his wardrobe. On his waist, a witch blade, sheathed inside an elegant rune-sealed scabbard marked him for what he was. 

The Warlock greeted them with a sign of peace. “I sensed something would be off today. I read the runes, but they spoke nothing of a most welcome encounter in this morbid museum. How do you fare, my kindred?”

Lriean bowed in respect. “More fortunate than we probably have a right to, but that won’t stop us from taking it all in stride.” 

The Warlock’s laughter poured through the helm, mimicking the flow of rushing water rather than a laugh by the eldritch properties of his war gear. “I am pleased to hear it. Before you ask, we shall meet again soon and be properly acquainted. Remember my name, it is Kasilienesh.”

Philemon verbally instructed a pair of Grey Knights to lift their halberds from the Inquisitor’s quarters. The doors swung open with the hisses and clanks of invisible servos. One of the bio-engineered humans gestured for them to enter. The Mon-Keigh reclined in his leather chair looked like a muscle bound serf in spite of the ebony corselet and greaves, crimson cloak emblazoned with Ordo’s insignia, and an Inquisitor’s rosarius dangling from his neck. Dark green eyes looked up from a weather-beaten hatchet face, looking down a hooked nose that had healed from many broken angles. Stringy ashen blonde hair clung close around the sideburns and imperial styled pointed beard. A young warrior he likely was in his prime, but an elderly sage was all that remained before Lriean. 

The Ordos Malleus Inquisitor gestured them to sit down in the four chairs conveniently placed in front of his desk. The Inquisitor snapped his fingers. An aide appeared from the shadows and bowed. “Remove there reports, hand them down to Jelenn. She’ll know what to do with them.” The old man still had some sternness in his backbone, Lriean could tell through the un-trembling hands and proud stare. Never had Lriean met an Inquisitor burdened by the shame of guilt. It looked like things would remain that way for a while longer. The Eldar archeologist felt himself being dissect by his calculating appraisal, which then turned to Taryi, then Qu’nalan. Even Philemon, who appeared removed from the entire situation. 
The voice he regarded his guest with belied his robust bulk: deep, nasally, and resolute combined into one man’s throat. “I am a foreigner. That is what I am on this planet, Tyrannus. That is a fact, which makes myself in many aspects, about as alien as anyone of you three. That truth in turn, is compounded by my divine right to command in the Ordo Malleus, as an Inquisitor. I understand what you likely think about that, but before long, you’ll find out that I always try to speak the truth on many things. However, in spite of the obvious truths of the human society,” The Inquisitor broke into a lopsided smile. “I’ve lived here and know the Emperor’s servants who have pledged fealty to the continued existence and protection of this marvel of faith and Imperial ingenuity. And with that knowledge, I unfairly, deceitfully, and in secret passed judgment on the Tarmathon sector as a whole. 

“Tell me, what would the Eldar make of that information?”

Lriean exchanged puzzled glances with his other companions; Philemon remained content listening from her chair. He turned back to the Inquisitor and answered with a quick shrug. “That would depend on your judgment, Inquisitor.”

The Mon-Keigh barked with hearty laughter, immediately remembered himself and reigned his emotions. “Would it satisfy you to see countless billions burning in agony, Tyrannus put to the torch by my own hands?” Every remnant of kindness vanished from the Inquisitor’s squirming stare. 

Hesitation wedged the words in the Eldar’s throat. Lriean swallowed them and tried again. “Is that your judgment?”

“Arruns Olpius, Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus.” Arruns answered, a broad smile breaking the awkward tension. “I am the High Command, the Company Captain, and the will of the Ecclesiarchy on Tyrannus. All of the Imperial forces planet side and beyond the gravity well answer to my orders. I am a hammer of demons, and a shield of those who would come to humanity’s aid. I can provide protection –hell in the warp, I can supply you every resource under my jurisdiction. So long, as you supply the means to an end, Lriean.” Arruns snapped his fingers again. His aide approached from Lriean’s right, extending Lriean a steel plated case. 

Lriean politely pried the case open, inspected the contents, and accepted the offer. The Inquisitor and he exchanged a handful of smoky air bubbles from the lho rods. “Our contacts didn’t mention specifically what you were expecting from us, Mr. Olpius-“
“Arruns, please.”

Lriean felt his lips going tightly drawn in suspense. “I need the terms you agreed upon with the Council of Seers, Arruns.”

The Inquisitor nodded his understanding. “Yes, that is important, isn’t it? The terms are what I state them: I want the Ghost Crypts discovered and secured. So long as your Council allows that they undergo a complete purge when they are discovered, I’ll lend you whatever assets I can. I will also promise to keep you safe from the predations of demonic forces.” 

Qu’nalan broke his silence. “You think the Ghost Crypts are the source of Tyrannus’ instability?”

Arruns inclined his head, a degree more bleak than his usual demeanor. “I know it. Ten thousand Eldar souls buried somewhere beneath our soil, a tourist attraction for demons beyond number. If the crypts do exist, it is probably stuck in limbo, lost between this reality and the immaterium itself. Such a place could create and spit out the vilest creatures, such as Nyst, for example. The demon you seek protection from.” 

Pallid skin around Taryi’s cheeks suddenly flushed in a deep strawberry red, Lriean noticed some veins beginning to bulge when she spoke out. “Relating that thing with the burial ground of our ancestors is more than a stone’s throw past insulting and intolerable.”

The Inquisitor raised a hand to still the murmurings. “I said I liked to tell the truth whenever possible. I am also good at telling the intentions that lurks behind others. I am glad you don’t wish destruction on the upstanding citizenry of the Tarmathon sector, but you’ll get that and a perilous danger to your own world if the threat is not extinguished. You can go run to your council. They will certainly tell you the same thing I have. I am not asking you to put your trust in me, but your own commanders. They have invaluable experience on sensitive matters like these, and they have chosen you to see this through for them.” Arruns grimaced. “It’s in times like these that I’ve always favored the Imperial tradition of cremation.”

Lriean tore himself from his chair, followed by his companions. “I’ll have to confirm your terms with my employer. Why she didn’t bother mentioning this beforehand is beyond myself.”

Arruns pursing voice stopped him short of exiting the office. “We Imperials have a saying for things like this: “Do not try to understand the mind of the alien nor heretic, for to understand them is madness.” That is no insult to your origins, but you must understand that the nature of Chaos is literally unfathomable. If you try to answer, the questions that any soul is tempted to ask about matters involving the nether night, it will destroy you or worse, you will seek to join in its insanity. When you come back and start working for me, you’ll remember the saying before long.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Chapter Two: Alumni

Two years later…

_“I am power.”

“With your power, I am your servant.”

“I am ethereal.”

“With your blessings, I am no longer mortal.”

“I am favored.”

With your attention, I shall bring thy armies forth.”

“I am blessed by the Gods.”

“With your endless sacrifice, we pay tribute.”

“I am immortal.”

“With your benevolent wisdom, we make our endless war.”

“I am demonic.”

“With your words, we honor the Gods.”

“Through your Gods, does the galaxy burn.”​_

One must slumber. A popular saying among her kindred in the Forlorn Tower, there was never a servant of the Gods that never faltered by exhaustion. All had their time. Even Nyst confessed to becoming weary of the long war. She had slept away under the ruins of old Tarmathon IV for four millennia then. The Greater Demon giggled deviously, recalling four thousand year old memories of her Master’s initial arrival. The young prophetess had stumbled upon the site of the final battle waged between the Eldar and the forces of Chaos. Alone, a young Eldar girl all by her lonesome chose to delve into the black depths of Xen Rogo’s subterranean fortress. Three centuries later, the scars that lingered within still writhed as flesh wounds punctured through flesh. Such was the mark of Xen’s patron, Nurgle, the God of Decay. 

Nyst managed to sleep through that conflict unscathed, with nothing to wake through the millennia except a paltry sacrifice of cattle. When she arrived, the strands of the universe seemed to connect in rapid sequence, spinning an intricate web that promised something more than the usual slaughter of innocent worlds. One soul entered where there were none, surprisingly seeking enlightenment beyond the galactic plane. She descended down through the ancient graveyards, brimming with bones and the signs of blasphemy. She continued her descent through the forgotten libraries, spending four weeks researching the preserved texts. Disease infested everything in the catacombs below, but none touched her flesh. For two more days, she did not realize that the deceased had freely given up the gift she sought. 

Not until she stumbled upon a lone chamber, buried in broken stone, dominated by a throne forged with pure sapphire and gold. Nyst slumbered on the throne since the passing of the last leader of the cult, feeding on the energies of the warp and fallen alike. The young girl climbed the mountain of shards and debris the throne overlooked, more determined than ever to meet her destiny or find it. With an air of caution, the prophetess took for herself a tattered flag of the lost cult and approached the throne. Nyst stirred at the warmth of her soul, emerging back into the land of the living with slow and purposeful blinks. 

The isolated systems of the Tarmathon Sector would forever tremble at the union. 

Nyst had been a juggernaut in those years, there was nothing she couldn’t conquer with her dominating presence and power. The course of the Tyrannic war, however, had greatly debilitated her ability and position inside the solar system. She must have been slipping, to displease her master so much that she handed her off to a footnote Sorceress. Now there was no champion worthy of leading the demonic horde back onto Tyrannus, unless Nyst anoint herself for the task. Such a thing would be conceited and greedy of her; there was no glory in the entire galaxy she had not already earned. She never considered herself a notable commander in either regard, but she would if that was her master’s wishes. 

Nyst sat on her hind legs from the top of the porcelain stairs leading up to the throne. Arms folded, her soul-burning gaze observing the chosen and their meticulous ritual. The gathered cultists bowed down on their knees until their faces scraped against the floor. All knew the sworn oath to the Dark Gods by heart. Hearing the pledge recited again, it stirred a long trampled sense of pride in her. Pleased beyond words, Nyst only smirked at the masses gazing up at her. A thousand and a half ex-soldiers employed under the Kyveli house remained unmoved with expressions set in stone. They were ready.

The voice of the Ethereal poured from her lips, one hundred voices belonging to one being. “So long as the galaxy burns in our name, I shall bestow upon you my gifts. More importantly, favored mortals, the marks of favor of our chosen Deity. Do not be superstitious like these slaves beneath the yolk of your nemesis. You shall know my power is real through ascendancy, the single greatest moment in your brief existence when your life suddenly becomes infinite with new possibilities. This planet still writhes in the flames of chaos even in the noted absence of the Thousand Sons. They have abandoned you! Now the war has turned ill. Brave souls, I do not wish to consume your essence upon a whim, but for once in the entirety of the time I have known you do I wish to reward your twisted sense of true faith.”

The chosen lowered their heads; Nyst spoke to her leash-bearer without looking at her. “They are ready. Your own personal army, as you requested. A true commander does lead by example; they would follow you into places no one will ever return. If you did so, of course.”

Theodora Kyveli leaned forward in her blanched throne, trembling softly in anticipation. The young Sorceress wore some ornate priestly attire, all manner of beige and white cloth weaved in layers around her body. Flowing, tannish hair hung down in a series of braids. Lavish jewelry hung from her neck and fingers, none of them arousing any suspicion with ties to heresy. “Perhaps you should nominate yourself for ascendancy instead, after all, your current form seems to pale in comparison of greater demons. You have explained your rites of ascendancy to me. I will be forthcoming: while the demonic form maybe holier than our wretched flesh, it is through our birth right that humanity will rule this galaxy, not vagabond demons.”

Nyst chortled like an elegant woman, driven by a sickening sense of arrogance and cruelty. “I have considered the possibilities. I would not particularly admire my so-called sacrifice, a banishment into the warp beside the Changer himself. Then I would live every moment of my life in regret, not being able to consult the lost mortal souls of this plane. I would lose my touch.” 

Theodora did not appear to be listening, inspecting her vassals as if she were already molding them. And those pitiful trash Theodora called Sorcerers had the gall to try to reign her in for similar conduct. “Once they’re… transformed, they will fight for me?” 

The Greater Demon inclined her head sharply. “Like you were their own fresh and blood or even better, treasured lover.”

Theodora visibly paled at the image, reclining back into her throne. “So long as they remain loyal. I’ll give your compliments to your master.”

Nyst flopped her massive tail onto Theodora’s armrest, a note of impatience slipping through her slightly bared teeth. “Don’t thank me just yet. They’ll be far more effective than the regular rabble you were using for the Imperial’s target practice. However, when the time comes to test them, there still maybe some faults in their design. But again, it is what you asked for.”

Theodora raised a glass in the demon’s honor. “Then in due time, we’ll topple the Corpse-God’s yoke on this world and live free in everlasting glory!”

The assembly echoed as one. “Yes, in everlasting glory.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The Metro Operators voice blared through the bus. “All passengers, be advised: Three minutes until anchor at Phocis station.” 

That time of the day again, when skies painted in shades of red, orange, and pink arrived with the waning sun. Lyra watched roiling cloudscapes roll across the backdrop from within the rapidly decelerating metro-train. Sat down on the top of the world, she felt like nobility despite every rule of her upbringing screaming against it. The Grand Central Station remained perched above the strongholds and facilities of Gythium. It was a vital mode of transportation, the only link with the rest of the monastery to the Hospitaller’s District. 

Grand Central Station burgeoned with Imperial citizens, dressed in fanciful garbs with a pious edge to them. A few curious stares fixated on her, but she paid them no heed. The invitations received, Lyra remained in contentment. Governors, planetary commanders, and all the highborn aristocracy came to pray inside the grand cathedral of Saint Agnes. It’s golden spires rose somewhere from the miniature city of the Hospitaller District.

Lyra unlocked the clasps around her helm, stepping beyond the doors of the cramped metro-bus into the glaring touch of the sun. Back in the days of her candidacy, she could recall the fighting that had taken place in the subterranean transportation routes. The trains filled with scared citizens seeking refuge from a plague of un-death and a host of Sororitas soldiers guarding them with their lives. Winged demons came swooping through the narrow caverns, smashing through the windows into the defense of the sisters. The train smelled with the stinking rot of the demonic dead, but she and her comrades had managed to hold out against the onslaught. 

“Sister Lyra! Here!” A young woman, cloaked in a scarlet linen dress half emblazoned with the Hospitaller’s mark, suddenly waved frantically from an empty sidewalk. She had golden blonde hair swept to the right side of her face, broad smile beaming at a puzzled Lyra. She came up to the battle sister’s shoulders when Lyra casually approached her, frail fingers taking her own gauntlets in a handshake. 

“Lyra Savakis of the Emperor’s Grace.” The Sororitas bowed deep in her oceanic blue and white robes, relishing in the freedoms of being unarmored. A dusty tome peaked from under her shoulder, scratching against the pistol holster attached to her waist. “Blessed to receive you again, Idola.” She turned towards the lurking stranger beside the Hospitaller. “Who might this be?”

“Ah,” Idola replied, “This is my friend and co-worker, Desma.” 

Lyra looked over the Hospitaller with a glint of curiousness, absorbing each bit about her different from the human anatomy. Jet-black hair flowed over her ebony skin in lengthy plumes that spilled onto weak artificial shoulders. Cutting-edge augments crafted into fully functional bionic arms reflected the sun’s cascading rays into the nooks and cracks of the road. Both of her eyes had also undergone replacement, exchanged with sterile silver interfaces. Her movements were deft and efficient, only one leg falling with a heavier clang before Lyra’s feet. 

“Desma Tasso. Volunteer at the Hospitaller H.Q.” Desma answered in a mechanical trance, though her voice lacked much of the metallic edge. She extended her hand in greeting, steel-forged fingers wrapping round Lyra’s palm like a serpent’s trap. “The honor is well received, Lyra Savakis.”

Lyra suppressed the sympathy from appearing on her face. “Sister, once?” 

“Before my wounds became too much to bear.” Desma’s silver eyes clicked from one side to the next, whirred and coiled to take in the station’s environment. She reverted to Lyra, expression weighed with boredom. “Fortunate for myself, I retired from the Order very early in my career. I think about the reason, and know it was probably why I survived the war until its end.”

The Sister of battle looked at her in surprise. Both of the Hospitaller agents shared odd glances with one another. She gripped one of her metallic biceps. “The long war never ends, Desma. And you look like you can still carry a weapon to me, but if rules deem you unfit to serve then I won’t be the one to the chastise you.”

Desma’s stoic expression held up unscathed. “I assure you I can hold a weapon, but my I.Q. requires me in the field of medicine and surgery. Away from the more unappreciated minds, I could say.”

Lyra bit her tongue a moment too late. She paused to let the moment sink in. “If being appreciated means mending pitiful corpses while we take the glory from our enemies, so be it.”

“If that makes you content,” Desma smirked. “Then I am willing to drop the conversation, before it becomes awkward.”	

“Agreed,” Lyra said. “Idola, if you would lead the way.”

“Of course,” Idola chuckled nervously. “It is up these stairs just outside the station.” 
******************

One hundred and thirty six voices within Saint Agnes rose up through the ancient cathedral. Each voice resonated across marble floors, littered with rose petals. Psalms of the Convent reached up heavily burnished walls of bronze bricks, to the highest pulpits on the back of the building where the entrance lay. Lyra bathed in the angelic sounds, singing the litanies known throughout the centuries. Idola and Desma sung their praises alongside her, the latter of the two surprisingly beautiful to the ears. 

Beside her in the pews with Lho-stick smoldering in between her lips, Arva expelled a mouthful of smoke, and quickly choked on the inhale. The odor mixed with the lingering scent of incense and rose water in the air challenged her lungs to breathe in so much smoke. Her friend did not seem too preoccupied with the choir’s worship, her interest far more in line with keeping an eye on the strange figure sitting with them.

Lriean lightly shrugged at Arva’s unwavering watch. He threw his hands behind his head, sighed with the relief it brought. “This is so relaxing. Much different from home, but I love how you humans come together and share this belief that your Emperor shall one day return. It’s similar to our own religion, actually, one day our last living God will be born anew.”

Arva slammed the butt of her bolter down into a pew. That one had the bark of a vicious beast. “Likely best if you don’t bring up your heathen gods in our holy shrine, alien. You forget your place! No one here wishes to hear anything save His name inside this sanctuary. Understand?”

Despite her growling, a lopsided grin appeared ready to break her façade. The two of them shared knowing grins. Lriean feigned his apologetic face for the pair of Hospitallers, turning back around at their blank looks of puzzlement. “Suit yourself. These other two you have brought along look as if they have never seen an alien in the flesh. Try not to worry yourselves; it’s only unnerving me a little.”

Desma cut her voice short, looking pointedly at Arva. “What is it?” She gestured Lriean with her metallic fingers. “Emperor above, he’s nearly humanoid.”
“Is humanoid,” Avra corrected. “Eldar are probably the farthest things from human when comparing the physiology of our minds with theirs. Do not let their deceptive guises fool you; they are utterly fickle and random in their nature. Also corrupted by psychic taint, very isolated, vicious raiders, and what not. You get the gist, I assume.”

Lriean narrowed his eyes into sharp slits. “The Imperial Primer I see. You have to love ten millennia of xenophobia and tactics thrown into one massive book. I thought only the Imperial Guard was only issued those things?”

Lriean had apparently risen in respect in Arva’s eyes, who appeared surprised –pleasantly, for once. “I didn’t know you were familiar with it. Any good soldier will read at some point in his life. There are enough instructions in there to kill nearly every xenos species known to man, in over a dozen different ways each.”

“Are you still staring at me?” Lriean glanced over his shoulder to find Desma studying his pointed ears. 

Desma may have looked abhorred at Lriean while she probed through his hair, in true Imperial fashion. However, underneath he knew she was trying not to look fascinated. “You’re an Eldar, correct? Excuse my manners, but I’ve never came into contact with one myself. I’ve heard your people our quite rare?”

The Eldar inclined his head in affirmation. “Rare as they come, for a galactic power. Most of our kind lives on the floating trade ships the size of planets, others in the backwater Maiden worlds, or in places I would rather not explain in detail.”

Idola winced at the alien archeologist’s clothing, a Commissarial suit, black trench coat, and hat. “You are aware that wearing those clothes doesn’t make you look like one of us, right?”

Lyra twitched the corners of her mouth in a distasteful smirk. “Thank the Emperor! Someone in his or her right mind for once. Did you ever find out who permitted that outfit, Arva?”

Arva shook her head. “Inquisitorial seal is stamped all over it.”

“Bah!” Lriean dismissed his critics, accepting an offered Lho stick. “As a leader of the Expedition of Halicarnassus, Inquisitor Arruns and I have agreed to access to certain military grade uniforms. I find humans are far more comfortable when aliens look the part of an Imperial Auxiliary. I mean, it just earns so much more respect than your run-of-the-mill mercenary does. Tell me I’m right.”

Arva intervened again in Lriean’s logic. “You’re an advisor, Tarithinon. A Commander will lead the dig, Emperor guide your soul if a real Commissar stumbles onto your disguise.”

For a simple archeologist, the Eldar had influence far beyond his guards. Wielding such power, as the arm of the Ecclesiarch demanded much from the honor of the Order. Even from a support role, soldiers ingrained in the Imperial dogma would have difficulty swallowing orders from a xenos. Yet his position and leverage proved irrefutable in the chain of command. To disobey an order from a Commanding Advisor was to answer before the Inquisitor himself. 
He lifted up his cap and set it down on the pew. “Hmmm. I have acquired squad Averticus to be my bodyguard for the duration of this exploration. Having a group of iron-fisted maidens of the Adeptus Sororitas, I look forward to seeing the action we’ll be delving into together.”

Rings of clean vapors pushed through Arva’s nostrils, the hazel in her pupils were beginning to dilate. “Our orders are received. Obey your superiors and submit to their will, for they keep a vigil over our souls.”

“We shall do this with joy and not with complaining, for that will grant you no advantage over us.” The others intoned together. 

Lriean bowed his head. “Pray your God on Terra will protect my soul as well.”

Lyra sniffed disbelievingly. “Don’t worry about our God, Lriean, our strength is more than enough to suffice for you.” 

Idola elbowed Desma’s rib and both of them bowed low. “We expect to be called into service either on the war front or the expedition. Put in a good word for us and we’ll see about following your combat group.”

The ebony Hospitaller clapped her hands together and knelt down into the rose water. “Sister Lyra, Arva, and Commander Advisor Lriean: I bid you farewell. May the warp break in our stride…”

“May He be the light in the darkness.” 

Lriean sent them off with a wave. “Isha guide your way.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The Next Day…

A sudden barrage of knocking on her door snapped Lyra from her sleep. Oceanic eyes fluttered open with reluctance; she sighed heavily and found herself lying in bed. She immediately turned to another one undisturbed. Arva was sitting over her desk, reading another data slate. She managed to pry her attention away long enough to glower at the commotion. 

Glistening sunlight poured through a clear windowpane that took up the entire left wall. Beyond it, only a portion of Gythium was visible alongside Helike’s tallest spires. Her dorm was far from Spartan, not fashioned for the sole purpose of a strict military existence. Three shelves crammed with books lined walls of sandstone, within reach of a wooden desk crafted from fine mahogany. Golden Aquila hung all around the room, pinning banners and overlooking the other icons of Imperial heraldry set up about the place. Ornate weapons mounted on racks rested in between their beds, a sharp contrast to the provenza marble floors. 

“Lyra !? Arva!? Are you in there!?”

Arva whispered to no one in particular, standing up from her desk and beginning to stalk across the barrack dormitory room with a disturbed look. “Who the hell is this?” She pressed a button on the keypad, quickly followed by the quiet hiss of machinery. 

Sister Superior Karyiake snapped off a salute, a fist across the chest. “Morning, girls. May I enter?”

Arva’s insolent scowl struck from her lips in an instant, looking dumbfounded. “Sister Superior! Uhh, Karyiake isn’t it? Of course, Superior.” Arva stepped aside for the veteran member of the Sororitas, who stepped into the room and greeted the two of them with a gracious smile. 

“Apologies for the intrusion. You’re probably wondering why I came here today, especially on such short notice.” Karyiake cleared her throat and cast an expecting stare at Lyra until she shook her sleep-addled eyes fully open. 

Lyra kicked off her sheets, leaping to her feet in her nightgown. “Forgive my manners, Superior, I was not expecting guests.” 

Karyiake took a moment to admire the view outside, watching the bulky structures of the fortress-complex radiate with a holy glimmer. She approached one of the desk chairs and took a seat. “As I was saying: I know Averticus has been diligent in their duties, protecting the Inquisitor’s guest, and achieving other honors during their time here. I have been talking to Meril about your long list of exploits. I could not help but notice the lack of interesting notes these past few months. Meril believes you have the talent, but your ability to kill is waning with the passing of each day. Perhaps you two are not fit for guard duty, less your ability goes to waste. I have considered, maybe the both of you need a reminder of what it means to serve in the Imperium’s armies. There are some heretics worth hunting and I would have your participation. So, what say you, sisters?”

Lyra faced the situation and asked first. “Is there a disturbance in the peace? How difficult are the odds? How many of us are going?”

Karyiake looked to Lyra with no small amount of expectation. “The mission will be dangerous. Rogue Psykers and other forms of the malevolent witch will have a strong presence there. The objective is deep within the Teshkeran wood, inside the District of Athenai. You know large estates and manors, and plenty of private troops. Enough to make a small army out of. 

“I understand if you would disagree, but it’s nearly time to have you pair assigned to a full tactical squad.”

Lyra instantly perked up at her last sentence. “That time already, ma’am?”

Karyiake nodded her congratulations. “It has been two years since your training and initiation. Both of you have served with honor and have never questioned your purpose. I’m proud of that.”

Both of them bowed deeply in gratitude, intoning together. “The honor is ours. We accept this promotion, Superior.”

“Very well,” Superior Karyiake rose up from her seat. She approached the entrance and stopped short. “You are no longer part of Averticus. Your new superior officer is Sister Superior Anthanasia Soukis of Angelikii, a squad of thirteen, now fifteen. Prepare to be tested; the coming days like these are rarely easy. Do well enough and she may assign you roles that are more specialized. Find her in the training grounds from eight in the morning to noon. Now, if you will excuse me, I must take my leave.” Karyiake slipped from sight, leaving them to their own devices. 

“Great.” Arva quipped, her tone bitter sweet. “Feet first into another hell pit we have burning down in the rich districts.”

“You don’t like these fights?” The Sororitas with the fish-tail braid leaned heavily on the wall. Her vision was still bleary. “Rooting up heresy keeps the citizens safe. Cleanse it quickly before the seeds take root or risk the order and stability of the world. You’d be surprised by what characters can emerge due to lack of vigilance, I’ve heard of worlds being reduced to meteors because of rebellions and treacherous betrayals. Whoever’s head they want, if he or she is important enough, could be the gateway for some unforeseen threat to attack us from nowhere.”

Arva picked up her data slate, rummaging through the contents again. “It is the pious soul that bewares the heretic…”

“One moment of laxity equals a lifetime of heresy.” Lyra concluded. 

“I need a smoke.” Arva abruptly leapt out of her chair and made her way to the door. “I’ll be outside.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Alright, we got a semi-long update here, hope you guys like !

Somewhere in the upper echelons of Hive Helike…

The Tylissos Interstate cut a deep swathe through upper Helike, weaving through the long canals and lower financial quarters built along the banks. Convoys of an Imperial coalition choked the roads for miles; spear headed by companies of the Emperor’s Grace led by none other than Canoness Anatolijus Pertrakis herself. Hundreds of Rhino transports, Excorsist artillery batteries, and penitent engines grinded through the labyrinth of the Hive city, backed by tenfold Imperial Guardsmen companies.

The highway stretched outwards about ten lanes, split into two. The armored columns of the Ordos Militant spread across the incoming land in three separate convoys that stretched back toward the Tylissos. Valkyries and other fighter squadrons swept ahead of the mustered military force into the midst of an urban jungle. One that would soon swallow all of them whole the further they marched. Coordinated Orbital bombardments rained down from the Imperial armadas anchored above the atmosphere. Entire swathes within the city were nothing more than smoking craters in the surrounding urban sprawl. 

Sister Superior Anthanasia had been speaking encouragements throughout the ride, steeling their nerve over the noise of the Rhino’s engine. Only five of Angelikii rode this transport, due to their squad’s size. Lyra and Arva settled for listening through the loud speaker. “My sisters, be brave in the face of death and you will receive two outcomes: either an honorable embrace or a glorious victory. Our forces make their way to the Teshkeran forest. Much of the wealthy deserted this place on the eve of the Thousand Sons’ invasion of Tyrannus. Our target still lurks here; apparently, intelligence says she is a witch of extreme magnitude, protected by a personal militant group. Let’s focus on what is real instead of fearing superstitions. We take her head, dead or alive before the sunset and all heretics die by the sword. Understand?”

Alexandra looked in the new blood’s direction from beside the hatch. She bit her lip in nervous anticipation. “Hey, you two ever saw a Psyker?” 

Arva shook her head, slightly embarrassed. “The Astropaths back at the monastery.”

The other sisters snickered amongst themselves. Alexandra wagged a finger. “No, I mean a rogue Psyker, a witch or sorcerer.”

“Like she said.” Lyra responded bluntly. “Never.”

Alexandra lent her advice. “No doubt there’ll be one during the fighting. Just watch yourselves; a psyker can kill you in a hundred ways through your mind alone. If it is skilled, it’ll kill you through fire or whatever unnatural power. That and they are very susceptible to demonic possession. You don’t want to see a sight like that.”

“Or fall under demonic influence yourself,” Nomiki, the seasoned veteran, entered the conversation. “You’ve trained all of your lives to ward your own souls. Keep your faith strong, your mind guarded, and kill any witch you come across the moment it reveals itself.” 

Thea clambered down from the turret ladder, her armored heels stamping into the metal of the vehicle. “What’s going on? Arva, your turn, get on the turret.”

“Nothing.” Nomiki and Alexandra replied at once. They moved their feet for Arva and Thea to slide past each other. 

Thea took Arva’s spot by the rampart, facial features utterly calm like she was spaced. “It’s a fortress. It’ll take all day to take it.”

Alexandra arched a brow. “You got a look at it?”
“Yeah,” Thela unloaded a clip from her bolter, quadruple checking the weapon since they had departed Gythium. “The place is surrounded by a huge barricade, built with steel, has battlements and everything. Nearly there, too.”

Nomiki toyed with the robes pulled over her armor. “How many traitors you think are in there? Superior mentioned a militant group, who would serve under a heretic’s banner for credits? 

The fish-tail braided new blood shrugged her shoulders. “A thousand? A couple hundred? Who knows how long the target’s been out here recruiting.”

The four Sororitas shot up at the sound of their Rhino’s heavy bolter opening up. The speed of the armored column suddenly doubled, they all braced themselves to the weapon lockers. A sharp whistle dulled by the thick steel plating came through, a deafening crash of impact quickly followed. The transport vehicle grinded down to an abrupt halt, and everyone snatched up their weapons as Arva slid down the ladder. 

Sunlight swept the cramped interior of the vehicle in a bright wave, hitting the group square in the eyes with a glare that blinded. 

“Out of the vehicle!” Alexandra stormed down the ramp first onto the highway, the others hard on their heels. A mass of half-naked, crazed chain sword wielding Repentia squads rushed past them, whipped into a fury beneath the lashes of their Overseers. Lyra looked on them with mild shock. The majority had their heads shaven and literally covered in rags. Alexandra whispered in her ear. “The cannon fodder. Come on, let’s move.”

Anthanasia’s voice came through the comm. links inside their helmets. “Alexandra, lead the others down to the next transport.” 

Alexandra tapped into the channel. “Right, Superior. Heading your way.”
Only a hundred of the on-foot infantry were amassing on the highway, but their numbers were beginning to swell. The four of them maneuvered past tank squadrons and bristling artillery batteries, until they came upon nine other Sororitas waiting for them on the edge of mustering. Other vehicles were already beginning to pull up into position on the other side of the highway, disgorging another mass of troops into the road. All guns were silent, except for a minor skirmish happening on the front. Before Anthanasia could address her squad mates, Angelikii stood surrounded by a mass of Imperial Guard and other foot infantry of the Order. 

Breathing in wonder, Alexandra pointed into the sky. “By the Throne, look at that!” 
Off in the distance, a formation of clouds slowly parted, evaporating in some strange phenomena. Large pillars of energy rained down from the gaping wound in the skies. With the momentum of an unstoppable force, entire swathes of Helike’s surface turned to slag by relentless explosions. One brief flash of unbelievably blinding light, followed by a fallout so strong, entire skyscrapers simply disintegrated in the fallout. The earth quaked beneath their boots, everyone held a hand over the eyes before a wave of black ash and embers rushed through the highway. 

“Let’s move,” Their Superior ordered, leading by example as she ran down the exit ramp to join the one thousand troops moving into an elite suburban area. 

The Repentia squads rushed past in an effort to screen them from any ambushes or assaults that may surprise them. Large hulking machinery in the form of skeletal Pentient Engines moved with them on hissing pistons in support of the Ordos Militant’s chafe. The palaces and antique mansions built along the Teshkeran woods were unscathed and empty. Only stone gargoyles remained to stand watch from the high walls, unless the enemy had strategized to fight a guerrilla battle from lavish building to lavish building. 
Anthanasia inclined her head toward Lyra and Arva, and then gestured toward the road they had left to cross. “These streets should be unoccupied or so our recon and intelligence say, but there will be a lack of fighting here anyway. I am aware of your experiences in the merciless scraps in the city streets, but this situation is going to require a little tact. Our objective lies in the center of a recreational forest. You may have seen the barricades surrounding it. It’ll be nothing but trees and a few winding paths from here on out.” She regarded them a moment. “Have you ever fought a siege before?”

The two sisters shook their heads.

Her superior nodded empathetically. “Then you’ll stay by my side, understand? We have the superior numbers, but the combat is going to be rough, I can feel it.” She turned to the rest of her squad. “The ruinous powers would see humanity slaved from one side of the galaxy to the next. Any man or woman, who fights for them, deserves only mercy through our weapons. Rebuke the heretic!” 

“Rebuke the Heretic!”


----------



## Myen'Tal

“Remember, silence is the key. They must know we’re approaching, but if we mask our strike, it will still be unexpected.” 

Teshkeran wood glimmered in the warmth of the midday sun, dense foliage swaying in a whispering wind. They had hiked through serpent creeks and riverbanks, marching up increasingly steep hillsides for what seemed like hours. The first companies of the Imperial army weaved through the trees, spread in a loose formation that made the overall assault wave difficult to see. Twigs snapped under their boots, but each noise came far in between one another. The noise of flowing waters and local birds masked their approach, but how well remained to be seen. 

Lyra maneuvered through a bed of exotic flowers the stealthiest she could manage in her bulky armor. The heap of admantanium looked slender and tight fitting compared to a Space Marine, but for an average human it weighed her down far more than she would have liked. The servos in her suit aided her in maintaining balance, so she wouldn’t fall downhill. She couldn’t help overhearing Anthanasia speaking with the other officers in the battle group through the comms. Words exchanged on how to best approach the fortress, apparently on the very peak of the hillside they climbed. 

“We should order an artillery barrage and send the guardsmen up there until they choke on endless dead: our own and theirs.”

“We shouldn’t risk an artillery barrage until we find a wall of enemy resistance that we’re hard pressed to break through. We should test the defenses first before we begin lashing out blindly at our foes and letting them know we’re here.”

“If they aren’t aware already, then I question their competence.”

“Point taken, one way or another, they’re going to surprise us somewhere. Testing the defenses will probably lead to further casualties, but let us not waste our heavier guns on the walls. I don’t think they’ll crumble very easily, if we use a sustained barrage and can’t breach that way, we’ll wish the shells had been saved for the actual complex.” 

“I won’t stop you in your righteous wrath, Anthanasia, but I would rather spare us the loss of unnecessary casualties.” 

“Test the wall, and then begin our assault. If we falter, then deploy the Seraphim. Problem solved.”

Anthanasia looked indifferent with her helmet. “Oh hells fine, send the guardsmen up and we’ll follow on their heels.” 

Nothing remained visible through the tree line, except a few spiraling silver-white towers and a rather large barricade of unadorned steel. The barricade held many firing slits, arranged in order like rows and columns, indicating multiple levels within the wall. An advantageous position, one the militants could cling to for days if pressed. The wall divided into small bulwarks, ending and beginning with massive, closed pipes. No defensive weapon emplacements within sight and the wall itself looked unmanned. It was probably a lure. 

The order handed down to the Imperial Guard, small battalions of men and women came jogging through the snaking trails leading up to the gates of a silent fortress. The strategy was to assault from every direction. The guardsmen formed layers of loose rings around each other and stayed in place until further instructed. 

Arva was suddenly by her side, crouching in the small undergrowth. “No guards. Maybe they retreated?”

“Doubt it.” Lyra quipped, pressing her back firmly against a redwood. “Perhaps we overestimated their numbers and they don’t have men to properly defend the barricades. I’m more worried about getting through those walls. I hope we won’t have to scale it.”
Anthanasia’s rebuke came quiet and swiftly. “Observant, Lyra. But if you wouldn’t mind shutting your frakking mouth!” She turned back toward the Imperial guard. “Don’t forget, the gates can be breached with Krak grenades. We’ll just have to see how much the enemy will object to us doing so.”

The signal passed through the channels. A couple hundred guardsmen advanced on Angelikii’s side of the barricade. Camouflaged in their surroundings in their beige and khaki uniforms, they melded into the backdrop. The Sororitas did not fare so well in their royal blue and white heraldry, forcing them to keep low and behind the trees. 

Move up. Anthanasia signaled. Quietly. 

The Imperial infantry charged up the remainder hillside, their voices silent and their guns raised. They practically strode out of the wood when they realized nothing had happened. There was no ambush. Or least one they could see.



The bulging pipes popped open and unfurled menacing twin-linked heavy bolter and missile turrets. Automated by patient servitors or calculating A.I., the turrets cut a bloody swathe through the unsuspecting guard. A hundred shell casings were on the forest floor before Lyra could manage to blink. Rattling constantly, the machines tracked their deadly gazes back and forth, maiming the retreating battalions sprinting back into the haven of the wood. Bodies littered the ground before wall, shredded and disturbing to look at. 

The missile turrets tracked a different kind of prey, locking on to the still forms of the Sisters of Battle and sending a salvo of missiles into their source of cover. Violent explosions rocked the forest, pulverizing redwoods and sisters hidden behind them. Trees collapsed in the wake of the destruction, forcing Imperial soldiers to dart out into the open. Mysterious figures materialized at the firing slits on the wall, wearing masks and dressed in silver and sapphire carapace. Their weapons unleased a ripple of violet, withering las-fire into the open targets. Hell-guns. 

One of the Superiors shouted over the sudden barrage. “Send up the Repentia!”

The Repentia revealed themselves in a fanatical charge. The tirade of muzzle flashes immediately slammed into them, but they pressed on, driven by their cruel slave drivers into the fray. Small groups of them went down to the heavy fusillade, until the wrath of the heretics became too much and forced them into cover with the rest of the assault group. 

Anthanasia barked at her squad members. “Heavy weapons, move to the front! I want those turrets out of commission! The rest of you, settle in and kill those cultists! She raised her bolt pistol and loosed a couple rounds, scoring a kill out of half a clip. “We need more guardsmen up here!”

A Repentia behind Lyra sagged against a shattered stump, leaking all manner of viscera and fluids from the gaping wound in her head. Another squad member took a stray bullet through her neck guard and fell backwards. Follow orders. Lyra remembered herself, and leaned from her cover. Her bolter rattled in her arms in small burst, unable to tell if she actually hit anything. The firing slits were too small. 

Guardsmen set up their large tubes, loading missiles and firing them towards the butchering defensive emplacements. Too few became shredded, torn from their mounts and going up in a blaze of fire. Others dispensed payloads from their grenade launchers, exploding against the bulwark. The occasional group of militants went down here and there, replaced a moment later. 


“Suppressing fire, suppressing fire!” The surrounding trees erupted with golden discharges from the surrounding companies. Las-fire hit the wall like a deadly tide, burning through the firing slits and hitting marks. The defensive fire from the wall slackened in some places and renewed in others, but the defense held up to the attack. 

An unfamiliar voice commanded over the comm-bead that linked each unit in the Order into seamless communication. Only the Superior’s voice came on, unless someone specifically tapped the channel. The screams of the dying did not distract that way. “We knew they’d be dug in! Send the order to deploy the Seraphim!”

Alexandra shouted through her V.O.X. grill, amplified over the crescendo of war as she pointed to the massive double door gates of thick steel slowly creeping open. “Gates opening!”

Anthanasia cursed in mild wonderment. “Anthanasia Soukis of Squad Angelikii, reporting an opening at the gates! Might be a sally!”

The response came swiftly. “Understood, all squads keep an air of caution about you; prepare to annihilate anything that comes out beyond those walls!”

A loud rumbling filled the air, followed by the grinding of treads when the gates fully peeled back. An armored column came riding out, spearheaded by three hulking Leman Russ Demolishers outfitted with plasma cannons for main guns and secondary. Following their trail, a convoy of Chimera transports eight deep charged into the teeth of the loyalist formations. They pushed down the winding path the Imperials had followed, guns blazing as they penetrated the loose screen of infantry, sending them out of hiding. 

Plasma cannons on the tanks fired from different angles, scathing blasts of pure energy that immolated surrounding foliage and melting through the cover of the redwoods. Even power armor could stand little against the unstable energies; Lyra looked on in horror as it sloughed off their bearers in a molten river. The fortunate ones simply melted away in split second flashes of sapphire light. 

The Imperial Guard fared even worse against the tracking multi-lasers on both sides of the Chimeras. They scattered from the combined fire of half a dozen turrets assailing them from both sides, slicing through the bushes and tall grass with deadly precision. Heavy weapon teams responded with a flurry of missiles that battered and tore through the mechanical beasts with abandon. Orange fire from the multi-meltas soon lit the air, parting through the reinforced hulls like butter and atomizing the crews within. Two of the surviving Demolishers pushed through the burning husk of the lead vehicle, unleashing suppressive fire for the ramparts that dropped on the Chimeras. Cultists armored in carapace disgorged from their transports, firing wild volleys into the swarm of loyalist. 

“Contacts! Three O’clock!”

Heaving with the effort, Nomiki lifted her melta and fired a stream of super-heated liquid energy at one of the Cultists diving into the forest. The blast easily punched through the tree he leapt behind and in turn reduced him to atoms. “Artemis! I need someone to defend me from assault!” 

Las-fire rippled in great waves inside the forest, Lyra could feel them honing in around her. Swallowing her fear, she leaned out from her cover, drilling one of the archenemy with three bolter shells to the chest. The lower half of the corpse crumbled, the other half splintered off in different directions. One of his comrades received a shot to the sternum, blowing it out of his chest, but he kept his balance as if the wound was minor. Finally becoming aware of her, he raised his hell-gun, firing a couple shots before charging headlong into Angelikii’s position. 

Arva shouted, “Throwing frag!” She threw a loose grenade amongst the squad of cultists coming into her range. A deafening cough gouged Lyra’s ears, climaxing with a choir of screams that comforted them. 

Sister Sofia fell with a shrill scream, body chewed by another turret that had found her. Two members of Angelikii dead. 

Alexandra and Hesper decided to break off from the remaining squad to deal with the defensive weapon emplacements themselves. Smoke screens popped the moment they charged through the storm, forming large fogs for the two of them to vanish inside of. 

“Get the Repentia up here!” Anthanasia cursed through gritted teeth, drawing her chainsword when a foe suddenly leapt into her with a saber. The masked assailant moved fluidly in spite of his armor, throwing up a wall of well-timed strikes against her own sword. He possessed practiced martial prowess. She ducked under a coup-de-grace, parrying a rapid counter-strike that forced her back a few steps. The militant struck purposefully at the blade another time, pulling her sword far enough to left to attack with his other dagger. The strike came down like lightning, Anthanasia tried to lean away and the dagger wedged itself into her neck guard. 



The blade’s very tip pricked the skin around her neck; she dropped her sword, and answered with savage thrust of her armored kneecap. The blow caught him in his extended leg, the bone crunching audibly above the knee. He staggered, trying to put more strength behind his attack. He raised his saber for a cleaving strike, but Anthanasia fell into a sideways roll, ripping the dagger free and snatching up her chainsword. She switched the activation rune on the blade, making the militant rethink his approach. 

She smiled at him briefly, and then pressed her own attack. The whirring edges of the blade easily cleaved through the saber he raised in his defense. The cultist leapt backwards, weaving his dagger in an elaborate pattern. He paced around, trying to draw a circle around her, but Anthanasia charged into him with a sideways sweep. He responded by leaping into the blade, letting it carve through the carapace deep into the flesh beneath. She noticed the black blood spewing onto her gauntlets, before she realized the dagger still glinting in his hand. 

Lyra’s shadow fell over the pair locked in combat, smashing her shoulder guard into the cultist’s open wound. The force of her charge threw the cultist off Anthanasia and into the dirt. Lyra hastily raised her weapon, finger tugging at the trigger. Then her Superior raised a hand, stopping her even in the den of battle. 

Anthanasia stood there for a moment, sucking in air through breathless gasps. She looked at Lyra moments later. “Wait. I want to see this bastard’s face.” She kneeled down before the corpse, hesitated, and then snatched away the mask concealing the face. The skin beneath was incredibly pallid, blood stained eyes glaring back her, and the expression was twisted, one of agony and suffering. “Possessed. I should have known. Take a good look into his eyes, Lyra. That is the look of damnation. That aside,” She gave Lyra a look of gratitude. “I owe you my life. From this day forward, I will raise you like you were my own child.” 

Anthanasia clapped her savior’s shoulder guards. “Let’s rejoin the battle!”

Arva exchanged fire with a pair of armed Storm Troopers, nailing one between the eyes, and grazed the other’s shoulder. A few traces of laser punched through her armor and fell back into cover with a cry. Anthanasia and Lyra rejoined her, the latter coming over to gauge her wounds. 

“It’s not fatal.” Lyra sighed in relief, ruffling Arva’s hair from behind the tree. “Stay from the fight for now, I’ll try to keep you protected.”

Chainswords revving in the air signaled reinforcements from the Repentia. They came storming into the archenemy troops beyond the wall. Thunderous cracking from the Retribution squads’ heavy bolters covered their approach. Their timely arrival took second precedence under the Seraphim’s entrance, flying above the forest canopy on trails of flame burning from their jetpacks. Imperials throughout the woods cheered them on, watching them landing behind the great barricade keeping them at bay. 

Anthanasia raised her blade over the Imperial forces. “Counter-attack, Sisters! I want to be one of the first behind the Seraphim into that palace!”


----------



## Myen'Tal

“Do I enjoy the eyes of those naïve to the true ways of the Universe, constantly fixed in horror as they bear witness to the endless spiral of debauchery that consumes those that follow me. It’s so…elegant, the way each act of the play hinges loose just a fraction of their sanity, opening their minds up to me in complete transparency before it is said and done, and the stage closes after one final encore. However, the encore never ends, now does it? For every thousand souls transfixed on our every whim, born in madness, born in sadness, there is tenfold waiting to be shown… life’s true pleasures. 

“Slaneesh, Prince of Pleasures, Queen of Excess, for your entertainment I dance my dance upon the world, flaying skins day by day, uplifting souls to your absolute delight! Take them in exchange for your favor! For all I wish are the eyes of the Seer who flirts with both time and space, reality and the other dimensions, and who sees the future infinitely before them! Give me the eyes of those that see, and yet are blind! 

“For it is through the eyes of the Seer that I shall fall upon the ilk that I so desire with tooth and claw!”

Xag’rish twirled on the tips of her toes, her motion so fluid it reminded Theodora of the storied Eldar Harlequins. The Demonette’s unnatural dance made her ache behind the eyes. “Speak his name, Mistress, you have dabbled in the arts, but I find this strange. Your possessed do not worship, they do not sacrifice, but have paid the ultimate price for a subpar reward. Benefits you all the more, Mistress!” 

The Demonette’s physical form looked familiar in one aspect; she held a minor form compared to her other kin. The Herald of Slaneesh stood lithe and tall, skin smooth lavender and increasingly scaly and horned around the facial features. Her beauty was feral, possessing grace and lacking the horrid appearance that put her to ilk shame. If not for her crab claws, Theodora would have guessed she was an Eldar, fallen to the depredations of Chaos. 

The Sorceress reclined into the stony embrace of her milky throne. Her lips curved into a sly grin in Nyst’s direction. “Yes, yes, they are a bit drab aren’t they? Nyst, I wish your tantalizing speech had not tempted all my forces. Now they are just puppets. I hoped some of them would have proved more intelligent in that regard, but alas, your presence has set our flock on a more fanatical course!”

The Herald’s tone held no mockery, but something akin to warning rose in her voice. She smiled a most polite smile. “Why does this one address “Nyst” as a pet?” She bowed low to show her apology.

Theodora looked flamboyant in her lavish priestly robes, draped in all manner of jewelry like her usual self. “Because she is my pet! Temporarily, of course. My master praised my faithful devotion and gave me the demon to defend me from any threat, within or without. She will remain by my side until my master returns for her leash.”

Xag’rish decided that she loved it.

“Melodramatic, aren’t we?” Nyst unveiled one hundred teeth through a yawn. “You must forgive her, but I am Nyst, leashed and bound as you can see. My patron God desires I have the ears of the mortals and give them the word of the ruinous powers. Betray my master’s servant and I’ll destroy you until the end of the century.”	

Xag’rish inclined her head sharply. “Understood, my liege. Now I only lack the name.”

Theodora waved her hand in dismissal. “His name is Lriean, Xag’rish, but there are others. Track his progress until he uncovers the Ghost Crypts. Kill him if he meddles in our affairs, but I wish him alive if possible. That aside, I need one more mission completed for me. Mae. Destroy what you will, but come back to me with the notable spoils.”

Xag’rish’s voice rose in a shrill crescendo, until no higher note was possible. “The eyes of the Seers shall be mine and yours! I will dispatch my legion at once!” 

Nyst giggled softly to herself, tail flopping lazily onto Theodora’s armrest. “You see master!? This one views you only as a gateway, a meat puppet destined to do mischief upon the galaxy. Surely no meat puppet can truly rule why such baleful gazes seek to gain an advantage over you?”

The Sorceress laid a hand on the Greater Demon’s head. “Try not to worry, Nyst. The master promised me she could help us. Space and time is not a hindrance to you demons, so go on, Xag’rish. Assassinate the marked soul I have given you and go about it as you wish. I want this “Council” of Seers decimated!

Xag’rish bowed once again. “Your bidding, eternal, Mistress!” The demonette vanished behind a flash of light. 

“Lriean,” Nyst purred the name, her gaze narrowing in suspicion. “I’d wager he’s forgotten all about me.” Her lips fell into an exaggerated frown. “On second thought, I’m likely etched into his memory.”

Theodora slammed her palm into the grooves carved into the throne. “That damn archeologist, he need not serve me, the alien! I need him to open the way. The Eldar Gods seem to favor him-“

“Or the family line,” The Tzeetchian demon interjected. “Tarithinon is a proud family name, venerated by the Eldar on his home planet. Not that Lriean is anything of note himself. His cousin’s father proved to be the last obstacle in our path of conquest.”

Theodora chided her slyly. “Confident. I admire that, but I wouldn’t be concerned if the Inquisition wasn’t backing him.” She looked up from perfectly manicured nails into Nyst’s curious stare. “What?”

The Greater Demon laughed at the Priestess’s uncertainty. “I’m more concerned with this horde of rabble at your gates. It does not require a genius to see your palace fall.”

“Chafe.” Theodora climbed to her feet, her demonic guardian following from a distance. “Go and allow them inside. When they find themselves within our halls, fall upon them with everything we have.”

“Your bidding, eternal.”
----------------------------

A voice uttered from the nothingness, clearer than a crystal surface that called to her. It pushed into her outer mind, careful not to step over invisible boundaries. Her body stirred, pulse coming in a slow rhythm, and the pumps of her heart beating with absolute clarity. The thrum in her ears increased, threatening to lure her back into a picturesque reality. 
“Wake up.” 

A faint breeze washed over her skin, yet she did not wake. The mysterious voice called out, reaching her with something other than arms that tugged at her psyche. She muttered a groan in protest; her mind slapped the presence away. 

“Arise, I see you there.” 

“Awaken again… out of your war self, become who you always were. It is safe to open your eyes to the world, child. Cruel as it maybe, wishing it away will not give you any solace in your trials to come.”

A gloved hand that was not her own brushed aside the auburn locks from her eyes. Taryi winced from the brightness of the sun. Kasilienesh lingered over her, sitting in a green meadow and casting a number of marked stones into the air. Each of them glowed with white light, swirling around in quickened pace. Through the blank glare of his Witch Helm, he regarded her impassively. “Somewhere you were destined to be. You should not keep the mask on forever. It gnaws at your inner self and could potentially consume the present you.”

Taryi could hear the drowning roar of nearby waterfalls spilling into a placid lake so blue and green; it reminded her of the shores of Teyl-Jhen. She woke up on the banks of the glistening body. The fingers on her hand were perfectly still and calm, she reached and dipped her bare hand into the warm crystalline waters. They were deep within a valley, surrounded by humans treading through the hills below without a care in the world. Golden palaces glittered in the backdrop. 

The Howling Banshee forced herself up, looking to Kasilienesh for the first time in real peace. “I feel… satiated of my bloodlust.”

“Good child.” The Warlock cloaked himself in robes of the deepest black, adorned with gems and runes of the most crimson red. White wraith bone on his helm glared back at her, but Taryi could feel the purity of his presence soothing her spirit. “You should rest a few days; learn what it is to be yourself again, perhaps.”

Taryi sat in a cross-legged position beside her new mentor. “What is there to discover on a human world?”

Kasilienesh looked back on the palaces sprouting over the earth and rising untold kilometers into the sky. “Go observe their plays, visit their places of tourism, and see things how a human would see. You are concerned?”

Taryi picked at her flamboyant black and white dress of a high-gothic style. Her spirit suddenly ached for her armor. “Where is Lriean or Qu’nalan? They would be without my assistance, should I leave for a couple days.”

The Warlock appeared lapsed into trance. The runes whirled around him playfully, no doubt showing him insight into the future. “Resist the call of your war-spirit,” He answered in a drone. “It will not serve you in this place. In fact, it seeks you to serve it. There are no enemies here, only contemplation, prayer, and peace. You must master the calling. Your companions have no need for such things. One is not a warrior; the other can lift the mask at will. They will depart soon for the tombs of Argos and I too shall leave with them.”

The Banshee sighed under her breath. “You would simply leave me out in this world alone?”

Her mentor looked at her sideways. His response came in his soothing voice. “Others will be here to guide your way. I’ve secured Philemon to be your personal guide. Do not lose her or you will wander through Gythium for days on end. I’m certain you’ll find your time together enlightening.”

Taryi began to gaze on, flustered. “I am the most experienced of the team. You do not think I can fight, but I assure you I am the deadliest blade of all!” 

“Of that I have no doubt,” Kasilienesh replied lamely. “But your spirit is worn thin, rest your mental state for what is to come.” 

“And what is it that is to pass, honored Seer?”

The Warlock of Ulthwe held no grim prophecy in his voice, but something akin to intrigue. The runes fell to the ground, one after another. “Something that cannot be foreseen. The answers will come in time, I assure you.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Lriean raised a glass frothing with Atola, uttering the words in flawless gothic. “How do you humans say it? “Cheers”! A trait gained through all the years studying the High Gothic language. Such things are the boons of life; Philemon looked a degree more comfortable, echoing the toast with her perfect accent and tongue.

The oxygen lingering in the bar weighed heavily with ashen smoke, exhaled from a dozen sources throughout the “Drunken Cherubim”. The sound of every emotion known to human and eldar was playing out in an audible level of noise. Multiple conversations commenced at once, mingled with soft laughter, sly jibes, and hostilities tempted Lriean to drain away all his troubles. Human alcohol was incredibly unrefined, but sometimes one simply had to make due. 

The Eldar Relic Hunter pinned himself in one corner of the bar along with the other four in his group. Philemon beamed into her pitch-black glass and drowned it in four gulps. Taryi leaned over the table, sipping lightly on a bottle of Drake’s Fire with Qu’nalan, who amazingly appeared outside of his aspect armor for once. He had finally relented and adopted Lriean’s Commissarial Outfit, looking mildly ridiculous with the cap to top the cake. Initial embarrassments aside, he actually looked to be enjoying himself. 

Lriean threw an Atola down into his throat, the rasping continued for a couple minutes. “So, Philemon,” Lriean sunk into his booth. His eagle sharp vision scanned through the room for anything interesting. “What exactly is your line of work in the Inquisition anyway? I hope Arruns did not redirect you from anything of importance just to lounge with us!” 

The Celestian’s eyes gleamed with interest upon a topic pertaining to her. She slammed down another shot and proceeded to explain herself. “I am Arruns’ ambassador, but I officially work for the Order. I meet other people from the different factions within the Imperium seeking an audience with the Order or the Inquisitor himself. It is tiresome and boring work, believe me, but at least it wins over the battlefield. R&R can go a long way, even among those stiff as the Sororitas. 


“Do you meet many xenos?” Lriean refilled his glass after her, nodding his head as she shook hers gravely. “Just imagine if every opportunity was as lucrative as this, it leaves a fine taste in your mouth, no?”

Philemon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously in Lriean’s direction, trying in vain not to scowl openly. “There isn’t much to anything lucrative about consorting with xenos, Lriean. The goal in mind is to fend off the fanatics who would pursue me endlessly until this world is oblivion. Not everyone is on the hunt for alien technology.”

“Right, right,” Lriean put his hands up defensively, smirking while he feigned defenselessness. “Keep in mind that I also find things of interest for the Imperium as well. Eventually, the Ghost Crypts will be discovered and we’ll put an end to this entire ordeal. You’ll soon be thanking my colleagues and I.” 

Philemon nearly spat in disgust. “We’ve been combing the Under City with a fine tooth comb. All that we’re digging out from the ruins are more cultists and demons. Being such crafty aliens that you are, I hoped that you unearthed something of worth.”	

Lriean replied rather haughtily. “Then you’re in luck, Ms. Demarchis, I have the information you desire.”

“Lriean!” Taryi hiccupped and gasped faintly, her pale skin flushed with crimson. Despite her merry swaying, she seemed even more reclusive than usual, to Philemon’s dismay. She continued sucking through her straw, a dozen different thoughts rushing into her mind all at once. “Ah, forget it, little Mon-keigh. Go ahead and listen to him, let them go their deaths and leave the females of the group to live another day.”

Qu’nalan set his straw down, imperceptibly bracing himself for the incoming argument. One look in Lriean’s direction had the relic hunter shifting the conversation onto Taryi. “I see you’ve been talking with Kasilienesh, after all. I thought you would go your own way the moment you met him. Listen…” He gestured at Qu’nalan. “This is just something we need to accomplish by ourselves. Given that you’re having trouble removing your war-mask.”

“You… whelp!” Taryi visibly flexed her knife pointed ears, glaring in disbelief. “You know nothing of the ways of the Howling Banshee, or our Exarchs, or what it truly means to don the war mask. Then again, I do not expect you to understand, you’re the farthest thing from being a warrior.” 

Qu’nalan mobilized to limit the backlash, one hand keeping her at bay from assaulting a shrinking Lriean. “Taryi! Calm down, you are gathering stares. Everyone should take some time away from the war mask when the time calls for it. Just because we are in the midst of a war does not mean that recuperation has become a luxury. Indeed, it is a requirement and one that you’ve shunned long enough.”

Taryi decided to change the conversation, furrowing her brows. “Where is Lyra? I have not seen her in the past few cycles.”	

Lriean rested his head on the palm of his hand, looking somewhat reminiscent. “Oh her? She’s doing something rather important right now, no need to bother her.”

Taryi engulfed her drink in one swallow, slamming the glass down and peering directly at Philemon. Her words hinted at slurring. “That will not do, she was just learning her proper place in my presence! I don’t think I will ever trust your kind, despite your kindness. However, perhaps we will have the honor of crossing blades one day. It is the only embrace I willingly give mankind.” 

The Howling Banshee recovered some of her sternness, but Philemon’s only response was a devilish smile. “You would not wish to cross blades with me, little Eldar, I could snap you like a twig. None-the-less, I wish I could spare my soul the despair and impurity of consorting with Xenos, but what can a girl do, given the situation?”

The female aspect warrior grinned, feeling the bonds of camaraderie forming between themselves. “Perhaps we should leave these men to their fool notions of glory and treasure?”

“Just one more question,” Philemon purred triumphantly, basking in the disapproving look Taryi had written over her face. “What is the information you gathered that you’ve yet to share with me? You didn’t think Taryi’s outburst would make me forget, would you? I am surprised you are not curious yourself, young Banshee.”

The young Banshee huffed in a silent fume, taking the bottle from Qu’nalan’s hands. “I am likely three times your age, little Mon-Keigh, remember that the next time you choose to address me as such.”

“Most women your age would be flattered to be called anything associated with youthfulness, if only we were all so lucky. Besides, you look slightly younger than me so I will refer to you as if you are.” Philemon turned her attention to Lriean with expectation.

Lriean’s laid-back posture suddenly burst into animation and began retelling the fabled story. “There’s not much to say, I’m afraid. You see there is a great tomb at the very bottom of Helike, built in honor of some long dead hero of the Imperium long overrun with the taint of the ruinous powers. Legends say that an Eldar by the name of Bel’atha died deep inside those tombs. He attempted to slay a great adversary down in the catacombs, deep within the Ghost Crypts. Ten-thousand eldar lie buried down there, whatever Bel’atha discovered, it remained hidden with his death. Our intelligence on the location is surprisingly lacking. I wouldn’t doubt the climb to get there is froth with peril.”

Philemon listened to the legend with obvious scrutiny and shrugged her shoulders after realizing the tale had ended. “Where did you learn this?” 

Lriean smiled slyly. “Our own sources. Evidence seems to point in the location and this is something I would not miss for all the credits in the galaxy. This will be dangerous work, not like the usual archeology digs. Moreover, those are always a zone for danger. I need a large team –massive, mainly military protection. Throw in some Tech Adepts, some laborers, and some mighty guns. That should be enough to get us through the gate. Arruns promised, but I think he needs a gentle push to mobilize sooner rather than later. 

“What?” Taryi squeezed the glass in her hand and for a moment, Lriean thought she would crush it in her grip before she slammed it back down. “I’ve been working with you two for how many years on this mission and now that we may finally be reaping some of the results we’ve so tirelessly worked to achieve, you see fit to drop me here on the eve of our greatest discovery!?”

“Stepping stones, Taryi,” Qu’nalan soothed in his dark, whisper voice. “We’re skipping one way and you’ve been tossed another. Mae ordered your “R&R” or however the humans call it. Spend some time sharpening yourself for the real work that has yet to begin. We’re only delving into the first leagues, it’ll require days to get the troops organized down there. Do not think we haven’t noticed your growing impatience, it looks to us like you tiring of our tedious work here. That alone causes us some problems of our own. Just take some time off, clear your head, and we’ll see you again when you’re refreshed.” 

“I am not weary of our travels together,” The Howling Banshee sighed softly, placing a hand on Qu’nalan’s and glaring into his eyes with an apologetic look. “Even if this is what Mae wants, I cannot see why we must do this for a race that is not our own.”

Qu’nalan gently squeezed her hand and smiled broadly. “I understand that, but you will just have to trust them. You will understand in time, as will we all.”


“Oh?” Philemon’s looked on in confusion, turning towards Lriean for an answer. The young Eldar merely shrugged and a made with both of his hands the shape of a heart. She suddenly understood.

Lriean let loose a cheery laugh that earned knowing smirks from his other three companions. “Don’t forget we’re also doing this to not to be hunted by ancient greater demons, that’s always important. I think I’ll buy us another round, huh?”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Really short , but an update none-the-less. 

Chapter Three: Don’t Forget

The doors to landing zone 81-48 slid apart and Lriean silently snuck up on an Imperial Officer with his eyes set out over the railing. Under the lift, the docking zone brimmed with men and women rushing around in a frantic rush. Imperial Guardsmen under the command of the Inquisition marched into their respective aerial transport vessels and fighter craft. All of them are laden with supplies and other luggage; the trip would be a long one, after all. One by one, they threw their belongings onto the grounded craft, funneling up the ramparts like rats. Lriean approached him by the railing, Kasilienesh and Qu’nalan joining them a moment later. 

Kasilienesh unclasped his helm in his gloved hands. The Warlock possessed a look wizened by the centuries. The skin looked both vibrant, pale, and set slightly by light creases. He glared into Lriean’s gaze with large, black pupils expanded by a sense of urgency. He confessed, it was the Warlock’s medium length Mohawk cropped in the center of a shaven skull, turned silver through the ages that shocked Lriean. The voice poured from his mouth like psycho-treated crystal. “The hour is late. The descent will postpone should we arrive by sundown. I long to see the tomb of our fallen ancestors.”

Qu’nalan interjected over the entire racket inside the landing zone. “For a Warlock, you are very impatient.”

The Seer from Ulthwe replied stoically. Lriean noticed a smirk on his lips, however, brought on by a sense of anticipation. “I wish to confront a future I cannot see. Looking through the strands of fate is enjoyable. However, there comes a moment in one’s life, when trying to read the future becomes a little tiresome.”

A hand shook the Warlock’s shoulder; he glanced in Lriean’s direction. “You believe the Ghost Crypts are really down there?”

The Warlock looked on Lriean, his expression worrisome. “They must be. All things lead to this moment. I’m more concerned about what we’ll find down there. One millennia beneath the earth, the thought of infestation makes my blood freeze.”

Qu’nalan cherished the thought with a mischievous grin. “That’s why we have the army. They’ll likely be abandoned, that’s my sixth sense.”

“The tomb is a very large one.” Lriean flicked out a Lho-stick and held it out for the Imperial officer to light. “Lower Helike is always dangerous these days. Expect all but nothing.”

Kasilienesh slammed on his helm, taking up the sheathed Witch Blade Qu’nalan had so nicely offered to carry. He slung it over his shoulder. “No more distractions. It is time we face destiny. Correct, Kindred?”

Three dozen slender figures emerged from the open entrance into the LZ. Cloaked in robes blacker than Kasilienesh’s eyes, decorated in crimson runes and semi-crystalline gems. Sheathed Witch Blades hung across their backs, the overall aesthetic completed with bleach-faced Witch Helms. 

A member amongst the council inclined his head an inch. “The random hand of Fate guides us to purpose. We are eager to uncover the truth.”

Qu’nalan appeared at ease with the apparent risks that they were about to take. He seemed just as eager as his elder Warlock, in fact. Lriean couldn’t precisely blame him for that. All their effort and toil they had poured into this effort was finally about to net some results, if fate and fortune would have it. “Let’s board before the expedition leaves us behind.”

Lriean formed his fingers into a “thumbs up”, a gesture he learned to express his approval. “Shouldn’t I be telling you that, friend? Colonel, status?”

The Colonel announced with a crisp salute. “Commander Advisor, you will be pleased to know that our forces in Hangar Bay 81-49 will be fully prepped and boarded in 0015 hours.” 

Lriean raised his thumbs. “Good, let’s go kill us some demons! Honored Seers, onto the lift!”

“Hey, operator, wait!” A woman’s voice barely resonated over the commotion of all the sky craft being prepared. 

A woman, geared up in a master crafted carapace and a well-dressed female Psyker came rushing through the doors and around the corner. Both of them nearly barreled onto the lift in beside Lriean and his team. The riot geared lady lifted up an Inquisitorial Rossette to Lriean’s nose. She nearly fell into his chest, panting heavily. “Commander Advisor Lriean Tarithinon? I am Inquisitor-Acolyte Jelenn Vadoc and I am coming with you. I’ll explain on the way.”


----------



## Beaviz81

It's a nice but damn long work to read.

I like the read, it's the sort I can down some beers at while envisioning the things happening.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Thanks :grin:! Yeah, it's a lot to read, but I've seen many longer ones(and much more epic). Don't worry, I think we're entering the final stretch of this story:victory:, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel!


----------



## Myen'Tal

A lengthy update here:victory:! 


Once upon a time, many years ago, Philemon Demarchis occupied herself with the burden she intended to inherit when the Celestians welcomed her into the core. She never concerned herself with her own problems during those days. She placed the Order before herself. In turn, she received her dream reward. Canoness Kaska still ruled from her portion of the Ecclesiarch with an iron fist and lauded over her Order with wisdom and virtue that could make the High Lords beam with pride. 

Kaska’s Celestians squirmed beneath her heel for decades, fighting a war that would never end until the extinction of Mankind. Therein lay the problem, none of her closest allies –at least those who had survived the war on Tyrannus, never truly thought like the Canoness. Well, number enough to cause a schism within the Order. Once Philemon had ascended to power inside the Ecclesiarch, those who would shatter their oaths began their scheme to succeed. 

Philemon was the founding member in her malicious plot. The objective wasn’t to overthrow the Imperial rule or deliver into the hands of the ruinous powers. Neither will her decade long comrades that had risen through the ranks beside her, taught the rank-and-file, and survived a planetary siege together be slaughtered in their own keep. They had seen much of their world overran with the insane demonic legions from the warp. The only plans she kept in store for anything would be for herself, for once, and the others she had managed to persuade to her view on things. 

Consultation with the alien is her job. In any other profession, it was heresy, punishable by all manner of death. Arruns couldn’t have known, not even through interrogation. The memory suppressor, a strange liquid coursing through her veins the Tau envoys had given her on the day she swore her allegiance to a new cause. Any recognition of certain memories with the potential to cause high alarm would potentially scrub her memory bank for anything that could link her to betrayal. Fortunately, nothing much of anything barring the Inquisition and they no longer expected her anymore. 

Philemon softly brushed her snowy braided hair from her face, staring a deathly glare into her cognitor monitors. Tight in her other hand, a bolt pistol rested on the top of her paperwork stricken desk. She remained alone in her office, organized to the extent of an Astartes living quarters, decorated with her myriad of successes. The Ambassador from the Order of the Sacred Rose relaxed in her chair, but not her mental sharpness. A half-empty bottle of Heretic’s Bane came off the desk. She smiled like a cunning fox as the Holo-Vid of Philemon’s recommendation and support to be an Ambassador of the planet. Her most crowning achievement. 

“Never in the six millennia of Tyrannus’ existence, has a warrior wielded her silver tongue as if it were her only weapon. Though she upholds the laws of the Order, she uses diplomacy –not blind faith- as a shield not only for one, but also for humanity. There must always be sacrifice. Consorting with Xenos and other unexplained phenomena done by her judgment and discretion. Thus, the prevalent standards and rules that govern the human faith must not apply to every thought or word she utilizes in gaining us the greatest advantage we can hope to gain through words and not war alone. 

“Diplomacy, like in all things, is simply another battle. What humankind experiences when reverting to these more passive methods of war is a series of revelations that not only cleanse the soul and sharpen the awareness, but empowers our resolve in not tolerating anything unholy and unclean.

“Why, you ask? Because we finally come to realize is that the society and virtue of the alien is compounded on cowardice and lies. For every lie an alien speaks that believed by the unwary, a thousand or more human souls perish in this reality and soon join another. Thus, those who paid the price of their lives serve as an example and become a parable told to a ten-fold more of the masses. The sin is heeded and a stem of heresy is purified; those people are cleansed of alien taint. 

“When a world finally becomes aware of the deception aliens naturally employ in their tactics, diplomats are but another set of weapons to disarm them. Perhaps momentarily, I admit or even over a lasting period of peace. Diplomats can and will aid us in delivering the Emperor’s judgment to those who have done us wrong for untold millennia. Philemon Demarchis is another weapon with a similar purpose that I, noble Lords of Tyrannus, recommend whole-heartedly to serve as an ambassador of our esteemed Order.”

Philemon struck the deal well before that infamous moment in her career and remained a sleeper agent since. There was little point in waiting any longer. After all, there was nothing else to for her superiors. She contemplated one more moment longer before accessing her private emergency V.O.X. network. She instantly connected with all of her contacts within the Order on a moment’s notice. 

She finally succumbed to temptation.

“All hands report to the Gaze of Stars, I repeat, all hands, report to the Gaze of Stars, Retribution Class Battleship. Operation Empyrean Sun is commencing…” 

Now she had to leave. 

She casually shut down her cognitor station and leaving everything where it was. Her fingers punched in a high-level code into her security lock. The steel slab unlocked, she emerged into a reception chamber layered with checkered black and white tiles and draped in the heraldry of the Sacred Rose. Her attendants were gone, following their orders. That was good. She needed her allies already in the dockyards boarding her former Canoness’ Esmeralda’s flagship by the time she arrived. Her friend and commander waited there, no doubt. Time of the Essence. 

“Philemon.” A warning came out of nowhere. The voice was familiar. Philemon surmised as much the moment she stepped into the grand halls of the Palace. She turned to the owner of that voice. A very lithe creature with pallid skin, pointed ears, and ghastly eyes stared deep into her. 

Philemon gestured at the Imperial robes the Howling Banshee was dressed in. “You do not look like one who has come to settle a conflict, Taryi. How did you find my office?”

The young howling banshee was missing her double-bladed weapon. The peace in this place and no doubt, Kasilienesh’s ramblings were weakening her a great deal; a temporary drop in guard at best. “Perhaps I came at a wrong time. You seem a great deal preoccupied and not at all welcoming. I simply asked around.”

“You’ve caught me at a critical moment,” Philemon smiled her usual warming smile, but Taryi could sense tension lurking behind her movements. Almost as if she wanted to reach for the grip of her pistol and finally end her. “Did I ever say that I’ve never ridden myself of the healthy suspicion I give any alien creature. I consider that double for you high born Eldar.”

“Then I would say you were somewhat wise in your thoughts. Your feelings are not entirely misplaced.” Taryi politely smirked back, putting her hands on either hip in some form of triumph. “I accidently “had my way” with one of your converted acolytes, she rambled on about some mischief you were intending in a pool of her own blood.”

Philemon caught her own breath in her lungs when her acquaintance suddenly pulled a wicked-like dagger from her pockets. “A bluff I’m afraid. No one would allow you to get away with blatant murder in this palace. They would gladly take any human word over an alien’s.”

Taryi kept up her look confidence. “That is why I did it when I was sure we were alone in her own chambers. She even gave me directions to this place before I ended her and more importantly, a link into your private network. I’ve caught an ear-full of those loyal to your little cause, I did not know you had your own ship. I would very much like to admire it for a while.”

“What do you want Taryi?” Philemon found her tone growing with her impatience and calmly took a few steps away from her office door. A hand finally snaked her way into the folds of her robes, certainly reaching for the nearest weapon. “That warlock fossil from Ulthwe’ must have put you up to this.”

The two of them carefully exchanged estimating glances up and down their forms, assessing their advantages and disadvantages within such a narrow corridor. “Calm yourself, ambassador. I do have my sources, but let us put that aside for the moment. I have little love for your Imperium, so I actually applaud and respect your courage and tenacity. I wish to leave this world alongside my comrades, but in order to do that I must swallow my pride and save it.”

Philemon smiled very slyly. 

“You don’t expect me to lift a finger for you, do you? I don’t know the source of the demonic incursion if that’s what you’re asking.”

Taryi flashed a flawless grin. “Lies and greed, you’ve been spinning an invisible web that no other fool could see, but I am clearly no fool.”

“Haha,” Philemon deliberately pulled her bolt pistol out of her clothes, taking her time checking the chamber and bringing into position to fire. “I’m sure that’s only because your infernal masters must tell you everything. You are no more special than a mere human, only vulnerable to random acts and warp spawn. If they possessed any form of piety and wisdom, they would have told you that I speak the truth. 

Although, truth-be-told, I thought Kasilienesh would be the one to instigate this little investigation, not you. He is just like you too, all caught up in this mission for anything else to be a concern.”

“This doesn’t need to end in bloodshed. Just tell me what you’re hiding, anything will help!” 

“Oh, but it always does in end in blood, Taryi. I never had any qualms with you or your friends, but that doesn’t mean others tolerated you as much as you would believe.”

“That’s hardly surprising.”

The grizzled veteran slowly lowered her weapon and holstered it. Just as quickly, she raised an Lho stick to her lips and lit the tip. She waited a moment before inhaling the intoxicating aroma and allowed the wafting smoke to come drifting out of her nostrils. “It doesn’t matter anymore because the war was won, the Thousand Sons took flight and we’ve enjoyed our triumphs since then. The real issue now is the Imperium is seeing aliens freely roaming one of its worlds. Aliens from a rare and malicious breed are working in tandem with a radical inquisitor, who has not much helped in healing Tyrannus of its woes. “When will you realize that it’s not entirely about the mission? Yes, demons still infest the bottom pits of our cities. What Hive World doesn’t have this kind of refuse in their wretched places? ”

“No one should ever trust an Eldar, they may be arrogant, but it’s more than that. Wherever they appear throughout the galaxy, colonies vanish, planetary strongholds are razed to the ground by some alien menace, and entire star systems shudder in agony and righteous fear where the Eldar sing in their strange whispers.

“When Anatolijus Petrakis comes back from upper Helike, she’ll not only purge you or worse, subject you to interrogation. She will begin her real campaign to shroud herself and her Order in the eternal glory and favor of the High Lords of Terra. She will begin by tracking down your home planet –and they know that it is a planet, not those massive starships rumored to annihilate entire sector fleets- and she will sack it.

“Really, I’m surprised you’ve come this far with us, especially since your Seers have been feeding you so much critical information about our intentions.”

“I was not guided by the Seers in this. I would not be pressing you for information otherwise.” Taryi appeared as if she had her worst lifelong fears finally confirmed for her, but she bore it with a haughty snarl and the promise of blood in her eyes. “They haven’t spoken to us for the past few weeks now, not that it would have been necessary had things simply stayed according to plan. So, where is the treasure? And I need something of worth.”

Philemon stared at her icily, each second she gave it more thought, the more she began to feel satisfied. 

“Sometimes I forget what kind of aliens you are. There’s probably not much you’re going to be able to find that doesn't require anything less than an excavation team down in the under city. But there are some stored in the chapels throughout the palace, you’ll have to fight your way through, preferably when no one is visiting.”

“There’s always someone visiting those kind of places, but I get your point. Therefore, your acolyte did not manage to live before she told me about your destination. Will you tell me where you are headed? Out of the system or somewhere nearby?”

“I’m traveling to the Eastern Fringe, where an eternity of fighting will matter little once I’m there.”

“The Tau Empire?”

“Yes, but that’s all you’ll get out of me.” The Ambassador of the Emperor’s Grace turned on her heel and began a brisk walk towards the nearest hangar bay ferrying bodies towards the dockyards waiting in orbit. “So if you’ll excuse me, there’s somewhere I’m needed. I hope you can find an escape route out of this mess. Take care of yourself, Taryi.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The Cathedral built in honor of Saint Agnes rose up from the clutter of the Hospitaller Quarters, a moat filled with steel and ferrocrete instead of water. Expansive and misshapen low walls blocked in portions within the back alleys and streets, all leading into the pinnacle of worship on Tyrannus. Grand Central Station resembled the Polis on the hill overlooking the city. Erected from such heights, it was probably reckless and insulting to those below the nobility, but ultimately it proved to be symbolic in the unwavering faith of the more fortunate in the Imperium of man. 

Idola stalked the corridors of the Hospitaller Quarters from the breaking of the last sunrise to the appointed time. Evening came and gone, leaving the Charity Gardens basking in the soft glow of the moon. A humble meadow of flowers blossomed where other structures were no longer feasible. Gifted to honor those who sought out the cure for many ailments that beset mankind. Without them, an uncountable amount of souls would depart from this world to the next. 
The open walkways cut a scenic route across the gardens. Idola briskly walked through the paths, taking great pains to stay in the light and not idle too close to the dark. She glanced around at the armored Sororitas patrolling the area, taking shifts back and forth through the paths and guarding on the High Walls isolating the Hospitaller Quarters. If the automated turrets caught her too near the shadows, then someone could potentially mistake her for a thief or infiltrator.

“Idola?” The sister halting her looked like she was off duty, lounged on a resting bench with her helm sat down beside her. Sister Korolia drunk from a leather skin canteen, some of the husk left her voice. Her expression cringed with a sluggish look of exhaustion. The hours on duty inside the Gythium Monastery demanded much, even from the well-drilled Sororitas. “Nice seeing you around.”

Idola hoped her bright, cheery self would uplift Korolia’s spirit, but sighed in defeat when she realized it would not. In fact, the Sororitas herself seemed weighed with concern. “There’s a prayer session among my Cloister before the curfew. Anything interesting on the day shift?”

Korolia took another swig, rasping like an injured cat. Must have been alcohol. “Nothing to concern yourself with, good Hospitaller. Unless you can count an intruder on Palace grounds. Rumors have it that it may be an apostate.” She looked on her pocket watch. “I should be having reflection now, but alas, there’s no refusing the call of duty. Just stay near the garrisons and patrols, keep safe, basically.” 

Idola stepped backwards in a mild shock, Korolia noticed even in her drunken stupor. “Sure thing, Sister Korolia. I bid you farewell and a good night. A Hospitaller has little worth against an apostate. I hope the rogue is captured soon.”

Idola followed the long road slashing through the Charity Gardens until she found herself standing before the Tribulation Gate. Normally, such a massive gate would remain open well into the night. The way was shut. A massive mural etched into each hundred-ton door entreated her eyes to find wisdom in the details. 

“Wonderful.” Her sigh lingered, breathless. She could study nearly all the aspects of the scene of triumph and carnage in the brilliant light its guardians had shone over the area. 

“It seems recently finished,” An anonymous woman suddenly voiced behind her back, causing the Hospitaller to spin around in the voice’s direction. “The mural I mean, considering there are no depictions of the God Emperor or his sons in this one.”

“That’s because the Tribulation Gate pays homage to our Saint Zenovia. She was one of the first of the Sororitas in our Order to follow in the footsteps of Celestine.” Idola gently knocked her head. “Apologies, I’m not trying to babble.”
A noble woman, wrapped in a fine lion coat around her wealthy trappings emerged from just beyond the lamppost’s light. “Strange isn’t it, how the inner cogs and machinery of this place lay bare beside the doors. A structural weakness in case of crisis.” Her arms folded, her pallid skin indicating he had been waiting out in the cold for hours. 

Idola extended her hand in welcome and dipped her head in a gracious nod. “I am called Idola myself. Can I help you -ahh, you haven’t given me a name to call you by, My Lady.”
“Helena. My name is Helena. Lovely to meet your acquaintance, Hosptialler Idola.” She gently brushed aside her flowing black hair, pointing to the sealed gate with a hand gesture. “So she isn’t a martyr?”

“Who?” Idola blinked absently. She felt her hand slip from Helena’s grasp. 

Helena chuckled behind a polite hand. “Saint Zenovia. You did not mention her passing. I am merely curious.” 

Idola cut short her instinct to face-palm her forehead. “Well that is the legend. I’m not sure whether I believe it or not, but I suppose it couldn’t do any harm believing she’s alive.” 

“You think her legacy would be more useful if she were dead?” Helena looked into Idola’s eyes with an unnerving sense of expectation. She must have realized Idola’s sudden discomfort and immediately shifted gears. “I’m not boring you, am I?” She waited for a shake of Idola’s head. “Listen, I am looking for an esteemed guest to guide my way to the Cathedral. I have come to worship for a short time. I would be honored if you could see me through the gate, like an escort perhaps? I loathe the idea of traveling this road by myself.”

An answer was not forthcoming; Helena leaned in, her curiosity piqued for a response. “Well, there isn’t a problem.” The young blonde replied. “I’m heading in the same direction. He heals the broken hearted and the wounds: a creed of the Hospitaller.”

Helena’s ears flushed to a noticeable red like her cheeks. Nobility always had a problem accepting their flaws in front of the more common people and women involved in the priesthood and ecclesiarchy. “Do I appear so injured to you?”
Idola began to ramble without thought. “Your rigid stance, you’re used to standing at attention. You are not tense, but have been alert since I’ve ran into you. Lastly, your poise is very defensive. I find that strange… I suspect you would’ve broken my neck had I bumped into you instead. I can see a las-pistol hidden beneath your robes.”

“Impressive.” Helen twitched a barely noticeable smile, clearly taken back in surprise. She seemed out of her comfort zone. 

Hopefully Helena would not look down her nose at the way pride beamed from the Hospitaller’s eyes. “I spend many endless days treating the wounded and helping them back on their feet. Usually, things seen in war leave a gaping hole in our spiritual defenses. So I do understand your want for a stronger bond with the Emperor. May he always deliver us. Were you in enlisted in the Guard, PDF?” 

Helen regained her composure, tugging on a skull shaped necklace from her dress. The long-standing Imperial medal had three gems inlaid with the color of fresh blood. “Are you kidding? Guard, of course, anything less than that would be below my stature.” Helen quickly regained her composure and pulled a skull shaped necklace from her dress, inlaid with three gems the color of fresh blood. “Are you kidding? I’m too highborn for anything beneath the Guard. Lieutenant, actually or formally known. I have a dozen more medals like this, but nothing quite beats the Crimson Medallion I am afraid. I always keep this close to me.”

Idola nodded to herself, thumb under chin as she absorbed the information. “That medal speaks a lot about you, Helen. Such things can remind a soldier of all the good you’ve done in the Emperor’s armies or simply evoke very troubling memories.”

“I don’t need anyone to tell me how I feel about my service, no offense.” Helena quipped. “I really do mind waiting out in this cold, by the way.”

“Weapon,” Helena looked up, hesitating before Idola’s extended palm. “The guards will check you at the gates. I’ll hand them over.”

The humble pistol plopped into her grip. “I see the safety is set. Good.” The Hospitaller gestured for Helen to follow and the two proceeded up towards the Tribulation Gate. “Sergeant Spiros! We seek passage through the Tribulation!”

A figure clad in darkness shouted from the top of the great gate. “Wondered when you were going to ask! Tens of thousands pass through here during the day! You really think we’ll open this gate up for two to enter by night?”

“I do not see any reason why you could not!” Idola replied. “Opening the gate takes literally the push of a button!” 

“I suppose we could let you enter, but surely you know about the lockdown, Miss Idola?”

Now Idola was the one folding her arms. “I spend all day tending to Tyrannus’ old and infirm! If you can’t give me access, I’ll have the Mistress of the Watch come by and flog each and every one of them.”

Spiros waved his hands in a strange pattern. “Alright, alright, don’t get upset! Just don’t make a habit of walking through here during a lockdown, okay?”

Idola was more than happy that Spiros could not see her silent fume of impatience. “I thought this was just a checkpoint, not a lockdown?” 

“It will be if we don’t find someone to kill by the next morning!”

Helena interjected her own thoughts into the bickering. “Has something happened? I can’t imagine a single intruder should cause so much distress.” 

Spiros dismissed them, sinking back into the shadows beyond the gate. His voice still echoed in the silent night. “Depends! Which no one can classify as of now! Go ahead and pass, Guards will check your I.D. on the way through!”

The naked intricacies of machinery were set in motion, all the parts controlling the movement of the Tribulation Gate set into motion. The noise was deafening at first. The one hundred ton doors slid apart with a thunderous grinding. Idola understood fully why the Guardsmen did not wish to open the gate. The process was painfully slow and noisy, taking overall about five minutes before deemed clear. The mural she had been observing vanished beyond the thicker walls holding the gates apart. 

One of Spiros’ men were waiting on the other side, voice muffled through his rebreathe faceplate. He had a las-rifle slung over his shoulder and reached out with armored gauntlets to accept both of their proof-of-self. “I.D. please, madams? Do not have any cognitors out here to pull you up from the system. Apologize for the inconvenience. Off world, huh?” 

“Yes.” Helen nodded. “Conorag.”

“Uh-huh, any of you care to explain why you’re passing through this checkpoint in the middle of the night? Are you in possession of any weapons we should be aware of?” 

“Yes, we have one.” Idola gratefully passed over Helen’s pistol to the second guard. “Some of my co-workers in the Hospitallers always meet in the Cathedral for nightly prayers. I am on my way to meet them, though I suppose I should have taken another route. I am leading this good woman here to join us.” 

“Is this right? Exactly how old are you Helen?”

“Thirty-two.” Helena’s face flared up again and only then did Idola realize the age difference between them. Helena managed to retain a natural beauty with her life after the Guard, but was quite a ways more refined and regal than the average recruit was. She must have been an officer, a royal one at that. Under all that heavy clothing, her poise indicated that she had a soundness to her muscular system. Whether that was born from heavy training or actual frontline experiences, Idola would never be able to guess.
“Pardon his manners, Madam,” Said the other guard apologetically. “You look somewhat younger than you say. How long ago did you come to Tyrannus?”

Idola bit back a less than pleasant retort, mainly concerning about where he could shove that rifle of his. “Are you serious?”

The noble woman smirked rather weakly. “I’ve been here for four years now. You would have to pull my record up from the system, which you have said you could not do. Are you going to keep us here all night?” 

The Guard stared at Helena for a long moment and chose to ignore a heavily insulted Idola. Helena herself simply glared back undeterred. “Spiros doesn’t know me well enough by now?”

The Patrol exchanged wary gazes with one another for long moments. A minute had passed before the soldier with an attitude relented. “Very well, pass, but don’t come through here during a lockdown or checkpoint in the middle of the night. It is no longer going to be an excuse in the morning, so do your best finding a way going around the quarter.” 

The pair waltzed through the gates unopposed. “Of course. Later, Spiros!”


----------



## Beaviz81

I like it thus far (haven't read it all, but I'm all this I can read, then five minutes later, I'm all oh something else is happening). I liked how you described the greater daemon (pure description-porn, a good thing of course), but you went a little much to the fantasy when it came to the characters as I would love knowing things like hair-color, skin-complexion, height, build and what they are wearing. But then again I admit that is one of the most difficult aspects to do.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Thanks, Beavis. I'm still trying to strike a balance in character descriptions, I thought I'd try leaving the brunt to the imagination of the reader. Nyst was an exception since she is totally different than most of the other characters. Looking back on the story so far, I suppose character description has been a little sparse. I will look into rectifying it in future updates, but that will probably be trickier than it sounds to add them so late in the game .


----------



## Myen'Tal

As promised, finally some action :grin:!

Chapter Four: Descent of Demons

Sister Superior Maria of the Seraphim fell from the skies on twin plumes of black smoke. The purifying flames from her jet pack scorched the battlements of the estate wall when her feet landed firmly on cold metal. The combined flamers of Alexis, Elpida, alongside the bolt rounds of the ninth “Wing of Victory” Seraphim washed away a score of filthy heretics by the time she rose off her knee. 

Las-rounds slammed into her armor, Maria was up and running through the smoldering flames with inferno pistol sloughing away both the armor and flesh of her foes. Her comrades were landing amongst the fortifications all around her, devolving the tactical situation into a brutal close quarter’s struggle of arms and brawn. 

The possessed elite guarding this place -the sisters had begun calling it “The Sorcerer’s Eye”- still fought like demons. Maria’s pistol fired a miniature melta discharge into the torso of a storm trooper who caught twice in the chest with laser fire and a grazing bolter wound in his shoulder. His helmet had been lost in another struggle with an unfortunate Sororitas. She had ended up on the floor of the battlements with a sawn open throat, but not before trying to immolate the warp driven thing in front of her. His immolated face would haunt Maria for untold days as he collapsed under the shot. 

Maria hand-signaled her waiting second-in-commands when they paused from the slaughter they were mired in. “Alexis, Elpida! Take the Squad deeper into the wall! Cleanse it of all heretics! I’ll take care of the surrounding turrets!” 

A fusillade of las-fire that could rival the front ranks of a company standing together suddenly smashed into the very edge of the battlements. Ordinary las-guns would require patience to weather a Sororitas assault, but the retribution of hell-guns hit the bravest of the Seraphim with literally twice the firepower. Some of the Seraphim took back to the skies while some of their sisters fell to their wounds. Others continued to duel with their melee weapons one or two machete wielding possessed at a time. Maria and her two subordinates retreated to the edge closest to the pinned down Imperial forces. 
Elpida phased out the carnage around them, planting a firm grip on Maria’s shoulder and glinting with a battle hard stare. “Sister Superior, don’t die out here. Not today.”

Maria inclined her head. “Of course. Now get down there. Your comrades are dying.” 

The Wing of Victory suddenly charged into the choke point: a staircase leading into the highest floor of the mighty walled barricade. The bodies of four Seraphim that had attempted to breach it laid there motionless, lives cut short by the disintegrating heat of plasma. Maria turned away from them after they had rushed past. Her gaze shifted on the nearest turret still plaguing Imperial ground forces. She exhaled deeply, watching another group of flying angels descend into some fearsome warp creatures guarding it. 

“Plague Bearers.” Maria summarized. 

The creatures fought with a strength that belied their rotten vessels. They overpowered her girls with inhuman strength, trying to crack open their armor to expose their flesh to a hundred diseases. Bolt pistols blew open already gaping holes in their maggot-ridden flesh. Their limbs went flying under a hail of fire, but they gladly accepted the challenge. They bit, slashed, and stabbed to gain any little advantage that they possibly could. In such numbers, their tactics immediately began to bear fruit. 
Maria began rushing towards the fight, pulling out her power sword and firing away with her pistol. One of the demons squealed an unholy curse before his head vaporized into nothing. She spun in between two trying to surround a sister, leaving the mark of a power field and blade where two legs had been at the knee on either one. Her shoulder guard smashed away the jaw of a third victim. Maria finished with a thrust through the open wound, neatly severing the spinal cord. 

The sister she had rescued dispatched another two with lethal shots through the Plague Bearers’ single eye sockets. The putrid flesh and blood splattered Maria’s armor and helmet, but she paid it no heed while she rallied her own. The Sister Superior of the squad she had come to aid made to stand with her, managing to cleave a path with both their blades to the back of the turret. 
Maria raised her inferno pistol. “Stand back!” She pulled the trigger. 
There was a sharp crack within the metal plating, quickly followed by the sound of ammunition cooking. Nameless sisters carved a path for the two Sororitas leaders to retreat through before the turret erupted with a fiery explosion of squealing metal and burning demon things. 

“We’ll follow you to the next one. Sister Superior Chrysanthe’s the name. Thanks for the help.” Chyrsanthe gripped her savior by the wrist, which was likewise taken. “Is your squad going to be alright without their superior?”

Maria gently patted Chrysanthe’s arm with her other hand. “Like the Emperor, we must look after our own. My girls will be fine. They could use some experience operating without my guidance. After all, I may be a distant memory by the time we claim victory over this place.”

Maria could hear the defiance in Chrysanthe’s grunt. “I pray that it won’t come to that.” 

“Sister Superior, on your six!” Someone’s last cry of desperation. 

A Demonic roar suddenly rent through the air, speaking in tongues that tortured mortal ears. Chrysanthe immediately spun into a stance beside Maria, power blade raised in a high guard while Maria moved into a lower one. A disfigured and grotesque colossus towered above the rotting corpses of Chrysanthe’s rear guard. Those who had fallen were already beginning to rise from the plague of undeath in his presence. The creature had four rusted and crusted blades crossed over his chest, held by arms bulging with red and sickly colored sinew. He pitched his humanoid head back and howled once more through the din of battle. 

“Tremble you whores of the Dark Gods!!! Rugalis will claim all these heads for the glory of the grandfather!!! All shall never leave his sight once embraced!!!!” 

Maria’s instincts immediately drove her a couple of steps backwards, leaving Chrysanthe to hold her ground. 

Chrysanthe regarded her with an over the shoulder glare. “He’s not too big. We can take him if we all work together.”

Her squad intoned as one. “For the Emperor! We die standing!”

Chrysanthe lowered her blade toward Rugalis’ bulk. “Good. Then open fire!”

A hail of bolt shells harmlessly chafed away the loose flesh of the Greater Demon. The geyser of flames from the meltas sloughed away layers of gnarled and unnaturally resistant skin. Maria suddenly pushed herself to the fore, opening up with a salvo of her inferno pistol into a ripe wound on his ichor spewing leg. Rugalis bore the brunt of the assault without pain. The Sororitas resisted his intimidating glare, which took in all of them. No doubt it was determing which of them to kill first. 

Other explosions suddenly followed their volley into the imposing demon. All of them sounded very similar to the death of the turret that Maria had put an end to just moments ago. Screaming tirades suddenly broke out on the ground below, before she could derive a conclusion, a thousand battle cries in High Gothic echoed around the battlefield. The Imperium had ordered a charge; they were going to storm the gates.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Will likely be adding onto this scene sometime soon k:.

_“I beg forgiveness from you, master. I know you cannot hear me when I am lost in my own thoughts. I am no traitor to those who harbor me, so my schemes are not flying to a point of conflict with your own agenda. And yet I do not favor our struggle in this place. It holds no value beyond it’s potential to hide us under the radar for just a little while longer. That time has come and gone and-- I understand why you don’t care. Seeing your own stronghold fall into ruin all around you-- I’m sure you have many other things on your mind. 

“You ask me to salvage a situation that should be thought lost. Gods… why must it always fall to myself to do all the heavy lifting for these pathetic humans? I’ll do the only I can do plausibly with my options: cut the head off the vermin and preserve our lives in escape while it shudders and wretches. Let that pawn Rugalis do whatever he wishes… the true glory will belong to me. As always. Lriean only needs a little more time...”_

Anthanasia’s flickering power field was the only sign of her in the sudden surge of living bodies pressing towards the main gates. Lyria was sprinting through the woods alongside her, the rest of Angelikii at their backs. Heavy bolter fire still poured from small defensive pockets along the walls, trying to stem their advance. But a thousand men and women thirsting for blood wouldn’t be denied them this time. It was moments like this that reminded her of how Tyrannus won the war. 

The outer walls may have remained intact, but beyond them the flames of war and destruction wafted into the night. Lyria felt her feet threaten to give way under the relentless shelling of the Imperial coalition. Even more so while whole parts of the estate could be felt being torn asunder. 

She gritted her teeth. Forced herself to charge up the hill past a number of shattered human remains into the jaws of death itself. Scorch marks and various burns scarred her resplendent silver-grey armor and left her royal blue robes ragged with tears and wounds. e Her body felt on the point of boiling in spite of the cool forest air, such was the adrenaline rush. Precisely accurate fire from the enemy still found her & her loyalist brothers and sisters, still cutting down many where they stood. Yet the Imperials were without number, something these heretics would not be able to overcome given their much smaller numbers. 

Lyria and a hundred others were unleashing a hail of suppressing fire while the elements of the 87th Armored Regiment lead the charge through the gates. The cries of their foes were going to be great and ample in supply by the look of the armored columns penetrating into the Estate grounds. Soldiers swarmed around their bulky hulls pulled by heavy treads like ants, pushing in where they could manage into the courtyards. 

Anthanasia suddenly gripped Lyria by the wrist and threw her into the archway. Her comrades swiftly followed her through, squeezing between a group of crimson Leman Russ Demolishers and a squad of Imperial Guardsmen. Every step closer to the real fight, the intensity of the struggle grew more defined. Battle tanks traded shells across the courtyard, Imperial troops were swarming over the barricades while the heretics were in retreat up the staircases leading into the gutted remains of a flaming palace. 

The unmistakable cough of mortars in the distance fell upon the routing heretics in brutal crossfires. Lyria finally managed to push her way to the fore of the fight when entire swathes of the main stair suddenly went up in great clouds of dust, gore, and debris. Whatever Demonic scum was fighting through these once-humans, they were obviously more concerned with preserving their own lives. 

Lyria leveled her bolter and felt the weapon scream death in her arms. Her targets were scythed down in a strafe of fragmentation shells by the time she felt others join her. Hellfire came roaring back at them in return, slicing through normal men and women with nauseating ease. Her armor -already scarred and chipped with thorough precision- finally buckled around her left chest to true shot. The round punching front to back drew a sharp wheeze from her throat. She fell onto a knee, trying not to sway or flail in pain. A strong grip pulled her onto her feet. 

“Shake it off, Lyria!” Anthanasia urged as she left her to stand on her own. “Is it fatal?”

A trickle of blood fell from Lyria’s lips. “I think it grazed my lung, Sister Superior!”

Anthanasia couldn’t hide her approving smirk. She clapped Lyria on the back. “Good. Medic, patch this up!”

The next moment Anthanasia had been beside her. The next after there were a pair of mutilated and rapidly decomposed husks fallen in between them. Thick droplets of crimson fell like heavy rain over Lyria’s armor and she lifted her gaze up to the source. A severed head -dressed in a squad leader’s helmet- clattered against the wall before falling just at her feet. It did not scare her like some of the others. The massive thing staring back down at her from the battlements shocked her to her very core, however. A malformed grin leaking acid through mustard colored teeth formed on the creature’s face. Then it retreated out of sight. It left her with a feeling she could not shake. 

“Anthanasia?” Lyria looked to her in a quiet panic.

Her commanding officer raised a pair of fingers to her comm. link. “I need the Repentia up here now!”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Oh man, these scenes are all over the place. I really need to do some organizing .


The entire world shook as if the Corpse-Emperor himself had just been born anew on this stricken, blighted world called Tyrannus. Licking tongues of flames raged uncontrollably throughout many of the caverns and consumed Theodora’s servants. Many of the massive columns of coiled serpents came crashing down around their heads. The grand archway they supported threatened to buckle and collapse on all of them in the span of a quick breath. 

Theodora never craved such excitement before, but she would have to focus her inner rage first. She gestured with her porcelain fingers for the slaves to haul open the silver laden gate leading into the Chamber of the Infinite. She gazed upon the shimmering sapphires forming together into the shape of a large viper. She knew inwardly that it would be the last time she would behold such a gaze for a very long time. Her voice carried on the wind created by the breaking of the door seal.

“Complete fools!” Theodora’s tirade had finally spilled into the Chamber of the Infinite. The young sorceress never lifted a finger as usual, that was the reason of having guards after all. Her own apprentices stormed into the throne room where the lesser Kabal leaders had taken refuge. They immediately began setting about the task of wrecking the place: Overturning the pyres into sacrificial circles, ordering their deamonic servants to beset upon those sitting too close to Theodora’s throne, and tearing down some of the icons and ancient heraldry of her own family lineage. “My Estate goes up in flames and instead of fighting you sit here begging merciless Gods to save you!

“Vindictive Khorne and duplicitous Tzeentch will do nothing for those who cower in the face of their sworn enemies!”

One of the Apostles suddenly rose from the circles of nameless faces. “And what is it you expect from us? We’ve invested so many years in your possession research and funding your armies for this very reason! When war threatens, we must use them!” 

Theodora folded her arms at the chorus of agreements that followed. “They are useless without competent commanders guiding their actions. The Thousand Sons have taught us as much. Each of you swore an oath to become my so called Chosen when the time came to test our mettle!”

There was an elder priest of the Dark Gods maintaining a vigil from behind her very own throne. He suddenly appeared from the precious stone-carved seat of power with a hood covering his face in shadow. An icon not unlike Theodora’s own Tzeentch necklace hung around his neck. Upon seeing his sudden movement, she instantly recalled his name.

“Acheron!” She called him down from the steps of her glorious seat, treading softly between her own minions and oracles. “You have something to add as well?”

“Your Guardian, Majesty.” With assured confidence, Acheron, leader of the Divining Strand stalked down the steps toward Theodora. “I prayed to our patron and he has given me a glimpse of the future. She can turn the tide, if this chosen one is found.”

Acheron’s polite smile went hard in an instant. “But that is not the task you’ve given Nyst: Champion of the Four, Greater Demon of the Changer. All hope of turning this conflict with the element of surprise -the gift granted to us by unparalleled power to witness all events of the future- is risked every moment you do not seek the chosen one. 

Which is why I have called all of your servants to gather in this very hall. Look around you, your Majesty.”

Theodora discreetly eyed her surrounding compatriots, drinking in their expressions. All of them were dead stares returning looks back at her. Many stood with their arms folded in patience and practiced wisdom and some less so. She smiled ever so evilly. 

“... I see. So your point is, old Acheron?” 

“The year’s passing has struck twice sense the alien named Lriean Tarithinon has arrived on our planet. He spits on our ways and schemes with loyalists to bring about our destruction. Eventually, I fear, he could do so, so long as we remain in the shadows. So long as we allow the instruments of our own undoing to work in peace and harmony.”

Theodora’s wicked smile lessened a fraction, but she gazed upon her most trusted Sorcerer with a degree more respect. “I’ve already told you, faithful one, that I’ve sent the blow to be struck against him.”

“The attack is not swift enough.” Acheron replied bluntly.

Theodora’s patience suddenly disappeared, her voice coming off in a hollow rasp. “And what are your plans?” 

Acheron bowed slightly. “You know what I would say. Bow down and receive the wisdom of the Infinite Schemer in this matter. Let us leave this place to its fate and send Nyst on the worthwhile mission. Look around you, your Majesty.”

Once again, she read the minds of everyone closest through their facial reading and stances. They were on the edge of their toes, shaking their fists and chanting as one. They were calling for the blood of a chosen alien, an Eldar anointed by his own Gods. Even her own bodyguards paid respects to Acheron’s words with sympathetic looks toward Theodora. Seeing the seething consensus among her assembled acolytes, she knew she have to throw a wrench into her own schemes. She too would have to sacrifice in order to appease her apprentices. 

Hiding her great displeasure and distaste, she showed Acheron her back and shouldered through her own bodyguard. “Is that Acheron’s final words?”

Acheron fell upon one knee before his own assembly. “They are, your Majesty.”

“Then I accept them. Ready the troops to withdraw. Have everything we don’t require throw itself into this lost battle. Send a demonic messenger: have her bring Nyst to me at once.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

A strange warp-mist was settling over Teshkeran Wood, once tranquil air suddenly became thick and oozy to the touch. The miasma continued to thrive and prosper until the surrounding hills and distant landscapes began fade into sickly pinkish flux. Forked tails of purple lightning blistered throughout the fog, rapidly increasing in frequency with the growth of the Chaotic taint. Alien gazes without number stared through the choking mist, Nyst always knew they were going to throw virtuous patience aside in favor of the tried and true drowning of torment. She had seen many fail to conquer the future’s fortifications from far flung pasts all the way up until this moment of the present. But every impact always had some little inkling. Every attack always left something festering in the destiny of the Imperium of man. 

Nyst twitched her tail in savory anticipation, and crushed a large chunk of a looming tree into an explosion of splinters. She slipped her slithery lime colored tongue through a maze of teeth, slurped up the odor of death on the winds. Her heaving breaths sounded like an unnatural waterfall, picking up in pace with her thunderous gallop through the thick woods. Her four legs crushing themselves into the earth imitated sounds similar to a clutch of charging cavalry. The Imperial Guard encountering her along the way scattered blind into the four winds with a mere glimpsing. The unfortunate few that fell and stumbled in her warpath were crushed into bloody paste or slashed open with a sweeping of her long talon claws. 

The Greater Demon chuckled in innocent laughter, a hailstorm of miniscule las-rounds pelting her unnatural skin like so much soft snow. She couldn’t help but consider the last time she had attempted something like this. “Every waking moment I spend in this place! Someone fumbling around in their own ignorance, shattering themselves on the cliffs of their own demise! It’s that much more energy sapped from me. I do seek the chance to replenish my reserve.”

Anatolijus’ own toy soldiers were not so vulnerable or pathetic, firing from just beyond the woodland outskirts on the roadside. They answered the demon’s blind charge with a volley of disciplined fire, making her pay with small strips of skin and flesh chipped from her form with every bolter shell. The alarms had been ringing over the span of a couple seconds, so only a handful -two dozen nearly- were on the road protecting the mobile artillery and command bunkers. A measley sacrifice, but the numbers would swell soon enough. 

“So you all come,” Her demonic, cries was despair inducing. She bolted free of the woodlands and into the clearing, an Imperial officer caught in her diamond hard claws. “To die a horrible death for my pleasure!”

Celestians were rounding the corner of the command bunker along with hundreds of guardsmen pouring in from every orifice between the artillery. The turrets atop numerous vehicles had been forced to come to whirling halt by the time she collided into a growing sea of allies. Her laughter echoed over the cries of the dying and the sound of hundreds of weapons attempting to bring her onslaught to a halt.

Her mental thoughts seethed in her alien mind. I am power!

“I’ll steal away your pitiful souls!” Nyst reared up on her hind legs, lashing out with enough force to crumple a pair of Sororitas with single blows to the chest. Before she came back down crashing to the earth, she twirled in a gust inducing spin, pulling in a number of frail bodies in sync with her mighty tail. The arched sweep cracked open the hardened armor shell of the first unlucky girl. Another half dozen went flying a couple meters into their comrades, losing weapons and all.

The ranks standing behind them suddenly brought their weapons up to cut her down. Nyst opened her gaping maw and vomited forth a river flowing with hotly colored liquid fire, enveloping the rest of the unit with a twitch of her neck muscles. Streams of Melta fire began to pour in from all sides, trying to draw a bead on her. She ducked under a volley and thundered off toward the source of her threats, leaving her prey to reduce themselves into charred ruin. 

Superheated blasts slammed into massive Exorcists and Rhinos, wherever she left her shadow. Each of them went up sky high, their hidden ammunition chambers cooking off rather spectacularly. A few well-placed shots punched through her skin, making her quite agonized, and far more furious. After shredding another clutch of Celestians in a storm of claws and biting teeth, she leapt back into the cover of billowing clouds of the blackest smoke and flames left from the mess of vehicles.

Volleys of blind fire came rushing in after her, but only erratic laughter came through the thickening smoke screen. Orders to cease-fire echoed across the open road and soon enough, the soldiers obeyed their leaders. Eerie silence descended upon the rear column. Every foolhardy man and woman, every soul she could plainly see, fought their fears while they tightened the invisible noose around her neck. 

She rose her voice toward the heavens. “Go and stand by your beloved Emperor’s side! You have done more than enough on this sacred, befouled soil of the Dark Gods!”

Her tongue was suddenly twisting into a slew of unintelligible demonic, every syllable bringing frail human flesh bags onto their knees. Some were too far out to be affected gave the order to continue firing, but every deadly hit striking into her flesh could do only so much, chiseling away at her outer form which could simply regurgitate. With each second passing, she could feel the presence of the immaterium flowing through and around her very being. The air around her sizzled and cooked and tore until an aura of golden static had enveloped her and the immediate area for a couple of kilometers.

The Sisters of Battle and Imperial Guard ensnared by the power felt their cries die on the winds of chaos. Nyst drunk deep of their despair and souls, those looking on observing their comrades collapse where they stood like heaps of unused armor. Guardsmen that had never known an old age were thrown into grand clock of time, instantly evaporating into malnourished husks in the span of an eye-blink.

The warhorns of the demonic host sang a wailing keen on the farthest reaches of the woodlands, sustained and amplified by the proud forebears of an unfathomable breed of conquerors. All of Tyrannus would surely quake like the earth beneath Nyst’s feet, as the entire world was going to split apart by unbridled force alone. The battle cries of the hellish legions without number echoed from the endless depths of warp-fog.

These pathetic cretins for mortals were fortunate and their weak-willed kindred even luckier, having their minds rent open with fear alone. Their deaths would have to be quick, swift like lightning if Theodora’s tattered remnants of a horde were going to be able to shift the battle into winnable odds. There was nothing she could do by her own, lonesome self, eventually these slave-mortals would overwhelm her. She would die for another century. There was only one thing left to do while these Loyalists were still gaping around nearly terrified to death.

“Come, you servant - no, Champion of the Infinite Clock, which knows no bounds. You who knows every plane and any reality. Come enter my divine sanctum, my radical mind, bask in the enlightenment of Chaos!”

A grating voice, pure and honorable, refined and crude with intent, reached out through the infinite plane into the deepest recesses of her thoughts. A translucent apparition came emerging from drifting clouds of her mind. It was dressed in robes of polished gold and sapphire, covered from head to toe in an armored shell created from the rare materials the Imperium could hardly spare in their endless wars. “Theodora, the Sorceress has called for your end in this struggle. You’re ever the elegant thing of beauty and enigmas, such as you were in our initial encountering. Yes, I have entered where few mortal minds have dared…” 

The Centaurish creature had a shark’s predatory grin on her lips, famished and somehow ecstatic in its entire horrifying splendor. Her sense of satisfaction came out in a low growl. “Lord Tyrioc, the pleasure is all mine. Believe me.”

Tyrioc’s four-horned helmet came tilting back a couple of fractions, bellowing with a hearty laugh Nyst would thought all but absent from any Thousand Son Legionnaire. “I’ve never been one for trusting anyone; you demonic devil, or much anything save the glorious word.”

Nyst’s abyssal eyes glinted playfully, mischief and far deadlier intent in her soul-burning glare as always. “The Gods’ word? Or is it a new one you’re trying to create for yourself? She does have her ways and endless charm about herself, doesn’t she?”

The Ten-thousand year old Sorcerer became quiet and unmoving, content to watch the creature fall onto her hind legs. The old crone continued to bide his time until she offered him a stark nod, smiling with jealous acknowledgment. He finally heaved his mighty pauldrons in a shrug, spinning on his heel to retrace his steps. “There is no deceiving the Dark Gods, but her message has merit. She has lived far longer than I have, so I do bow to her wisdom rather begrudged, the alien.”

“So what aid will you lend, dear Tyrioc of the Sixth?” Her question held an appearance of innocence. “Nothing at all? … All you can possibly spare?”

There came his boasting laughter again, albeit this time tinged with regret. “I’ll do neither, but I shall lend aid none-the-less. Go back and fall to your Master’s side. I will take care of all the rest.”

Now it was her turn to laugh.

“And I was only just beginning.”


----------



## Beaviz81

I like the read, but I have one major issue. The fanatical nuns doesn't sound like fanatical nuns. They doesn't quote scripture in every other sentence, which they should even at the battlefield with cries of "Purge the Unclean!" "Burn the heretic!" I mean a Sororita is unlikely to call a guy an idiot, she would prefer mutant, heretic, unclean and such forth. At least that's how I interpret fluff, though the fanboys and girls of them tend to tell me such things. Also you can sprinkle a little "The Emperor Protects." or something similar like them telling "Must the Emperor bless and protect you." I would implore you to find a religious sentence on your own to do that for religious scripture and such as remember you are dealing with most holy fanatics so a liberal use of religious nouns comes with the territory.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Thanks, Beavis, your suggestion does make a lot of sense. Divine inspiration for my Sororitas Characters could prove useful. I'll have to find some religious text and 40kify them :grin:!

EDIT: I'm surprised no one's mentioned why I've been using Greek middle names for last names . I should look harder for some last name, the list I'm using doesn't have very many!


----------



## Beaviz81

Want a tip there? Download Rome Total War and go for the name-file. Then you have Greek last-names to your hearts content.

EDIT: Also follow Greek football, like Olympiakos or something like that, and you WILL get the same result.

And I didn't pick it due to being a Roman not Greek scholar. Guess there are few Greek people here.  Had you on the other hand used Roman names in that fashion I would have crucified you.  (At least verbally on the net).


----------



## Myen'Tal

Little update here .

_“The first words I breathed as a child cradled in my forgotten mother’s arms, the Gods first spoke to me then. I could hear their whispers on the edge of my mind, teaching me to stand upright, walk with pride or perhaps hubris, though they are one in the same. The Gods, when the Thousand Sons came they began to call my name. Chanting it like I was their future champion, the embodiment of all that was wrong in the universe. Well, not all, the brothers told me the voices belonged to a great eye in the warp, one that welcomed my gifts and was proud of the schemes I could inter-connect and spawn as my prowess grew. Through them, I learned to use the darker powers to my disposal.

“Into the maw of hell, I went to pursue my destiny. I was appointed to return to the galaxy one day, dawning the crown of power that told the others that I was fit to command. Here I sit, in ruins that are not my home world, but on a pitiful planet soon to raze in our return.

“Mortal, I can see it blazing in your gaze, that unwavering devotion; I know you want this, the power. Merely call upon it and it will bow before you. Tread with the demonic when you walk and the way shall be clear. Remember that your soul does not belong to me, I am not your master, but the demon who you allowed into your mortal flesh is. Flesh is weak and yet the purest form of ascension. There is power in damnation. She is a fickle and tragic mistress that will transform you into a shadow of your former glory. We extend our hand to aid the Gods and in turn, they aid us, but like all things that are fickle, they serve well as tools of use instead of divine providence. A means to an end:
_
_To be reborn, one must sacrifice.

To be favored, one must align himself accordingly.

To be marked, one must please the Gods, whatever their whims.

For guidance, one must be blind.

For anointment, one must bow.

For ascension, one must fall into corruption.

Honor the Lord of Change!”​_
“We’re all only just beginning…” Tyrioc felt the invisible connection with Nyst break like the snapping of fingers in the center of his skull. One moment, he stared through space itself, the sacrificial lamb chained down onto the ritual markings began to break into cinders the next. There was no finer stench in the entire galaxy. Each familiar scent tasted meant another commune with the warp succeeded. More precious moments to cling to this galaxy, even if only for revenge. 

He removed his helm, feeling his massive greaves grind against the ship’s floor when he rose. A pair of legion sorcerers stood with him, alongside tens of thousands of mortal acolytes. The servants of the legion waited on the lowest levels of the Convergence Hall. Lining the massive dome in a dozen rings, his statuesque brethren stared onward like sleeping gargoyles. Tyrioc marched down from his altar, taking in the sight of the Grand Company’s own Cabal of commanders. “The Thousand Sons are only beginning their bid for conquest for the Trident’s Belt! The Imperium believes this place protected by their heroes, and that all that stand against them will ultimately fall short of victory and conquest. We have been to these far flung bastions only once. The fervor and ferocity are enemies tasted in those days were poor, pathetic even. Men without powers from beyond stood against us and won. Their victory was pyrrhic, at best… One conflict with the renegades from the Eye and those cretin Tyrannites have been bleeding and thrashing for decades against all the nightmares that still haunt their homes!” 

Tyrioc lifted one finger in front of the masses brought before him, so that no one could not see it. “The Thousand Sons only came once. The Imperium still burns its own dead. We fell upon them with an army filled with chafe and rabble so many years ago! And they were convinced the end of times were upon them. 

So what will happen now? When our armada tears into the physical plane and rains down endless destruction from orbit? What will happen, when two thousand sons of Magus – our glorious Primarch- march into the ruin of their cities, over innumerable dead beyond counting, to bring slaughter to all those that remain? 

An invasion of demons seek to rip the glory from our fingertips. Would you let them steal it, brothers? Would you, honored servants?”

More than a few thousand cries of defiance rumbled through the hall. The Thousand Sons remained unmoved, but even the Sorcerers were chanting his name. 

The chant came slow and quiet.

Tyrioc slammed his helm back onto his shoulders. “Come with me to storm this planet!” 

The Sixth Grand Company shook the tides of the warp itself with their cries.


----------



## Myen'Tal

EDIT: Beavis, I haven't forgotten about your suggestion for more character description. I'll probably add some more into this update or the next. I'll also be taking a look into some Greek last names, so expect some names to change !

Justilius. Captain of the Sundered Legion third company space marines, stamped his mighty greaves onto Ardaran’s favorite chair. The metallic throne, fit for a chapter master to sit in, came apart in a blast of fragments. Ardaran remained perfectly still from behind his desk. The Inquisitor shimmered like an aspect of good emotion with shafts of sunlight coming at his back. Like he had been for the past hour, he had one eye on the Captain. The other on a live image feed. “Innumerable hells in the warp, by the Emperor’s ass, do you mean just let her go!? Or perhaps you were suggesting we blast her ship from orbit? Because that’s perfectly within reason, Inquisitor. No men. No ships. Only retribution. It would be a mercy.”

Ardaran quipped back impatiently. “Do you even know the reason Philemon is leaving? If you think you do, I would like to hear your opinion on the matter.” He snapped his fingers. An aide standing by the corner stepped forward and halted the feed. “I’ve been on Tyrannus for quite a long time, Captain. Far longer than you, which you know. Let me tell you this: I need every able body man –human and space marine both- down on the surface, ready for action. 
That and I don’t need a hundred orbital cannons razing down Tyrannus’ orbital docks trying to swat down one massive battleship. No dou-“

Justilius’ trigger finger was noticeably itching, but he was focusing his anger on a shadow of truth. “The certainty that the ambassador of the Emperor’s Grace has made off with intelligence of unparalleled importance is a hundred percent likely.”

The aide poured red amasec into an ugly looking chalice. Ardaran took it up and scoffed. “Of course. Perhaps I should have the Gaze of Stars traced. Take a look into whoever she’s working for.” The inquisitor shook his head regrettably. “I’m sorry, old friend, but trying to take down that vessel could spell the beginning of another conflict. I could have some ships release anchor and attempt to detain her. But Imperial ships that could take on the Gaze of Stars are likely too clumsy to catch her. However, if they did, chances are that will end in a bloody confrontation. Their crew is experienced and boarding would spell death for the average marines. Let it go. It’s another war for another a time yet to come. Right now, we need to focus on winning this one.”

“What other victory could there be against this… shambling horde of undead and the odd demon? The arch-enemy shattered their teeth on the fortifications of this place and now they are just an eye sore! A trifle not worth dealing with! If the citizens aren’t strong enough to keep the peace in their own homes, let them fall to blades of the enemy. There’s no promise of glory left on this planet. You have my Space Marines policing your masses, and the Sisters of Battle hunting trivial bounties. And your Imperial Guard die in the back alleys and slums of the under city. How long are we going to wait until we must inevitably cleanse this world by fire? You’ve squandered years of precious resources into this archeology hunt, allowed a Cannoness to fall to the predations of demons, and now you let Ambassador Philemon Demarchis waltz right through our defenses into the hands of some godforsaken traitor or –Emperor forbid, alien race.”

Ardaran grinned cruelly at Justilius. “You know the moment I send you and your company to bring that ship back that all hell is going to burst at the seams. The invisible pieces will suddenly move into place. Like someone just removed the carefully placed pawns unknowingly keeping a world from the edge of damnation. Games of chess are long and drawn out to the point of insanity, but I can’t risk losing the game. Tell me, you understand?”

The bellowing clatter of armored footfalls swept through the room. Justilius threw his hands down onto the desk, leaving cracks in the fine wooden surface. He leaned down until his own glare of disgust came level with Ardaran’s. Even in a whisper, an Astarte’s voice came down like the One on Terra’s voice himself. “One doesn’t play chess with the Gods, Inquisitor. Either the Emperor wields you with purpose or you’ve already lost. Lose faith in your troops and you’ve already lost your purpose. The fact that aliens are free to wander our worlds is proof enough of that. And now you would invite more. 

Allow me to give you an ultimatum: You give the command for my Company to pursue that damnable ship. Or, I can crush your skull like a child’s toy and have all of your acolytes burned in the pyres for heresy. Then, I’ll take control of this war myself and end it in flames, like it should have been so many years ago.”

The aide was frozen with indecision, confused whether to pull out his weapon or simply keep his mouth shut. Ardaran drank deep of the amasec, trying not to scowl at the three century veteran staring him down. “No man under my authority or the Ecclesiarchy will kneel to you simply because you got angry and crushed my head. You would more than likely come under excommunication. I’m sure your Chapter Master would love to hear all about that. If the Inquisition doesn’t take him first. But I digress. Your point’s been made. I charge the Adaptus Asartes of the Sundered Legion to bring Philemon Demarchis and her crew back for judgment by the Inquisition and the Ecclesiarchy. The charges are high treason and heresy, and conspiracy against the Imperium. May the Emperor cloak his warriors in eternal glories until the end of the days of man. 

Just remember, try to solve this through diplomacy and not big guns for once. The entire solar system may be far better off for it. Now go. Get out of my sight.”

Only Justilius’ retreating steps from the chamber disturbed the silence that followed.


----------



## Myen'Tal

ANNOUNCEMENT: Alright, I know this has been long overdue, but I'm finally going to start editing this story from top to bottom. Actually, I've already started, from the beginning down to the end of Lriean's encounter with the Blood Letters is already up. 

Now, I'm not claiming this will be a perfect edit. I will, however, put forth my best effort to clean this up and make it more enjoyable to read. Let me know if anyone has any suggestions:grin:. I think what I've gone through so far is much better than the original post, hopefully you guys will feel the same. 

Also a note on some changes: 

New names for all characters and locations that should have them(They'll change as I continue to put up the updated posts

Ameni- Arva Liatos
Lyria- Lyra Savakis
Philemon Leva- Philemon Demarchis
Ardaran- Arruns Ulpius
Grixmanan- Gythium
Canoness Anatolijus Nikolas – Anatolijus Petrakis
Sorceress Theodora Chronis
Hive City Sojek- Itanos
Hive City Aurelia- Helike
Brielle – Desma Tasso
Iana- Idola Xenakis
Koralia- Anthanasia Soukis
Canoness Kari- Kaska Rosi

What Else? 

A character description has finally been added for Lyria(now known as Lyra) and one for Lriean as well, though I may need to add just a little more details about his face. 

For a main character, I understand that I haven't really gone into Lriean's backstory(which will change in the next chapter!) when I've gone into others(Taryi and Philemon). I'll have to start going deeper with the cast we have, so look forward to that . 

Once again, thanks to everyone whose taken the time to read this! Comments are a little sparse, but that's how it is, I suppose .


----------



## dark angel

I just finished the very first section, and I'll be reading the rest in the week, when I actually find the time to sit down and appreciate it.

But, so far, it's looking brilliant.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Thanks, Dark Angel :good:! If you haven't read further yet, then maybe you should wait until I get a good few parts more edited. Of course, it's up to you, if you want to plough on through, be my guest . 

NOTE:

Two things I forgot mention:

1. Lyra's description is in the opening scene, first paragraph.

2. Lriean's description is in the scene where he is taking the elevator with Taryi after his run-in with Nyst.

EDIT: Next section is updated, involves a scene in a command room.

EDIT: Next section updated, Lriean and the crew have a talk with their employer.

EDIT: Next section updated, Lriean and the Ordo Malleus contact meet face to face, and discuss terms.

EDIT: Next section updated, this one's a heavy overhaul of Theodora's introduction, and I've also added in some of Nyst's backstory.

EDIT: Next section updated or half-updated, Lyra's meets Idola and Desma.

EDIT: Next half-update completed, Lriean and Sororitas gather for worship at the Saint Agnes Cathedral.

EDIT: Next update completed, Sister Superior Karyiake discusses a potential rise in the ranks for Lyra and Arva.

EDIT: Next update completed, the Imperial Coalition arrives in the Teshkeran Wood.

EDIT: Next update completed, the Imperial Coalition clash with Theodora's cultists.

EDIT: Next update, enter Xag'rish, and Taryi and Kasilienesh discuss an issue.

EDIT: Next update, Lriean and the team meet up at the Drunken Cherubim.

EDIT: Next update, the Expedition deploys for the Tomb of Argos and the Ghost Crypts.

EDIT: Next update, Philemon reveals her true allegiance and Taryi runs into her.

EDIT: Next update, Idola bumps into a stranger and there is an intruder on the palace grounds.

EDIT: Minor changes to the landing of the Seraphim on the walls of the Sorcerer's Eye.

EDIT: More minor changes, I've added another portion to Tyrioc's speech. Some of you may recognize it .

Also, Beavis, I'm trying to implement your suggestions, but for reason the Edit button is missing on some of my posts .


----------



## Myen'Tal

Huge update, a massive battle !

EDIT: Hmmm.... I don't know how realistic it is that Canoness Anatolijus issued all of her commands from the front. If anyone has any pointers, feel free to throw them my way .

Gina extended her canteen once the doors to the Command Rhino popped open. Twelve silver plated Celestian troops marched by her. Multi-meltas remained cool in their hands, bolter and chainswords strapped tightly on their waist. Gina still kept the canteen raised; Anatolijus picked up the offered drink and downed its contents in one gulp. Gina took back the canteen with her mouth fixed in awe. Seething with righteous fury, the Canoness pointed down the smoldering ruins of the reserve convoy. That warp-spawn dealt a fraction of damage, what of it? Even now, three thousand soldiers, complemented with tanks and the remaining artillery were amassing on the edge of the highway. She had been barking orders since that massive demon vanished. “Rally the reserves! Sisters, form the lines! Get our armored elements in battle groups! Loyal sons and daughters of Humanity, the Arch-Enemy reveals itself, naked and proud in all the unholy splendor of the Dark Gods they serve! There is little time for words, but never has there been such a moment for bravery and noble sacrifice like this!”

The Sisters of Battle mustering around the Command vehicle were suddenly pressing in around her. Hundreds of intimidating helm visors set on her, each note of inspiration coming through their internal speakers. She elbowed and shoved her way through the throng, her soldiers trailing her towards the line drawn by the Imperium. She halted before a low barricade that ran down both flanks of the highway, raised with ferrocrete. Not a spectacular fortification against an army wielding modern military might, but should suffice against a primitive Demonic Horde. 

The night sky twisted and writhed with the faces of mocking demons, bleeding into a flux between black and vibrant azure. Somewhere in the deep unknown, the Demonic sounded their war horns to the cheer of innumerable soldiers. No human vision could penetrate the mist unnaturally hanging inside the wood. The coalition would not know what hit them until it thrashed at their faces. 

“Loud speaker!” She commanded and Sister Kepa approached immediately. Anatolijus picked up the primitive device, raising it to her lips. “A Demonic invasion is nothing to us! Our planet has endured many before, we’ll do so again! Brothers and sisters, I do not lie, we may all embrace a horrible death tonight! If that is what it takes to stem this threat, then I long for the coming conflict! Do not flinch from fear of death or pain! There is only His judgment in the end… and I would see each and every one of you not found lacking under my command! Brace yourselves, here they come! May whoever die be remembered in the eternal glory of the Imperium! Remissionem Per Ignem, Veniam Per Mortem!”(Absolution Through Fire, Forgiveness Through Death!)

Three thousand Imperial troops echoed along the highway. “Remissionem Per Ignem, Veniam Per Mortem!" 

“Helmet!” The Demonic chanting ascended into an eardrum-rattling choir of chitters and screams. The noise of the approaching horde visibly rattled the Canoness in her own armor. Ancient weapons clashed together to further bolster the affect. Kelpa once again appeared beside her. She quickly donned her commander’s helm before taking a step back into her phalanx of bodyguards. 

“Raise Banners! Sisters, raise voice!” 

Anatolijus’ orders echoed down the three thousand souls like clockwork. Within five minutes, company and regiment banners belonging to the Imperial Guard billowed in the ill winds over them. Kepa emerged from circle of Celestians to stand beside Anatolijus, hefting up the ten-foot banner of the Emperor’s Grace in her gauntlets. An image of a white dove perched atop a silver sword, dripping blood emblazoned itself on the flag. High Gothic etched below the Order’s Coat of Arms recited the words: faith, vigilance, and strength. The Sisters of Battle raised their voices to the hymn playing through the loud speakers from the remaining vehicles. The Imperial Guard began adding their own voices and the cries of the Demonic horde suddenly became greatly lessened. 

The earth beneath her feet shook with enough power to offset even the approaching armies coming for them. Anatolijus looked over her shoulder, cloaked in near perfect black shadow under the Stormlord “Winters of Conorag”. The Baneblade grinded to a halt twenty feet behind the troops amassed around Anatolijus, over a dozen heavy anti-infantry guns standing by to shatter the waves pouring onto the Imperial commander. A handful of Storm Trooper squads stood on top of the tank, hellguns armed and ready for whatever would come for them. Victory or defeat, this round of combat would be glorious. Anatolijus gripped her bolter in one hand and raised the other in a clenched fist. 

“First, second, and third ranks, weapons at the ready!” 

Kepa pointed to a spot in the woods where something stirred on the fog’s edge. “Canoness! An envoy!” 

A Demonette came riding into the open. A flag of her patron god picked up in the breeze as it galloped on the back of a Seeker. Guns immediately tracked it, the warp-spawn reared up on its hideous mount. Her voice was a like razor pulled back and forth on her ears. “Hel’xata, Champion of Eye of Terror and Tzeentch, requests your surrender and laying down of weapons! Turn your backs on your Corpse-God and she shall show mercy! Long live the reign of Dark Gods!”

Anatolijus leveled her crosshairs with her marksmen-eye. She squeezed the trigger once, her shot punched through the brain of her mount into the demon’s chest. The Imperial troops cheered at the gory explosion. “Kill them all!” 

A stampede beyond number suddenly broke into a quaking charge uplifted by a tirade of maddened cries. Unnaturally beautiful Demonettes glided through the trees, followed by a shambling horde of plague bearers and zombie-like creatures. The minions of the Blood God made up an entire flank on their own: red-skinned demons bulging with muscle and wild horns bared their teeth in a savage thirst for blood. Bloodhounds screened their advance, while the massive Skull Crushers and chariots trotted behind the legion, carrying banners and building themselves into a frenzy. 

“Hold fire!” Anatolijus kept her fist in the air. 

The demonic horde spanned from one end of the highway to the next, from the edge of the fog till nothing was visible. The Blood Hounds and Demonettes were the first to break through the forest, the tide was so thick, Anatolijus realized that even a child wouldn’t miss a shot. Hundreds visibly collapsed in their loose footing on the hillside, no doubt crushed into the earth by their overeager kin. 

“Artillery, fire at will! All tanks and vehicle guns, fire! Infantry, hold your fire!”

Exorcist and Basilisk thumped in rapid succession, the Canoness stood there for over a minute and their guns still thundered in the backdrop. For all it sounded like the shrill scream of the ruinous Gods falling over their heads. The Stormlord and the armored companies unleashed a salvo of plasma, bolt shells, and cannon blasts into the charging ranks. Two hundred and eighty three artillery shells landed in the writhing horde simultaneously, throwing up great gouts of dirt and smoke along with a flurry of alien pieces. The stream of bolt shells tore into the first wave, shredding enough in such volume that the press of bodies shrank away like a receding tide. Plasma lances punched through meters of flesh before sizzling out, leaving trails of incinerated smudges in the hillside. Battle cannons landed amongst the demonic cavalry while they tried to charge through the remainder of the forest. Seekers and Skull Crushers alike collapsed under their riders. Trees splintered and collapsed under the concentration of fire, burying entire groups beneath their bulk. 

Anatolijus smiled rather confidently, a handful of her most trusted slapping her shoulder guards in approval. The endless volley from the Imperium literally made the Demonic mass wretch and split, losing much of their cohesion. The Imperial infantry remained on standby, cheering and jeering over the course of half an hour while the hillside burgeoned with layer upon layer of warp spawn dead. The entire tree line in the outskirts demolished, the horde found itself again on the edge of the fog. Thousands dead. That was her estimate, but that was nothing to blink an eyelash at when concerning the demons from the warp. 

Alien roars of rage and frustration washed over a wall of voices uplifted in song and prayer. Still, the creatures came on with abandon. They were fearless, insane, but utterly fearless and ferocious. Anatolijus knew it would only be a matter of time before they breached their first line of defense. The fight was going to be bloody for both sides, but only the most courageous and noble were going to carry the day. Even a demon knew something of honor, though they chose to be noble mostly amongst themselves. 

The Imperial Commander issued her order through the comms. “All guns hold fire!” 

The air was thick with the screams of the alien wounded and battle cries echoing from both sides of the battlefield. Eventually, the solid thumping of big guns began to quiet, encouraging the demonic horde, which broke ranks again. This time, they erupted from the desolation at their quickest speed, crushing their own dead to find balance against the hillside. They came as close as their previous attempt before she ordered the resume in the Imperial big guns. The artillery and mortar shells sent waves splashing over their allies, sometimes in pieces, other times whole. The plasma guns continued to lance through their ranks, intensified by the anti-infantry turrets until once again, the horde was repelled into the fog. A landslide of corpses slid off the hill until it touched the low walls along the highway.


----------



## Myen'Tal

“All guns hold fire!” Anatolijus rolled her shoulders, cracked her neck, and observed the fog for anymore movement. 

“They’ll break at this rate.” Kelpa leaned heavily on the Order’s banner. Anatolijus winced with guilt at having to rob the hope beaming in her eyes. 

The Canoness kept her face unreadable. “They’ll eventually send out their big guns, if they’re smart. I estimate they’ll try one more wave. Then we’ll truly join each other in battle.”

Jeno stood from her position behind the barricade, eyes transfixed on the fog. “Canoness! Something’s smashing through the trees!”

The Celestians followed Jeno’s stare into the destroyed forest and true enough, the black outline of trees in the bluish skies fell with an inaudible crunch. The skies turned black again, the sight vanishing with the bluish hew of light. More screams echoed across the field from the demonic ranks, but oddly cut short rather brutally. The destruction of redwoods came closer, until in a moment of breath holding anxiety, finally sank into an ill silence. Massive war engines rivalling the size of the red woods themselves suddenly revealed their presence in a volley of blasts. Vehicles spread along the defensive line suddenly went up in violent explosions. Flames licked around the wrecks and the shrapnel they expelled scythed into the back ranks of the Imperial defenders. 

Anatolijus’ gaze went wide in surprise. “Brace! Heavy weapons, take those things down!”

All around her, the Imperials pushed themselves into what cover they could possibly find, others simply had to fall flat on their bellies for protection. Another volley from the demonic fusions of flesh and metal erupted from the fog, this time an unfamiliar ammunition. The skies shifted back into a bluish color, great balls… of ichor fell through the skies into the Imperial ranks. Chaos erupted wherever they hit, infantry caught in the attack flailed and writhed in outbreaks of mutation. Shouts down the chain of command pushed the Imperials into action. Guardsmen and Sororitas wielding flamers and meltas quickly pushed into the afflicted areas, dousing the victims in purifying flames. 

“Manticores, unleash!” The skies went black again. The first of the flares went up in a ball of light. The loyalist coalition answered the war machines through a withering hail of heavy weapons fire. Rockets and Las-cannon fire tore into the enemy formation, dealing negligible amounts of damage. A wave of missiles suddenly split through the skies on trails of comet-fire. Entire limbs came off the mechanical monstrosities attacking them, others having their heads blown into a bloody mist or experiencing failure in their machine parts. Anatolijus counted the foe’s casualties as they went down. One, two, three, and four. Four out of thirteen. 

Kepa fell on one knee as the two sides continued to exchange fire, staring down the shadows coming through the fog. “They’re charging again!” 

Anatolijus smiled her broadest one yet. “Here is where the glory will be earned! No retreat! The Commissars will dispatch anyone who tries to run! First, second, and third ranks to position! Weapons at ready! All tanks and vehicle weapons open fire!” 

The Imperials behind the wall rose in practiced formation, the first rank placing their guns on the low wall itself. The second row stood slightly over them, guns held over their heads. The third remained fully erect, weapons also held over the second rank. The reserves kept to their cover, ready to fill in the gaps should any occur. Holes did appear, blasted clean of resistance by the guns of the demon engines. Blazing fires and wounded from vehicular deaths dotted the Imperial lines. Yet the Banners still blew in the winds and the officers steeled the courage of the men. No Imperial falters at the beginning of a fight. 

The demons came on again in another tidal wave. They swept through their own dead under the cover of their own war engines. This time they came forward with a more effective screen consisting of a massive cavalry charge up the center towards Anatolijus and her personal troops. Seekers came riding on the flanks, Blood Crushers stomping through the center, and Plague Bearers flying on massive insect creatures cutting through the skies overhead. The battle cannons roared, plasma singed the air, and anti-infantry cannons fired from hundreds of different positions. All manner of mounts collapsed under the dead and their riders punched from their creatures. A hundred or two went down under the fusillade, but the others stormed forward. 

The Order’s Canoness raised her bolter alongside the rest of the Celestian squads. “All infantry… fire at will!” 

Two thousand las-guns, heavy and regular bolters, auto-cannons opened up with a wall of laser fire and fragmentation shells. The Seekers disintegrated under the rate of fire. The Bloodletter’s absorbed a dozen or more shots -bolter or las-fire- before succumbing to their wounds. The plague drones were torn apart by hidden Flakk cannons, caught in a crossfire. Only a handful of infuriated Blood Crushers remained, with or without riders. The Imperials immediately turned on the Demon mass behind their slaughtered cavalry. 

Anatolijus shrugged her shoulders at the lingering remnants of Khorne’s riders, mere meters from colliding into her. “Celestians… do as you will.” 

The Blood Crushers nearly leapt or smashed through the low wall when a dozen melta blasts hit the oncoming charge. The superheated discharges peeled through the beasts’ metallic hides, atomizing anything underneath and killing them quickly. Nothing remained save a few smoldering husks. The entire line of Sisters rallied under the Canoness opened fire at the clambering horde hard on the trail of their dead. Untold numbers simply died, but they died pushing forward the last few feet needed to get into close quarters with their nemesis. It was time for the last trick.

“All flamers to front! Put up a barricade by fire!”

A couple hundred flamers hidden among the frontlines revealed themselves with a torrent of gushing fire. All along the lines, burning promethium incinerated the incoming wave of warp spawn. Immolator tanks reinforcing the battle lines unleashed their valves, instantly vaporizing dozens upon dozens trying to breach the wall. Black oil poured down along the barricade ignited in over three hundred different places until a burning wall of flames shielded the entire Imperial reserves. The frenzied roars and screams, followed by the odor of cooked flesh made more than a few wretch with vomit. The guns of the infantry silenced in a moment, letting the wall expand outwards into the recoiling horde beyond its reach. Some braves managed to catapult themselves through the flames, skinned blackened and gnarled enough to reveal their muscle. A few shots to their charred bodies brought them down swiftly. 

Canoness Anatolijus holstered her bolter with a sigh. She unsheathed her power sword, large enough to be a claymore with both hands. “It’s only a matter of time before they come through! Reserves, ready yourselves for close quarters combat!” 

Random spots along the front unleashed their payload again, until the entire line found itself pulled into the jaws of combat once more. Demon after Demon leapt through the flames, nearly dead and useless, but still they came on. The defensive fire threw countless back into the burning wall, but the bodies began to stack on one another until the fires began falter. More and more Demons finally slipped into the defensives unscathed, laying into the Guard with Hell forged blades, diseased daggers, and a flurry of crab-claws. Flamers began to spew into their own ranks trying to stall the advance, las-guns continued to blaze on full auto even as the Guardsmen pulled back from the barricades. 

The Demonic horde swept into the first ranks with an agility and inhuman strength that belied their unreal manifestations. Bloodletters severed limbs and heads with minimum strokes, barreling into the comrades of their victims with their heavy bulk. They threw frail humans aside with shoulder charges and powerful sweeps of their arms. The Demonette’s entered the melee in bounding leaps, slashing and maiming in a graceful dance capable of rivaling any Eldar. The guns of the Imperial infantry tried to find their mark only for the servants of Slaneesh to weave and duck beneath their attacks. The Plague Bearers simply climbed over the defenses, unhindered by the pain of burning flesh, and set about killing their surrounding enemies. 

Anatolijus raised her blade. “Into the melee!” 

Kepa hoisted the Standard. Celestians drew their melee weapons, and braced themselves in a wall of admantanium. Anatolijus lowered her blade into the mass, signaling the march into the conflict. Fifty Celestian troops, backed by more than half a thousand Sisters of Battle met the enemy in an orderly formation. Their chainswords lashed out as their enemies moved to intercept them, parrying or cleaving into an exposed guard with practiced strikes. Demonette’s found their claws severed trying to cut through their armor. Bloodletters had their blades struck away and their head cleaved for their reckless attacks. Plague Bearers fell apart in a tide of blows before they could even retaliate. 

The flamethrowers unleashed their promethium where the horde grew thickest, backed up by Rhinos and Immolators. The veterans among the guard continued tossing grenades from their launchers, while those among the combat squads pitted their strength against another strain of alien entirely. They died in droves, but their numbers and sense of courage held them back or eventually slew their opponents. The tanks tried their best to push into the battle, main and secondary guns scything through the horde. The demonic war engines immediately destroyed them whenever they revealed themselves. 

Anatolijus leaned away from a Demonette, managing to throw her into another Sister’s blades with a stern elbow. She raised her blade overhead in an instant, a crimson giant of muscle slamming his blade down onto it. Stepping to the right, she threw the blade in the opposite direction, bringing her sword back in a counter stroke that lopped the right hand from the wrist. An armor-plated knee to the groin sent the thing spasming on the ground. Another sister finished the thing. Two more minions of Khorne came charging into her, one bowling her over and hacking the head from an unsuspecting Delta. That same minion elbowed another Sororitas under the jaw, kicking another aside while her blade spun away. It twisted the ribcage in the Canoness’ direction, thrusting the hell blade down to sever her spinal cord. 

Her bolt pistol bucked in her gauntlet, blowing a fist-sized crater through the left eye. The Bloodletter staggered in its steps, swayed rather gently, and then crumpled in a heap. She climbed to her feet in time to duck beneath a decapitating strike, answering with a power field through the other Bloodletter’s exposed stomach. She kicked the body into the foaming press of bodies, cleaving through him and the next behind him with a sure thrust through the previous wound. Anatolijus ripped the blade free in a shower of blood, parrying a random strike through the melee. 

The Celestians fought in a shield wall without shields, unless one counted on their armor as such. They took the brunt of the attack by parrying the most lethal attacks and accepting the minor ones. Mainly taking only chips to their war gear, they slaughtered the demonic in droves until they had reached the low wall again. More vehicles blasting inside out and the shrill screams and deafening blasts of artillery continued throughout the fight. Once they had reached the barricades, killing every warp spawn trying to leap over the wall devolved into child’s play. She knew the fight waged on with far more intensity in other places. 

A cheer rippled through the Order of the Emperor’s Grace when legions from beyond suddenly hesitated before breaking all together. Their numbers were still superior, which meant they needed to reform their ranks. It would take them minutes to gather their courage, they needed to capitalize on the opportunity. Already, the Imperal forces brought their ranged guns back up to the barricade after throwing the mound of corpses onto the other end. 

Anatolijus pressed two fingers into her comm. bead. “All Basilisk crews, I need an Earthshaker volley!”

A confirmation came over the link. Anatolijus quietly observed volleys of fire slamming into the retreating horde. From a distance, the armies from the warp dropped like flies. The only problem was that they came without number. A minute passed. The shambling horde was going through some trouble, one side pushing into the other in a fine mess. The moment the distinct sound of an artillery payload firing into the sky met her ears, she turned to her still cheering sisters. “Brace yourselves! Earthshakers incoming!”

The explosion sent them all collapsing onto the Highway either way. The gibberish of the diabolical tongue simply vanished in the fallout. Similar force kept them sprawled on the ground repeatedly, until a strange silence carried over the battlefield. When the world-quake finally subsided, Anatolijus pushed herself up. Her trembling hands latched onto the low wall, pulling her over just enough to bear witness to the results. 

There was hardly anything save a series of massive craters levelling the hillside and far beyond. Pieces of the Demon engines lay scattered about the place, embedded into the earth. Still their inhuman cries lingered inside the Teshkeran wood, this time howling and wailing in obvious defeat. The imperial cheering continued to ascend over the receding of the Demonic cries until they had vanished from earshot. When random sisters enveloped her, suddenly lifting her over the crowd, Anatolijus realized the chant on everyone’s lips was her own name. Kepa followed, ever diligent, hoisting up the Order’s banner to her amassing allies. There would be no destination, only celebration, for her soldiers not only lived, but also lived victoriously.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Alright, no post, but just a note in case people need to be informed. The New Word has been edited from top to bottom, some parts I really like how they turned out. Others, I felt like I could've done better. But, for the most part, it's done. I've left the most recent posts alone, just making a few corrections here and there. 

So, a pair of new posts are up, let's continue the story !


----------



## Myen'Tal

Chapter Five: Her Bidding, Eternal…


The first signs of the Raven-Prophet emerged in the thirty-eighth millennia, during the invasion of the Hellas System’s aftermath. Tarmathon I had been enslaved, II had been decimated by one century of warfare, III managed to survive the war, and IV had been abandoned after a mysterious disappearance of the population. A young alien emerged in the forgotten wastes in the fourth colony, spreading word of a new faith in the ruinous powers in the new colonies centuries later. Her convent remained a humble thorn beneath the Imperium’s shadow, growing throughout the decades until it spread through a system-spanning network across the Hellas. 


The Raven-Prophet preached her path of enlightenment to her legions of faithful. She observed the seeds of corruption take root inside their wounded souls and led them onto the invisible path that only one had taken. The truth behind the darker powers never changed over the years: sacrifice in return for transcendence. The New Word upholds the divinity of sacrifice, but teaches the desire for transcendence through enlightenment. Preserve one’s soul, mind, sanctity, sanity, flesh, will, and sentience in accordance with the Word’s scripture. To not only accept the New Word, but also reap the promised rewards requires that the Dark Gods be honored and receive tribute. However, the worshiping and dedication of the soul must swear fealty to the Guardian of the Forlorn Towers. In this oath of fealty, the soul is sold in an eternal pact: immortality in exchange for a thousand years of missions and conversion or until death. 


Thus, beneath the gaze of the Great Four, the New Word was given and heeded on nigh two Millennia and counting. Their reach extends only through the Hellas, but their numbers is beyond counting, and serve only one Mistress. So begins the next chapter in the story of the Raven-Prophet, her ambitious bid for conquest, and the New Word…


Inside the Chamber of the Infinite, a vortex of unstable energies brought from the Immaterium crackled and snapped with twigs of lightning. Opening the blasted portal through the warp left nearly half of her slaves and treasured Sorcerers charred husks sprawled out beyond the stairs leading up to the throne. The remainder nearly stepped back and observed the tear in reality contract into something useable. Her personal bodyguard, outfitted in carapace and hellguns peered through the rift with hungry, blood-filled stares. To think, one strand of ill fortune would see them all overran under a chitterling tide of abominations. Beads of sweat trickled off the Sorceress’ knitted brow, both from nervous tension and streams of scolding heat. 


Theodora looked up at the towering Centaur creature without budging her head. Her scowled deepened, the temperatures beginning to spike. “I never told you, Nyst. I have always remained on the fence about death. Especially by unstable portal tears or my estate collapsing in on itself. I’m uncertain about you, but I plan to serve my one thousand years alive and intact. When will your master arrive?” 


“Soon,” The Greater Demon looked ecstatic, even snapping her maw with a deafening crack. She had one hand on her temporary master’s tannish hair, encouraging her to greet whatever may come with a welcoming embrace. Theodora’s heart hammered in her chest at the thought of her master being displeased. No chance she would ever breathe again if her suspicions turned out to be true. Nyst would rend her limb from limb and feast on her flesh so long as Mirathir simply snapped her fingers together. What an epitome of an enigma: the Raven-Prophet, the Bringer of the New Word, and Master of the Cults. For an alien, she possessed her own nets in the ways of speech, and could weave them over any with ears not deaf. Yet, did she speak the truth? Did the possibility exist? That transcendence can be obtained through her path of wisdom.


Nyst quipped at Theodora’s own thoughts. “No one ever chooses the destiny that has no foreseeable light at the end of the tunnel. No one ever chooses the path most often travelled should one think they know wisdom. No one ever chooses the path without the meaningful reward promised when the path has ended. The Master will see you well received, simply trust in her wisdom and that of the Gods.”


“We have all slighted the Great Four,” The energies swirling around the portal suddenly stabilized. All the burst and commotion of clashing energies receded further from her servants until only one silver sliver remained. “I’ve always believed them too ascended in their own realms to notice us. Yet, Tyrioc mentioned once, “There is no deceiving the Dark Gods”, you told me that, in fact.”


The Greater Demon fell onto her hind legs. She folded her arms in her patient way as if talking down to some lifelong apprentice. “It’s all about your position in power, Theodora. Whether in this reality or in the Immaterium. A Champion often displeases his masters, but will always know mercy, so long as he remains the chosen. The favored too, may know the consequences of failure, but what is failure to something eternal? Only the useless submit to punishment. The Gods despise the useless, but even then, the useless are transformed through their punishment into something more purposeful.”


The Sorceress chortled in quiet, a hand shielding her mouth. “Well, I would not be found wanting in her eyes. Your words do encourage my outlook on the future. You have my thanks for that.”


“Never thank me early,” The Demon leaned downward, until her chill breath brushed Theodora’s left ear. “Not even I know the whim of the Gods or my master’s. She arrives.” Her last words shatter into pleasant giggling. 


The voice seeping through the portal is a haunting moan, but one of laughter. Theodora’s servants scrape their faces against the polished stone floors, but the Sorceress only bends onto one knee. “My guardian is already awaiting me, I see.” They remain disembodied, but her words echo in the silence. A long raven-haired female of the Eldar emerged from the slither beyond reality. Her abyssal black robes had infernal marks emblazoned on the hem of her garments, lining the edges along the wrists and naturally flattened portions in her clothing. Mirathir wore them on her pallid skin as well, crimson around the face and small, jade colored eyes. Her ears pointed sharp like knives, extended to nearly twice the length of the average Eldar. “I’m still waiting for her to introduce us.”


Nyst looked on her master with an imperceptive frown. “Sorceress Theodora Chronis, it would please me to introduce to you the Raven-Prophet Mirathir Indris.”


If Theodora paid the Demon any attention, she hid it like an expert. “The pleasure belongs to myself, Mirathir. Though your arrival has managed to come at the most wrongful time possible.”


Mirathir descended the throne in long, careful steps, the ruin inside the Chamber of the Infinite plainly obvious. She searched the massive dome nearly cloaked in shadow, Theodora felt her limbs stiffen the moment she realized the chamber was filled with the dead. She opened her mouth the moment another earthquake shook the crumbling room. “Dire circumstances? I believed as much, Theodora. One like you would never call me unless necessary. Loyalists must be coming close to closing the noose around your neck if not even Nyst can bail you out.” Her twisted sense of laughter reverberated through chamber.


Theodora nervously fiddled with her fingers, certain her smile was the farthest thing from genuine. “There have been… complications. I did not expect the Imperials to come in such numbers and the troops your pet promised me-“ She looked into Nyst’s playful gaze. “Were not as effective as I had hoped.” 


Mirathir dismissed her with an arrogant wave. “Weak souls also make weak commanders. I see all of yours chose to throw themselves on their swords. Shame, but one battle did cull out the weak, so there’s a silver lining I think. The only thing now is to finish what our enemies started.” Her stare fell over Theodora’s tattered entourage, still on their knees bowed low. “I judge your acolytes unworthy; have your men dispatch them inside the hour. I will need their positions replaced by my own trusted Cabals. How fare your numbers?”


The Raven-Prophet indicated her expectation of gratitude. Theodora fell on her knees similar to the rest of her own sorcerers. “Nearly a thousand, both here or dying on the estate gates.” 


Mirathir raised two fingers, triumphant in her grin. “You’re outnumbered two-to-one. The odds would be far worse had you decided in neglecting Tyrioc and his sons. Their legions will come and lay waste to Tyrannus before long, but their aid is only a part in the grander scheme.” Mirathir looked up towards the ceiling, which had nearly buckled a full quarter in some places. “Let’s not discuss matters more in this place. I am heading for the Tomb of Argos, where the Ghost Crypts will be buried beneath. Theodora, I would be honored to have an apprentice’s company for the journey. Leave your men and let us depart.” 


Even Mirathir heard the Sorceress’ rough swallow. Theodora knew how confused she must have looked. “Don’t you need the soldiers, my Master?” 


Nyst suddenly rocketed over to Mirathir’s side, even as the Raven Prophet glared at her down the narrow bridge of her nose. “You may command in my own vanguard. I think you’ve learned a valuable lesson this evening, dear Chronis. Don’t take a Demon’s advice to heart.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The Scorpion’s tail is always deadly. Whether relaxed or poised for the strike that will stop an Eldar’s heart at a moment’s notice, the sting wounds hard. Aryriel Tarithinon lost his heart-killing edge over the last decade, but the deadliness of the threat still lingered. The epitome of the Eldar physique thrashed and kicked out in the midst of an open desert. The musculature beneath skin turned beige flexed and contracted with every practiced attack, turning his attacks into killing blows in a three-strike sequence. It used to be one. A six and a half foot wall of flesh smashed through a mannequin jaw in a spray of splinters. Chips of wood pelted the bare skin on his upper body, falling over his combat training pants. Short and kempt jet-black hair picked up on a light wind, gently swaying strands into heavily squinted gray pupils. 


Aryriel stamped his feet into the sand pooling between his toes. He dropped into another combat stance; it was becoming more fluid and powerful without the chainsword in his grip. His upper body pooled with sweat, coming down in streams under the harsh desert sun. The jawless mannequin challenged his motivation through a challenging glare. Exarch Yelien had always scolded him for his own battle cries, “Bah! Screams of primal violence! Any fool can do such, does the Scorpion roar to its prey”? Yet the Exarch no longer mentored him, so the cry carried through the arid wastes long and proud. The mannequin died a horrible death. 


A slight noise disturbed his concentration, as if someone had thrust a staff deep into the desert. 


“An hour spent to slay a dummy?” A Seer acknowledged him training, her voice psycho amplified through her blanched Witch Helm. She stood there a fusion of ruby and stark white, rune armor protecting only her chest. “I remember when you could best multiples of dozen in similar time, Aryriel Tarithinon.”


Aryriel leapt up with a high kick. The impact left some cracks in the mannequin’s stomach. His gray-eyed stare looked the Seer up, obviously mildly surprised. “The years could be kinder, honored Seer.”


Her laughter was whimsical like a Dove, something refreshing in comparison with nothing but desert to listen to on end. “All our kin would say the same.” The Seer unclasped her helm, removing it to unveil a beautiful face covered in spiraling columns of mahogany hair. Her eyes stared, but not into something inside the current reality. “Your Striking Scorpions used to train alongside you here. I see everyone has moved on with their lives-“ She fixed him with a soul searching look. “Yet you alone remain. Would you care to walk with me?”


The Striking Scorpion nodded grimly, knowing it would not escape the Seer unnoticed. The mannequin began to recede at their backs, only a narrow stone trail that cut through the wilderness remained in their path. He stole several glances in her direction, Reiko and Nyla were absent from her complexion or features. Not that he would have cared after a decade’s long retreat from the civilization on Teyl-Jhen. Then, why did it linger on the back of his mind? “I haven’t received your name, honored Seer. I apologize if that makes you uncomfortable, you certainly don’t need to tell me much of anything.”


“You still have your mark? The rune of the exile?” She pointed her talon-like fingers on the violet symbol etched on either side of his skull above his ears. Her smile remained despite the distasteful sight. “I am Iraa Calderis, a Spirit Seer asked to depart her own home world to speak with you. For a chance to speak with you, technically, I’ve heard the stories of would-be legends seeking you out here. No one ever returns triumphant, so that stinger of yours must still be semi-sharp.” 


Iraa looked back over her shoulder, finding Aryriel standing one foot behind her. The striking scorpion watched her incredulously and answered with a shrug. “So, Iraa, how can I assist?” 


The Spirit Seer spun round on her heel, one elbow in her hand and a palm against her jawline. “Have you heard from your family in all these years? Your mother? Cousin, perhaps?”


“Cousin?” A knowing smirk crossed his lips. He kneeled down to check his sandals. “Who would that be exactly? I have many cousins…”


“One certain little quirk in the family, all the Tarithinon line is out seeking glory, power, or prestige. I suppose the archeologist has his own way of building influence.”


Aryriel suddenly perked at the thought. “Lriean? Isha’s Tears, how long has it been? What’s my little cousin getting himself into now, huh?” 


Iraa’s face suddenly went taut. “A system wide war out in the Mon-Keigh territories, apparently. Your little cousin seems to have a knack for those things.”


“Where?” 


“The Hellas Sector.” Iraa answered. “It’s been unstable in recent years, will probably crumble if the foreseeable future comes to pass. You wouldn’t know her, but Mae sent me in your direction. I’ve come to see if you desired to help your most trusted relative. You won’t receive much in return, but I can look into having your exile lifted. That and you will receive another chance to don the armor of your shrine once again.”


The male aspect warrior dropped to a cross-legged position, the contemplation running through his mind obvious. “Lriean has always managed to take care of himself, no matter the trouble. What makes you think I’ll be a difference?” 


“Allow me to give you one glimpse into the future.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

---Don't worry, I'm wrapping it all into something coherent. It will make sense in time :grin:.---

Teshkeran Wood: The Lost Cellar…


The Thousand Son walked briskly for a giant among men, the tremble of the earth beneath his boots felt even through the holographic display. Tyrioc acknowledged the Raven Prophet after some chuckling in pleasant surprise, his arms opening in welcome to the trio standing before him. His voice reeked with benign tranquility. “So the Raven migrates for the winter at last? I’m surprised you’re content to see your new nest going up in flames. How does the bird fare now of days?”


The Prophet flashed her teeth in a cold grin. “I only have two homes, Tryioc. One I haven’t seen since I was a child and another I will never see until this life is over. That could be a long time until I pass away.”


The Astartes Captain gently put a fist on his chest plate in salute. “Then you walk the path of my own brothers. I respect you more for it, little bird…” Emerald visor slits absorbed Mirathir’s physical presence, no doubt in judgment. A proud Astartes like him would not even deign to bask in her presence if he thought her a common worm. It surprised her even more that he could even speak to an alien so diplomatically. “Lady Mirathir, if I may call you by that title?” Apparently, she reached his expectations. Mirathir extended him a nod. “Let us proceed with the business at hand. An invasion is no small undertaking, but with our minds coordinating in tandem I do not doubt the possibility of victory.”


Thedora snorted. “Possibility?”


The Raven Prophet voiced her agreement. “The loyalists still know how to fight a war. Their numbers are still enough to hold the planet in the majority. Therefore, our plans are to focus a sustained assault on the capital city: Helike.”


Mirathir’s Acolyte studied the room of faces for the missing piece in the puzzle. Her shoulders shrugged when she realized there was nothing. “The garrisons from the other cities will surround your efforts in days. You will deploy to crush the other cities as well, right?”


Tyrioc’s grunt slipped through his V.O.X. grill in a thunderous wheeze. “Any other armies mobilized to advance on us will be met by an endless wall of demonic chafe. Don’t concern yourself with concerns outside the main objective. We demolish the city through bombardment, storm the palace through aerial assault, and annihilate the planetary government in one coup-de-grace. Don’t think I believe it will be easy, I never said none of this would be simple. I crave the glory the struggle offers either way.” He pointed a holographic finger square into Mirathir’s chest. “You know my intentions. Now I would know yours.”


“Simple.” That moaned chuckling again. “Burn this world to ashes. Tarmathon IV was a little colony, abandoned before I could even mobilize to make myself known to the sector. What I achieved there is a little horror story told to the children of Conorag. When Tyrannus dies, however, all will heed to coming of the new prophecy. An example must be set to this dead spirit Imperium.”


“Is that all you desire?” Tyrioc replied. “Power isn’t given through destruction alone.”


The Raven stared into nothing, a hint of avarice in her look. “No. It’s not all I desire. I pity your kind, Tyrioc. Renegade Astartes I mean. Never being able to return to the place of your birth, even when offered an eternity to live and roam the stars. One day, I wish see the shores of Teyl-Jhen once again. Every one of my kindred will bend knee and hail my divine right to rule over my own Craftworld. I need a certain bloodline to claim that right. I doubt my visions will be so pretty once I assert my claim and slaughter the Council of the Crystal Dome. That won’t stop my trying, however.”


Tryioc vanished from the hologram, leaving only his rapidly receding voice to punctuate his absence. “My armada will break warp in the coming hours. Our first target is to seize the orbital docks and take up positions required for the attack. Allow me formally to invite you three: Lady Mirathir, Sorceress Thoedora, and the ever-cryptic Nyst to unite our forces in one collaboration. I expect to find you on the battlefield. May the Changer reduce this world to ash.” 


The image fizzled into nothing. Mirathir listened for Theodora’s inevitable retort that burst the silence. “So much aid he’s been to us! That conceited bastard simply sat in his flagship while my entire army burned themselves down in the halls of my own home! Had it not been for Nyst, the Thousand Sons would not have moved an inch!”


The Greater Demon whispered something unintelligible to no one, and then interrupted everyone’s train of thought with a tail lash against the metal flooring. “No one will move if the pieces have been arrayed against them in such a way that will ruin their own strategies. For all of your pawns and commanders, perhaps you should have coerced a general into your staff?”


Mirathir ended her Acolyte’s tirade before it began. “Never take a Demon’s words to heart. Come Theodora, before the loyalists realize we’ve gone missing.” She slipped through Nyst’s coiled reptilian tail and Theodora’s overflowing garments through a jammed metallic doorway. The Acolyte and the Guardian swiftly followed through, ending with the squelch of buckled steel with a shove of the Demon’s massive weight. 


The Lost Cellar: a decrepit manor perched atop the Hoplon Hills made hollow through the previous wars fought in the area. Theodora had her Cabal secure the road and the Manor, cleansing all traces of war and bloodshed except tattered tarnished steel built over stone foundations. All shafts of artificial lights had been shot dead in favor of faint, burning candles. The scent of oranges and mangos wafted through the narrow corridors. She favored the mix of that with the stale air that lingered. Misty clouds of colorless perfume kept an aura of mysticism within the molded stone and rusted walls. Nothing would suit the ritual fervor she felt without the telltale signs of sacrifice. 


Mirathir’s own host of soldiers lined the hallways steeped halfway in darkness. All manner of anti-infantry weaponry glinted in the slivers of light, reflecting off masks covering the lower face with razor sharp metal teeth. Their armor looked alien in origin, Eldar in the closer specifications. Sleek and form fitting, but forged with thin steel plating, thigh, and knee guards strapped over their fatigues. Silver and royal violet, the colors of the Forlorn’s Beginning. Gazes of glowing sapphire looked balefully through the shadows. Their marks proved their loyalty. Their eyes proved they were hers. 


The Sorcerers among the Forlorn’s Beginning swayed their braziers gently back and forth. The chants of the Incantation of Salissun rang like the death knell for a funeral procession, one remembered down through the ages. The Raven Prophet saw the irony in the prayers. Her crows sung the coming end of a world forced to its knees. Between herself and Tyrioc, Helike will burn for months on end not counting Hel’xata’s invasions beginning around the world. Only a handful of days remained until the battle commenced and the victors crowned with a planet. 


“My master,” The Sorceress quickly caught up to her shrinking back with Nyst pacing briskly out of interest. She muttered through gritted teeth, looking pathetically breathless. “How do you intend to find the Ghost Crypts? Or if you’ve already located the burial ground then how do you plan to arrive there before the war isolates us all in this hellhole?”


Mirathir held up two fingers in a sign of peace. She had been learning from the Mon-Keigh in her recent years it seemed. “I have never been one to place faith in the menial routes and transportation of men.” The Raven uttered a slew of demonic unintelligible to anyone except her guardian Centaur. Her eyes glazed with a luminous black, her tongue twisting in unnatural angles. She pointed her fingers through an invisible lip, her reach extending beyond the boundaries of this reality. The Raven shot black eyes into Theodora’s soul. “I never taught you this trick, but you can learn right now. Do come along, Nyst.”


The Raven slipped into the unknown, the edges of the barrier parted like slime-coated vines. Luckily enough, she could not see her Acolyte grimace in plain disgust. Human arms nudged her forward. Theodora lifted a hand to cover her nose. Only Nyst’s chortling followed her through the portal between worlds. One second she was surrounded by decaying buildings, a star lit ocean somewhere in open space pressed in around her mental consciousness the next. She raised her arms, but nothing moved inside her, not even the flex of her muscles. Only her sight remained and her voice emissions pulsing through the depths like mental pulses. 


Her voice split the silence with the power of a siren. “Mirathir!?” 


“Do not be surprised,” The Raven touched her thoughts. “You are without form. Nothing is tangible on the first plummet into the Immaterium. Relax your soul until the pull of the current takes you.”


Theodora was not certain how to go about the practice. Her world suddenly imploded through an open rift in the darkness in the span of an eye blink. Cold and aching turned to brilliant warmth and splendor in that one moment. Overwhelming shafts of sunlight instantly hit her falling form, her eyes opened wide to a cloudless sky she dropped from. Thin spires constructed from solid bricks of gold and onyx rose untold kilometers until they looked like clouds themselves. All of them displayed walkways without walls, figures robed in humble appearance treaded through them on hundreds of levels. 


Theodora’s heart caught in her chest, looking down into the endless metropolis stretched out like one fraction of the heavens. Rushing waterfalls and rivers ran through the polished streets in an intricate network, forming a myriad of shapes in the grander scheme of whatever this city was. Long, slender arms wrapped around her stomach and pulled her close. She glanced up into the Demon’s eyes and bawked at the unfamiliar creature smoothing her descent. She did not resemble Nyst in her Centaurish form, instead held aloft on wings the color of lion fur. The body sealed in a strange reptilian skin, covered in the furs of some otherworldly beast plummeted them both onto one of the highest ledges overlooking the city. 


The Sorceress immediately crumpled, her stomach releasing its contents in a spray the moment her feet touched solid ground. The parody of an angelic creature let her fall onto her knees and one hand, the other clamped tightly around her throat. The unnatural creature placed a hand of comfort on her back, in time for her to heave again. The wrongness of this place was already wriggling into her own psyche. The more the sunlight glinted in her eyes, the more obvious the sense of limbo became. There could not be a human soul that had ever come here that ever belonged. 


A pale hand, etched with the markings of Chaos shielded her eyes while the Sorceress collapsed in a heap sprawled out against on the floor. Mirathir’s slender form leaned into her swirling vision, her smile telling Theodora the worst had passed. “Don’t vomit on my shoes.” She giggled in her haunting voice. “You managed to do well. I’ve seen many writhe and froth for hours on end trying to piece together the experience. There is still a ways to travel, so on your feet. Help her.” The Raven pointed down for the Demonic thing waiting on one knee. 


The Sorceress somehow managed to wipe away the stains from her mouth, her cheeks burning and her senses warped. With a strength belying her scrawny arms, the fur-clad alien lifted her onto Nyst’s offered back. The Centaur gently lifted herself up, allowing Theodora to rest herself against her human spine. Mirathir flicked her fingers in the direction of six massive gateways, each swirling with totally harnessed energies. None of the paths shown clear, but Mirathir stared into each one as if she knew the way. Her storm cloud eyes transfixed themselves on the most left path and she walked with purpose toward the tunnel cutting through the galaxy. 


One foot felt like a twelve-year journey, not on the mind or body, but in the sense of a lapsing time. She did not feel exhausted or the flesh rot from her bones, the rush served only to reinvigorate herself with every step taken through the rings of shifting light. The world felt similar to rushing by from a seat in an anti-grav vehicle blitzing across an open continent. The trek lasted for five minutes with Nyst trotting gently at the Raven’s back until they came into one zip point. Everything merged into one tiny dot until nothing remained at all.


----------



## Myen'Tal

I have forgotten to plunge into Lriean's back story, it may need to hold until the next chapter.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Falochu-Kalan Alaroic, Exodite world Teyl-Jhen 


Iraa hummed in her whimsical tune, the flowers embedded along the Bridge of Mispeth perked in response to her voice. She looked cheery enough under her helm, too set in pretending not to notice the scornful looks of the Eldar citizens they passed on the way to their destination. Aryriel’s footfalls fell with heavy thumps against a silver wraith-bone bridge. They scuffed on the runes of the path of the Seer etched on every panel. The rush of the emerald river below the bridge shook the structure as it broke on the supports. Aryriel winced only slightly from their eyes. His dignity had never faltered despite the public humiliation, the exile; handed down by the Aurtarch he had vowed and defended with his own flesh and blade. 


He knew his father would have understood, “Life can never be understood if you never take the journey to seek out your own reasons. Once you have understood, I know you will come back when the time comes”. That was his last words spoken on a riverbank somewhere deep in the jungle, his comment on Aryriel’s inevitable coming to the Path of the Warrior. Even if he was not dead, he had been removed to a place between life and death. His father’s ventures had taken him to the edge of the galaxy, fighting the long war against extinction much like his youthful years. Years came and gone. Raihan’s words had passed in truth. 


The Crystalline Dome of the Seers surrounded itself on all sides by a sleek urban landscape. Anti-grav vehicles clogged the skies around structures built to resemble the enclosed civilizations of the Craftworlds. Massive platforms held aloft by towers flashed with lights, a beacon to landing ships coming through the atmosphere. Beneath the dockyards and space stations, the Eldar drifted through the clutter of wraith-forged streets in hundreds of thousands. Less than a hundred relaxed on the Mispheth Bridge, filling the pleasant air of spring with light conversation. 


Mouths went silent at his very shadow. Bodies drifted beyond his reach. Their backs stung the worst. A surprise no one was shouting at him in a vehement rage trying to drive away the shame that only belonged to outcasts. Words were exchanged with Iraa, more than one concerned the brutish rogue following her toward the Crystalline Dome. The questions persisted until the Archways of the Crystalline Dome loomed an entire Wraithlord’s height over their heads. Three statues surrounded the entrance: each one bearing the founder and icon of the three great houses: A Sea Dragon rising above a striking tiger, Tarithinon. One maiden seated gently under a waning crescent moon, Alaroic. The Temple of Keala-Mensha Khaine marked with the rune of vengeance, Mythiros. Resirian Tarithinon, Illandra Alaroi, and Yendrite Mythiros stood on either flank of the entrance with Illandra seated on the arc similar to her maiden heraldry. 


The Wraithguard looking over the entrance did not budge at their approach. Instead, they rose their weapons to admit their presence. A mental pulse touched his thoughts. “An exile returns. A good omen in these times. When our young ones return to the embrace of their people. Your kindred would rejoice in your triumph.”


The Striking Scorpion lent the construct on his left a warming grin. “Thank you, ancestor. It’s good to return home.” 


The other guardian spoke telepathically. “One moment before you enter! I recall your face from not so long ago. I would guess that you’re the one called Aryriel Tarithinon, the son of the Tiger?” 


Iraa covered her laughter in spite of her helmet. “Do so many remember our Aryriel? I never heard much about him until those victories he won crossing blades with his line of nemeses.”


The left Wraithguard pointed into the chamber with his axe. “Only the elders mention him in passing. None else remembers the scars left in his honor.” The female spirit looked to Aryriel. “Even your old Exarch never took his eyes from you.”


“Yelien?” The aspect armor felt extremely heavy on his body. The mere mention of his old mentor somehow lent him the strength to bear it with less effort. “I haven’t seen him in a decade. I do, however, am intelligent enough not to question his methods.” Iraa weaved her arm around Aryriel’s own and pulled him through the archway. 


One whisper goodbye sent them on their way. “Like many teachers among the Striking Scorpions. You two have a good afternoon.”


The corridors within the Crystalline Dome were paved with halls of blackened wraithbone, covered in bleached rune carvings and decorated with crimson psycho-crystalline gems. Mystic smoke added to the aurora the deeper one travelled into the depths. Embers spewed from burning braziers on the sides of chamber doors, giving light to the oppressing halls of darkness. Ordinary words shrunk further and further into the Dome until only faint whispers lingered in the ears. Iraa led her willing charge onto a circular dais, immediately pushing upwards into the higher levels of the Crystalline Dome. 


Iraa removed her helm and allowed her black columns to spill out over her robes. She gave a weak sigh. “Are you nervous?”


“No.” The Aspect Warrior answered. He tried looking annoyed. “My hands are trembling, but my armor is too heavy for anyone to notice.”


Aryriel snarled and gasped at Iraa’s hand tugging hard on his pointed ear. “I won’t take you before the council. Only Spirit Seer Mae will discuss your employment. Fitting, since she is your employer. Calm your nerves or she might look for another long lost warrior.” 


The Striking Scorpion lent the Seer his helmet, ignoring the rude frown he got in return. The platform wobbled to a halt in front of one panel embedded inside one surface. He pressed his hand against the recess and thought the password. “I’m certain she will be the only one.” 


A Seer draped in a long elegant dress was standing on three steps, looking out through a glassine window onto a chamber filled with nigh-crystalline statues. All of them were the ancient elders who had come to the crystalline dome to live out their final years. For a Seer to enter the twilight years was to finally experience the last consequence of embracing the path of future-sight. Aryriel could not see much past her wall of auburn locks falling down to nearly her calves. With a grace lacking in any youngling, she turned her neck. Her ears noticeably perked at the disturbance her guest had unknowingly made. 


Mae’s voice simply plain naked came out in mystic trance. “The last descendant of the Tiger comes to us at last. Fate has favored me, then, to have the loyalty of two Tarithinon sons. All Tarithinons are marked for fate that guides our people into the future. Your father never denied his destiny in spite knowing the sacrifice that would bring us to our knees. Three centuries have come and gone since then. Our kindred have mourned and now the Tiger of Teyl-Jhen lives on as a hero of the people. I never have been able to say I am sorry for his death.”


Iraa motioned the Aspect Warrior in the direction of three chairs. He took one alongside her even while he spoke. “That is appreciated. Even though my father isn’t dead.”


Mae lifted a hand over her heart, a smile showing through her ritual façade. “I still mourn his first passing. One is never the same after losing their physical form. Many more despise looking into our world through the sight of a soul stone. It’s similar to staring into a transparent colored film. That is why the Seers must guide their way or they would be blind. I noticed your father did not attend your punishment during the previous war. When was the last time you discussed things with Raihan?”


“A long time.” Aryriel gasped in resignation. “He is off fighting with our cousins from the Eye of Terror. I went into Tarmathon IV with only my Mother to see me off.”


Mae perked at the reference. “Analia has been absent from the Council in recent years. Verithii and her are still at each other’s throats guiding the female aspect warriors and shrines. I am surprised you came to visit me before her. She’s never mentioned you since your exile, not once, in case you were wondering.”


Aryriel slumped down with his hands on his knee guards. It was easy to remain passive for an Eldar. “I’m not surprised. That is her through and through. I would visit her, but if anything Iraa has explained is true, then I won’t have much time to bail Lriean from his situation.”


The Spirit Seer nodded gravely, striding down the steps to take a seat at her desk. Her stare bore down on Aryriel and Iraa, more so on the latter shockingly. “The skeins of fate have been eluding me lately. After weeks of fruitlessness, I finally caught wind of an ill-fated event. I bore witness to a world in its death throes. That world was clearly the planet of Tyrannus. Forces from the Eye of Terror have come forth to finish what it is that they have begun. The problem in quelling this attack is that three minds can potentially see this one event transpire all the same. The events have been set into motion. All of them head toward one ending. The open rebellion of the Hellas system will end in nothing but centuries of futile war before our home system is purged by the genocidal weapons the Imperium will bring to bear.”


The Striking Scorpion rested his thoughts, taking the time to absorb the information. Eventually, he readdressed the Seer. “Sounds like you would need an army honored Mae. How would Lriean even begin altering the current future by himself?” 


Mae inclined her head in agreement. “I already have an army. The Imperial forces on Tyrannus will fight alongside us to save their own home planet. If not, they will fall to ruin. That is the fate the Thousand Sons have seen. So, I offered them the one I had conjured from my visions. Their leaders accepted. I need you to protect your cousin and help stabilize the region. And I need you to protect me, because I am going with you along with Iraa.”


Aryriel squinted daggers more than a little subtly. “Come again?”


An onyx colored coin flipped into the air. “I didn’t think you would disagree. I understand your reasons for not wanting more to fend from perilous danger. However, I have one daughter fighting by Lriean’s side and the mission’s odds remain against us. If our efforts were in vain, I would not have her die away from my side. So that is final, Aryriel. Attempt to dissuade me and I will lose respect for your family’s bravery.”


Memories clicked in Aryriel’s head. “…Your daughter, her name is – uhh, Taryi, isn’t it?”


“Yes.” Mae squinted at a trace of a smile crossing Aryriel’s lips. “I am blind if you are acquainted.”


He leaned back in his chair, studying the ceiling as the memories came back to him. “Bled beside her against the Tau on Tarmathon IV, in the middle of a desert of all places. Tall for any Eldar, I think she has a head over me. Wields an Executioner?”


“She does have a noticeable presence.” The Spirit Seer bubbled in a mix of pride and amusement. “Thinking back on it, I believe she may have mentioned you in passing. She learned under Raeko’s command then, but since then she has quit her Shrine. She had issues after the war… she refused to see another until I finally convinced her to seek out Lriean for employment.”


“She might as well never stop serving in the path if that is the case.” 


Mae clicked something in her desk. An image of her daughter flashed up in a mini-display. “Archeology in this millennium is a curious thing. There are no friends and comrades to lose. There are no rivals to force her from her true joy – if that is her true joy. I bet she never told even Lriean the time she nearly slew her Exarch Bethanna. Or either of you for that matter.” Her guests shook their heads. “Bethanna grew increasingly concerned about Taryi’s ascension through her school, because she had problems putting away her war mask. It would not have been such a thorn in her side had she not attracted so many students that wanted to vie for her reputation. I have seen her cleave through the largest Ork chieftains and cut her way through a dozen assassins from the Imperium with her favored Executioner. None of Bethanna’s students could ever best her, at least not in a way that placed them above her. She was Bethanna’s prodigy, the first of that caliber in the new generation. 


“Of course, the rivalries began to spread beyond the walls of the Shrine. Some of them turned violent, the largest incident involved a Banshee having a hand severed and a ribcage fractured. The shrine clamored for an exile. Bethanna decided to settle things with one final bout, to see if the student proved worthy enough to continue learning from the master. The combat was held behind closed doors with only chosen Exarchs to judge the match. Taryi’s executioner against Mirror Blades. The struggle lasted for nearly an hour, before Bethanna slipped in her footing. My daughter was already charging with her body behind a full thrust meant to disarm the Exarch. She nearly cleaved through the spine, but Bethanna managed to survive the attack. 


“Taryi departed shortly after, never to return. I was angry with her at first. She kept her head low in my house for days. I pleaded with her to abandon the Path of the Warrior for another. She contemplated the idea, but never stopped hesitating. Months passed. Bethanna arrived on my doorstep. It was a violation of the warrior code. She wished Taryi to return to the Path. The trick this time was that she wanted Taryi to return as an Exarch. I could not allow that. I do not think I would have swayed her had Lriean not told me he needed more individuals to make up his team. I invited him without telling her, along with the only member he acquired at that point. Lriean’s boundless charm did not faze her much, but she came to me the next cycle and said she wanted to depart on Lriean’s next mission. The reason remained hidden until much later.”


Mae put her elbows on the table and her palms on her jaw. “Forgive my ramblings. I feel compelled to voice that story from time to time. I imagine you must have a similar tale, Aryriel.”


The Striking Scorpion scratched his chin. “I’ve had enough legends for one day, honored Mae. I look forward to seeing if your daughter’s skill has rusted like mine. So, when do we leave?”


“The moment we plunge into the Webway.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

A brilliant solar flare erupted from the nothingness. The journey proved painless and quick enough, blood pumping through Mirathir’s veins chilled itself in her heart. The brilliance of one sun faded, she flickered her lashes until her vision returned in a blur. One second, only the abandonment of a mist-veiled ruin stalked the corridors. Theodora, Nyst, and Mirathir were thrown onto an ancient blanched wraithbone construct the next. The momentum from the portal kept the Raven pressed onto the strange platform, like a flux of gravity gone horribly wrong. The bones in her skeleton rattled inside her flesh, so much that she could not suppress a stream of tears borne from agony. She had forgotten that part about teleporters from the Forlorn Towers. 


Her limbs felt ready to splinter and crumble until a massive shadow fell over her. Mirathir was familiar with Nyst’s distinct serpent tail. She was struck many times in the past. One little secret to remain between them. The Greater Demon slammed her with enough force to splinter a rib. The force sent her rolling off the dais and out of the vortex trap they had landed into. The pain instantly subsided, but her skeleton ached in every nook before she collapsed in a heap on a sleek metallic surface. The Raven blinked her sight clear, looking up to the levitating dais crushed by an unfamiliar energy burst. Violet streams came down onto the platform, translucent and solid simultaneously. Theodora’s wails echoed as if they wired through an amplifier. Nyst snatched her up in her arms and leapt beyond the trap, nearly crushing Mirathir under her talon feet. 


The Sorceress’ whimpers disturbed the quiet, a haunting silence that was not quite so absolute. Mirathir pushed herself up onto her knees with trembling arms. The energy wave subsided, but the dais compressed itself into a shattered mess into the pit it had risen. A long sigh wisped from her lips in relief with Nyst barking her laughter behind her. Theodora swallowed down the pain through gritted teeth. Mirathir spun on her heel, ruffling the Sorceress’ hair to show her approval. Nyst gently let her down to her feet. 


The room they had emerged into boxed them in from every angle to the point of immediate claustrophobia. Stark white walls made with bone rose into a sunken ceiling, strange batteries that powered the Dais exploded with twigs of lethal dark energies. Burn markings all around the room still simmered and smoked with fresh residue. The three commanders of the Forlorn’s Beginning stood mere feet in between two of them. They shrunk and ducked under each renewed discharge, building up in the span of ten seconds. 


Theodora shielded herself behind Nyst’s thickened tail. “Gods of the Eye, who the hell dropped us here, the skin should be flayed off their corpses!” 


“N-,” Another blasts leapt in between Mirathir and Nyst, nearly turning the prophet to ash. The energy left glowing cracks in the Demon’s scaled hide, but she shook herself like a wet animal. “No portal from where we came from would ever be un-calibrated. Look around, this is wraithbone we’re surrounded by.” She tapped the closest wall to her person. “And those towers are harnessing dark energy. I don’t understand why pre-fall technology would present here, that doesn’t add up.” 


Nyst howled and hissed in vehement diabolic, sidestepping another trail of dispensed destruction. “I think the answer lies above us. Perhaps your Kin did not build this place like you thought?” 


The Raven and her Acolyte followed her stare toward a sunken ceiling, covered in a dozen transparent life pods filled with skinless flesh and staring eyes. Theodora’s squeal of horror blared in her ears and Mirathir stumbled backwards several steps. The corpses looked lifeless even for Dark Kin. If those pods still functioned, they would sharking and twitching. The regeneration of their bodies would have accelerated by this point as well. 


Mirathir’s sixth sense rang in her mind. She ducked under another discharge just in time to feel the superheated atoms peel away the skin on her cheek. Nyst immediately made to shield her, but halted with a raise of her open palm. Her eyes gleamed with an underlying disgust and hatred. A wade of phlegm spat from her mouth in hopes the Dark Kin remained alive up there, suffering every moment spent throughout the two millennia they spent in this place. She shouted in her guardian’s direction. “Nyst, find a way out of here!”


The Centaur galloped over to Theodora, picking her up again before charging down her master. The batteries exploded around them one last time before the ancient demon leapt into the darkness of the pit. Her weight battered through whatever remained of the Dais, leaving them to fall into an endless well of darkness. The fall lasted for minutes. Mirathir grimaced in her blindness, lamenting the inevitable crushing of Nyst’s limbs. The abhorable sound never came, only a sharp crack of thunder and tremble to tell them they had landed. All of them hesitantly opened an eye. 


Theodora pushed the guardian’s arm from her body. She took several steps into a thick pinkish mist hanging over a corridor that curved in a circular design. The blanched wraithbone had become an icy sapphire, this time replaced with an intricate grating holding the markings of some lost Dark Eldar Kabal. A disturbing blackness lingered beneath the holes in the flooring. “What the hell is this?” 


Mirathir observed life pods similar to the ones in the previous room arrayed across the walls further than the eye could visibly see. “I think caution is well advised here.”


Nyst shrugged her shoulders and snapped her jaw with a sharp crack. Her emerald tongue tasted the corruption on the air and she raised her claws in defense. “You never mentioned if this is, in fact, the Ghost Crypts. There’s no reason in hiding any errors that may have been made. We are all good friends here, after all.” The Demon giggled maniacally over the moaning in the quiet. “I will take the lead. I would appreciate my masters not crossing in my way.”


Mirathir extended her arm. Nyst stomped forward in a careful trot with Theodora and her following from one foot behind. The first panel doors revealed themselves around the corner, each sealed with runes known only to those familiar with the language of Commorragh. Fresh lifeblood trickled from the recesses they made, certainly from some unfortunate trapped inside a pod. Crimson trails leaked toward the bottom of the entrance, dripping in the blackness below. She could not guess the purpose herself, but it peaked her curiosity beyond measure. 


Theodora caught her stare. “Should we enter, master?”


Nyst answered with a grave shake of her head, but Mirathir only broke into a crooked smile. “I did not come all this way simply to avert my eyes from everything. No loyalist will ever arrive here until another week or two. Now onto other matters, I need my troops deployed once we know what is safe and what is not. My elite should already be somewhere nearby. The Wardja will set about the task of securing this place in four days at most. Nothing short of the Demon Hunters will stop them from carrying out my orders.” She clicked one a small gem into place, the panel slid up without a fight. “Still fresh.”


Theodora and Mirathir entered into a wide circular room, strange markings etched into the floor they crept on. All of them shined with a pulse and rhythm, and then burst into a continuous state of light at the Sorceresses sensed weight. The platform suddenly rocketed upwards into a cylinder tunnel. She heard Nyst’s cry of dismay die on the winds, the last thing audible over the thrum building in her ears. Mirathir knew that this could spell trouble after a couple minutes. Nyst would have trouble finding them. 


Her uniquely long ears drooped a fraction after her ear drums popped. Luckily, they did not draw blood. Deceleration suddenly pulled her organs down, but she held onto her stomach and dismissed her dizziness with rapid blinks. Theodora gripped her shoulder the moment it became possible, meaning when the lift grinded to a tortuously slow stop. The Dais came to rest before a massive archway without a gate, built with a deep green metallic material. A massive statue loomed just beyond the entrance like a challenger. A tribute to some Archon, wearing a heavy suite of Kabalite armor fixed with a number of blades and barbs. The visor slits still glew with an eerie amethyst light. Nhilus Maveryn stood atop a ruined Wraithlord in an arrogant stance, feet spread wide with an Agonizer whip in one hand and a longsword dripping with poison on the other. 


“A hall of blades once useless now blind,” Mirathir read the runes carved over the arch. “A morbid crypt that belongs to the insanity and remorselessness of the True Kin who wielded them. Long live the memory of those who know the endless city no longer. Slaneesh be quick and consume their souls.” She shook her head, trying to hide veins threatening to bulge in her flesh. “This isn’t right. It cannot be right! Damn all the Gods of every known species!”


Theodora glanced at her with wary confusion, trudging past her to press further in. Her voice echoed back towards the master. “Is this really such a problem? It’s a crypt, just like you imagined! No doubt there is something of use here.”


Mirathir jogged briskly and caught up with her apprentice just beyond the arch. Wraithbone under their shoes turned violet, a sharp contrast with the deep green grating raised as walls. Life pods stretched along the corridors leaned inward with the grating toward the statue. The corpses within glared at them with horrified glares from here down the corridors that could fit half a dozen bodies shoulder to shoulder at the maximum. The Raven noticed the pallid flesh still clinging on their sinew and bones, long hair grown wild and unkempt. All of them lacked any armor, only their bloodied hands stuck against the capsule glass. “If the Dark Kin constructed this crypt, then all the souls here have been consumed long before the current millennia. These things are utterly useless!” 


Theodora kept close to the center of the corridor. She crept around the edges of the Nhilus’ base with one hand held in the air. She spared a quick glance over her shoulder. “The portal remains open to us. I don’t see lingering souls being too much of a problem.”


The alien prophet made an inappropriate gesture behind Theodora’s back. “The portal feeds on the lost souls, you thick-skulled grox!” 


The Sorceress’ retort was interrupted by loud hissing, stemming from unpressurized life pods. Four, six, one dozen, and then two dozen pod doors lifted from random areas along the hall. No screams erupted as Theodora expected, made obvious by her strangled screaming. Clouds of smoke drifted into the corridor lit by an artificial moonlight. Mirathir rushed to stand beside her acolyte. Both of them took a position that put their backs against one another. Minutes passed. Nothing transpired. 


Theodora swallowed noticeably loud. “Let’s move on.”


“Why?” The Raven shot her a threatening scowl. Theodora straightened herself a fraction. “They are almost upon us.” 


The first of the True Kin strutted from the smoke screens. He stood before them, completely naked and shivering with a body desperately trying to revive itself into full functionality. His stare was death incarnate. He recognized an intruder, as did the other two dozen emerging into view. Male and female, their stares fixated on them. None among them looked to each other with suspicion. They possessed one purpose, one mind: kill the intruders. 


The Raven shouldered Theodora, her voice dropping to a nigh imperceptible gasp. “Don’t let them take you alive. They’ll do just about anything to reinvigorate themselves to the regret of your years spent for their twisted pleasure.”


“I stand beside you in all things.” Liquid flames began to dance around Theodora’s hands. “I am not without power myself.” 


A wolfish grin broke on the Eldar’s lips. Fresh blood seeped from the pores on her left hand, eldritch lightning crackled in her right. A solid black glazed over her eyes. “Good. Wait for them to begin their attack. We’ll take more by surprise that way.”


That moment did not come long afterward. One of the Dark Kin rushed forward with a maniacal bellow. Without armor, the naked Kabalite closed the gaps in two bounding leaps with the others one-step behind. The soft moans of despair inside the crypt were overcame with frenzied whoops and howls brimming with bloodlust. Arms outstretched reached out to their prey in a wall of bloody and nail-less hands. 


A geyser of warp flames spewed from Theodora’s fingertips in a ball that caught the closest assailant in the chest. She became aware that they could feel pain, her victim screeched while his skin peeled away with muscle and bone to follow. She slammed her second fist down onto the floor before Mirathir raised a finger. A flash of flames spewed forth in a ring around the pair of Sorceresses, bowling their attackers over and striking the flesh from others more unfortunate. 


Mirathir uttered a slew of her home-world dialect. Floating runes immediately materialized around herself, whirling playfully around her golden aura. One thrust of an arm into the air and the corridors began to darken. The True Kin picked themselves up without effort, even those missing skin in several spots. A clutch of them laughed at the effort the pair of Chaos worshippers put on. They must have thought their attempts futile, because they came on again. The Raven lowered her risen arm, pointed it her foes direction, bringing the runes to commune around it and amplify the spell. A pulse-wave of the whitest light swept through the hall, the rolling of eyes and keening of bodies showing the results of mind-wipe. The battle ended before it could even begin. 


More capsules began to open, but Mirathir’s hearing noted a different disturbance against the floors. Dark Kin bellowing in their own tongue stormed down the hall. Armored from head to toe and armed with splinter rifles, Kabalite Warriors immediately formed a phalanx at the path’s end. More naked bodies emerged, storming forward in a rush after seeing their previous kin destroyed on a whim. 


Warp flames sent them back into death in charred remains. Mirathir molded her eldritch powers into a shield. Poison rounds smashed into her defenses in the hundreds by the minute, but the Raven absorbed them without effort. Theodora stepped into the role of offensive combat, changing warp flames for the hands of possession. One thing the human cultist did know about the Eldar, was that their dark counterparts held little to no protection over their own souls whatsoever. Corrupting them with tempted demonic sprits proved a charm, half of the naked Kabalites fell first. Cold calculations turned to insatiable hunger for flesh and souls backed with inhuman strength and endurance. They turned on their own and those that fought stood little chance on their own. 


The armored Dark Eldar warriors quickly dispatched the afflicted in a storm of knives and bayonets. The Phalanx still shattered, even in their death throes; the demonically influenced held no need for fear and pain. They shattered guns and crushed through the mesh plating with their own weapons. The distinct popping noise of the splinter rifles carried over the screams of battle. Naked fanatics fell spasming on the floor, writhing under the potent toxins coated on each splinter round. Defensive fire in the Sorceress’ direction had ceased entirely. They realized trying to breach the eldritch shield was worthless. 


A Sybarite shouted the order and the Dark Eldar fell into a fighting retreat. Their presence became replaced by a horde of naked fanatics gathering on the end of the hall. In spite of the distance, Mirathir picked out the gleam of melee weapons in the hundreds. The naked swarm charged down the corridor in a mess of quivering flesh and cruel eyes. Capsules still popped open, more orders barked away from prying eyes sounded over the amassing armies. 


Theodora attempted what little she could. “I hope you can mind wipe them all!”


Conceited laughter told her enough. The Raven spoke the words, pushed her fingers against the shield, and then watched the eldritch power explode outwards. The harnessed power expelled itself in a storm of lightning, blasting apart entire swathes of the crowd in a spray of cooked flesh and evaporating energy. To her surprise, the True Kin came on regardless, pushing through the barrage of death to reach them before Mirathir could blink her eyes twice. 


A massive shadow fell over her. The Centaur Nyst stampeded past her two lieges, bulldozing into the mass of frothing Eldar. Her feet crushed three foes at a time, letting their comrades futilely trash and stab their weapons into her reptilian skin. Her tail became razor sharp if the swing was hard enough. Bodies separated on the honed edges, limbs came loose, and the survivors stumbled back from the onslaught. The mighty beast reared up on her legs, Mirathir and Theodora pressed the advantage with psychic blasts. Dozens peeled off from combating the Greater Demon to come to grip with the Cultists. 


They would not blast them all, that was obvious after mind wiping another dozen. A fusillade of auto-cannon fire and shotgun blasts crushed the Dark Eldar’s attempts to slay the commanders. The Wardja marched forward from an adjacent hall path in a tight formation. One look into their half-masks of metal teeth sent the naked horde fleeing from the withering volleys cutting them down in their backs. Mirathir’s elite formed into a massive square around their commanders, kneeling into ranks and throwing up an endless wall of fire into the Kabalites defending the rear. 


The Kabalites proved more numerous than they looked, entire squads clung to the shadows while retaliating with practiced efficiency. Dozens of her bodyguard went down from direct impacts to the skull or from minor of grazes. The poisons used by the Dark Eldar were that potent. The Wardja held their ground regardless. The Sorcerers hidden among the Cultists responded with balls of psychic energy. Lithe shadows suddenly split into reality coated in flames and writhing in their last moments. The corridor became thick with the dead and pooled with blood. Whomever Archon led this Kabal in their previous lives would have been pleased. 


The Wardja signaled a marching advance into the enemies’ teeth. Grenade launchers covered their approach, peppering the moving shadows with scathing shrapnel blasts. Some crumpled to join the dead, most others begrudgedly relinquished their ground. One after the other, Cultists of the New Word fell in there orderly ranks until the square reformed into one massive wedge. The Greater Demon at the fore of their line shrieked an unearthly roar, the Wardja broke ranks in a charge. 


More Kabalites rushed in even as more pods became riddled with las-fire. The Dark Eldar constantly pumped themselves up for a vicious fight. Combat Drugs hyped up the most ferocious, dispatching opponents by the dozen in span of breaths due to the world slowed down to a crawl. The Wardja answered with volley after volley of shotgun rounds, creating a net of pelts unavoidable to nearly all but the most hidden Eldar. The rate of death escalated higher and higher until the Kabalites counter charged at the last moment. 


Guns dropped for combat knives, macheters, daggers, and power weapons as hundreds poured into each other without sense of fear. Mirathir strode to the fore of the combat, keeping a personal shield over her body and lashing out with cones of lightning into those who neared too close. The Dark Eldar danced around their foes, leaping over clubbing blows and stepping around sure thrusts and wild strikes. Their blades landed in every place imaginable that lacked armor. They cut through neck guards, stabbed into armpits, and severed the kneecap from the back leg. The poison finished their work. 


She caught Nyst in the thick of melee, stamping her legs down onto her scattering foes. Her laughter evoked more than a few cheers from the Wardja. Her talons struck with lethal swiftness, cutting through armor as if it were wet and moldy rags. Kabalite after Kabalite went flying, whether in pieces or sparingly whole. For once, the Greater Demon lunged down, clamping her shark’s maw down onto one of the leading Sybarites. She spat out the other half on the routing troops from Commorragh. 


The Dark Kin broke all at once. Squads of her cousins carrying all manner of heavy weapons blazed away to cover the retreat. The Wardja could only wither against the screen until the Dark Kin vanished from sight completely. They left a corridor filled with droves of their own fallen, never to revive again, should Mirathir wish it. The Forlorn’s Beginning shook the Ghost Crypts with their cheers, hefting banners not unlike the one Mirathir had taken for herself in the ruins beneath Tarmathon. The one she had greeted Nyst in the beginning of everything. 


Mirathir lifted her hands, calming her followers clamoring around her, praising her name. “Our fallen died dreaming of the true glory earned only through the bloodshed of our foes and spreading of our new glorious religion! The Dark Eldar is a vile counterpart of our ancestry! They have spent these past ten millennia enslaving your people for their own entertainment and sustainability! They linger in the corners of the galaxy like vultures, picking apart anything rotted and near death and savor the meal! We faced them on the fields of Tarmathon IV, home of our uprising! They nearly foiled everything we worked to achieve! Now, one decade later, we return the favor in kind! Burn their dead, kill the life pods, and scourge the rest from my crypt! This world will yet burn to ash!”


The Forlorn’s Beginning rallied in an outbreak of revel and destruction.


----------



## Myen'Tal

The moaning challenged Aryriel’s resolve the most. It was not something borne by wind or storm. No, only a sentient being could utter such a chilling cry of pain. Distant voices called to them from the hallow depths of long corridors cloaked in semi-darkness. Sapphire gems grafted along the ribbed vaults of metallic grating pulsated with miraculous light. The Striking Scorpion wandered how such a place like the Ghost Crypts could still be coursing with power after all of these centuries unattended. Beyond certainty, it was an omen of the best kind. 


The swirling nexus of the webway created a strange gallery of fluctuating patterns between a pair of spinal columns forged from obsidian wraithbone. Mae suddenly materialized in a combustion of eldritch energies, striding to Aryriel’s side to absorb the sight the narrow corridor gave them. Iraa appeared next and took his left flank with her staff gripped in both hands. The portal simmered without souls to accept or reject into reality. The brilliance of the realm between the planes blinked into nothingness. The semi-dark fell around the three of them.


Mae tilted her helm up in curiosity, breathing in recycled air through the filters of her re-breather. Her magenta visor combed the under dark while she tapped her staff to test the wraithbone flooring. “We’ve entered our destination on a first attempt. Color me shocked and impressed.”


Aryriel wheezed a heavy breath through his helmet. The Striking Scorpion fell into a low crouch, chainsword held at his back and overhead. In the opposite hand, a shuriken pistol traced the fleeting shadows running down the corridor. “I don’t understand, Spirit Seer. Where is Lriean?” 


Iraa interjected into the conversation. “Lriean is here. I can sense his presence or more importantly, those following him. We should move with caution. These shadows appear ready to leap and rend us limb from limb.”


“No,” Mae quipped, her interest reaching a peak. The unnatural light coursing through her Blanche staff lit a series of ancient runes formed across the grated walls. “When this galaxy is at an end, we are reborn. When our kind is no more, our God of death shall rise. When all is turmoil, the Reaper of Souls will destroy the monster that leeches away at our souls. Until that time is arrived, we shall remain at rest… I have reason to suspect that we are not in any immediate danger. Let us proceed.” 


“Allow me,” Aryriel quickly slithered in between the two Seers to take the point. “Honored ones. I would not have a random attack cause any deaths among us.” He waited for Mae’s confirming nod and set off stalking further into the depths. 


The paths moved continuously in a massive arc complemented with hundreds of lesser passages and recessive panel-entrances. He did not know what lurked in every nook and crevice, but he suspected enough: life-pods used for the purpose of burial. Dozens of them were grafted onto an intricate cabling network sophisticated enough to channel power into their systems for centuries. Aryriel paued on occasion for direction from either of the Seers. No. Move on. Continue. How the Seers divined their paths remained beyond his intellect, but their answer was enough for the time being. 


The corridor came alive with their footfalls. When Aryriel realized he was only listening to his own heavy thumping, he spun around to find Mae and Iraa studying a massive gateway camouflaged within the grating. He retraced his footsteps back toward the Seers. Now he could see the minimal frame holding the twenty meter double doors in place. A slim line of sapphire light emitted between the cracks in either door. Something of interest definitely rested beyond this archway. 


“Amazing,” Mae emitted a breathless sigh of awe. “I have not witnessed anything like this crypt has shown us.” She glided toward the massive gate, her fingertips tapping into the telepathic grid securing its source of power. A hidden rune surfaced before her in a brief flash. The moment passed. The key to the gate faded into nothingness and the entrance barred to them split open without a squeak. The three of them recoiled from a massive pulse. 


Iraa’s surprised shout echoed through the subterranean depths, her gloves clutching wildly at her visor slits. “Isha’s tears!”


Brilliant sapphire light swept across the clutch of Eldar in a tsunami. Aryriel fell on one knee, emerald gauntlet risen to shield his visor. Iraa turned her back on whatever marvel hid itself in the blindness-inducing glare. Whispers of ancestral protection disturbed the reverberating humming of the Ghost Crypts’ power generators. Mae’s uttered thought telepathically activated a protective rune. The burial ground increased in luminosity initially. He lowered his gauntlet the moment the surrounding world darkened from inside a thin eldritch bubble coursing with dark energy. 


A demonic voice purred over the noise of the generators in gentle boast. The source stemmed from multiple angles as if dozens echoed her words at their champion’s whim._ “Beautiful. The crypt of your ancestors possesses… so much to admire. Souls of the purest quality under lock and chain enough to make the mind twist with gluttony! Our hordes have feasted on black and rotten things for far too many years. I would have a taste of the Queen of ecstasy’s own desires.”_


A Stasis Chamber: obsidian wraithbone rose from the ruby tiles in a massive sphere intertwined with one hundred translucent pods. The Wriathguard flanking each individual stasis bubble were crumpled in heaps along the long flights of stairs and inside the narrow walkways. Even from the entrance, the damage done to their artificial bodies was obvious. Some obscene force had systematically destroyed them. Something powerful enough to split them open or stamp them into the earth like children’s toys. 


Surrounding their fallen kin like vultures were dozens upon dozens of slender and grotesque lilac-skinned Demonettes. They remained complacent, dispersed around the Stasis Chamber in small groups. The mimic of greeting long lost heroes filled the chamber at the arrival of the Eldar. Cruel laughter and crazed screeching permeated the air with anxious snapping of numerous claws. Their leader was easy to pick out from the horde by beauty and marks of favor alone. 


The Champion of Slaneesh shouldered aside her Herald from a top the highest tier in the room. Her claws sat on her hips triumphantly, a perfect stance for her bellowing. “I am gifted with the name Xag’rish. Now you know my name and I am aware of each of yours, irritating little aliens.” Her abyssal glare instantly fell on Aryriel. “Two guests are welcome. Not a third. It is quite generous of Mae to think of us every now and again. We’ll enjoy the sport she brought with her.” 


The demon called Xag’rish loosed an ear-splitting demonic roar. A dozen horned and purple-skinned minions came leaping down onto the center stage. Aryriel fell into his combat stance. The Seers accompanying the Son of The Tiger raised their staffs in defense. The presence of the Eldritch was soon tingling on the edges of his spine. An unidentified presence touched his mind.


_“Time grows inevitably encroaching. Chosen of Khaine… follow my pulse.”_


Xag’rish howled to her chitterling horde. “Begin!”


The Demonette’s pounced forth in a storm of bounding leaps and vicious demonic war cries. Mae’s dark energy bubble collapsed the second she answered with a geyser of spewing flames. Iraa casted a protective spell, Aryriel could feel an overwhelming sense of courage holding him in place against the onslaught. Fear and despair would not enter with him into battle this time. The Shuriken pistol in his grip buzzed with discharges nearly too quick for the eye to discern. One Demonette came apart in a hail of laser fire. Three others were already lying on the ruby tiled surface. Only their charred skeletons were evidence of their passing. 


Aryriel threw aside his sidearm and leapt into the other eight with reckless abandon. The activation rune clicked with a flick of his finger. The sharpened teeth of the blade came crashing into clawed grip coming down over his helmet. It’s owner shrieked furiously, her mutated limb split open like the hardened shell of a fruit. The mandiblasters built into his helmet suddenly stung another attacker in one eye and forehead. He shifted on one foot, spun round and brought his right elbow crashing into the demon with the injured stub of a claw. The audible cracking of bone punched through the sound dampeners in his helmet and the demon fell away. 


The mandiblasters struck again, blasting another square in the chest enough to make it recoil from the combat. Aryriel’s other senses drove him onward. He ducked beneath a flurry of crab-claw limbs onto one knee. The chainsword whirled around in a reverse strike, splitting slender legs from the thigh down in a torrent of black ichor. Three more opponents collapsed where they stood, writhing blindly in their deaththroes. Psychic blasts ended the wounded while Aryriel suddenly burst forward in a high jump.


Two successful demonettes found purchase on his heavy aspect armor, but left nothing but scratches against the emerald coat. The head of the nearest creature sprung backwards with the momentum of his fist. He parried a more nimble foe thrice over before sidestepping a fatal chokehold trying to grip his neckguard. He swept his blade forward in a vicious uppercut, neatly severing limb to cleave through the skull in a spectacular release of black blood and gore. He leapt back several paces. His mandiblasters blind sighted another reckless attacker. His upper body twisted to deliver the downward strike that cleaved through a neck. 


He sent the second to last demonette crashing down on the floor with a solid kick to the midriff. Eldritch lightning from Iraa’s staff tore apart the only remaining threat. He quickly stepped over his fallen foe and dispatched her with a swift cut across the stomach. 


Xag’rish hooted in laughter and cheered on the slaughter of her own comrades. “Hahahaha! Fun entertainment! I did not know the Son of the Tiger was so lively! I would have brought more for the games had I known such a legend would grace us with his presence. Whatever shall I do with only half of my warriors to fight with?” Her eyes rolled in her skull with exaggerated contemplation. “Well, if you wish something done right… Girls! No more games! Kill them all! Leave the Seer alive if possible.”


Mae cursed loudly. “Aryriel! Iraa! This Champion is no simple moron. If we remain too close together, she will find a way to strike us down on her own. Let us spilt up and take their numbers piecemeal. Understood?”


Mae’s companions nodded their consent and briskly broke off toward the far parts of the chamber. 


_“Trust your instincts, Chosen of Khaine. This way.”_


Aryriel climbed the left flight of stairs with a haste belied by the bulk of his armor. The disembodied voice guiding his movements manipulated his instinctive processes and screamed for him to turn down a random aisle of stasis pods. He incidentally took in the sight of the former Wraithguard’s masters visible within their pods. Eldar without armor or items to specify their past lives: warrior, seer, commander… it was irrelevant. They were dressed in the finest ceremonial attire offered by their Craftworld. Two millennia since their voluntary burial beneath the ruins of their home world and none of them had aged a second since. Young, middling, old, they all had a place within this very room. 


A keening wail shocked his eardrums. Xag’rish suddenly leaped out of the shadows, materializing from nothing into the reality. Aryriel shrunk away from the first playful strikes that left massive cracks in the closest pod. He sucked in a deep breath, regained his composure and brought his weapon up to block a predicted attack. The Demonette twirled beneath the blade, her armored kneecap striking out into his groin with inhuman strength. The plating there absorbed most of the blow, but the sheer force visibly jarred his stance and made him pale beneath his armor. 


The Champion of Slaneesh struck the chainsword away from her person with one arm. The other clamped around the neck guard with such power, Aryriel fell backwards with her momentum. She stomped down at his groin again, but the Striking Scorpion shielded himself with a raised greave. The tough material around his neck began to press inward. He could feel the point of her claws digging into his flesh. Left without any space to maneuver, he dropped his weapon, and then lashed out with several abrupt punches into the demonic creature’s gut. 


Xag’rish visibly shook in recoil, even retching violently before her claw relaxed only a fraction. It was enough. Aryriel rebounded back on his feet and threw the Demonette off him down the aisles of stasis pods. He observed her roll with loud thuds and crashing thumps, screaming all the while in unbridled fury. He cracked a smirk at himself, and then followed the directions imprinted on him by the voice. The humiliated creature soon emerged on her feet, a brooding so deep etched on her features that he knew the next struggle between them would be life or death. 


_“Here, Chosen of Khaine! I am here! Open the pod!”_


Muffled knocking and a desperate voice physically called out to him from a foot away. Aryriel briskly crossed the distance and peered into the transparent glass cover of one of the last stasis pod on this half of the chamber. He was a male among his kin, cloaked in an ebony robe inscribed with thousands of miniscule golden characters in an Eldar dialect. Flowing ashen hair fell on one side of his hollow cheeked and noble features. His expression changed through a hundred different signs of relief at Ayriel’s presence. He still chose his telepathic talents for speaking.


_“Good, Chosen of Khaine! Now trigger the release before that vile demon destroys you all!”_


The Stasis Pod release mechanisms were simple enough to use, considering the codes securing them were imprinted on the actual pods. The patter of rapid movement came closer and closer. Ayriel tapped in each number written there and activated the necessary runes. Xag’rish’s hollow laughter followed the bleeping confirmation of the pod release. He followed the noise to curious eyes, observing both him and the creature playing dead inside the thing he was toying with. 


There were no words, only lightning clashes between demon and Eldar playing out for long minutes. Aryriel struck with a perceptiveness he never felt ever since the Tarmathon war. His blade flashed in every direction and angle to parry Xag’rish’s overwhelming onslaught. The Demonette was howling in fury, twisting, turning, and even leaping to gain a fraction of the momentum she enetered the previous combat with. She slammed her crab-like claws down on his blade and armor several times straight. A couple of razor edges on the chainsword fell clattering to the ground. 


Xag’rish chuckled maniacally with heavily dilated eyes. “I’ll feast on your soul for an eternity!”


“Sorry to disappoint you,” The beast did not mind the blood he managed to draw in his desperate defense. She hammered away with powerful blows and blurry slashes until the Striking Scorpion pressed his back against the wall. Aryriel deflected an arced swing, counter-attacking with a swift knee that had the demon stumbling backwards. The hilt of his blade cracked against her skull until she collapsed on her belly. He flipped the sword so that it faced downward. “But I won’t be killed by the likes of you.”


“Hah!” The Demonette’s spine curved with the sudden kick of her hind legs. Her hooves lashed out past her head, wrapping around Aryriel’s neck enough for her to bring the rest of her body over his shoulders. A wicked strike struck his helmet and broke one of the clasps. “I look forward to your eternal despair after your death by my hands.”


_“Tarianna! Activate Code-Lavender 102305! Purge this place!”


“One moment, Autarch. Initiating protocols…”
_

The unbearable light within the Stasis Chamber suddenly exploded in a cascade of repressed energies. A tidal wave of bluish-white flames engulfed every nook and crevice of the chamber with the coldness of a glacier. It did not sear or immolate him like he assumed, but Xag’rish’s physical form disintegrated wordlessly. He clamped his vision shut against the brilliance of a newborn sun until the sheer pressure holding the breath in his lungs began to alleviate. When the flickering flames subsided, his eyelids fluttered open to a chamber cloaked in darkness. 


A hand appeared in front his face. “You are yet among the living, Chosen of Khaine. So rise and celebrate your continuation of life.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Chapter Six: A Handful of Cartridges

The Sorcerer’s Eye

Arva raised an open gauntlet from atop the fortress gates. “Halt!” The rest of Angelikii drew their weapons, pointing them in the general direction of a stranger approaching through the unnatural fog down below. “State your business or die where you stand!”

The stranger continued to approach up the forest path, half running, half limping through the maze of wrecked vehicles and tattered remains. A warning shot finally convinced her to skid to a halt, glaring upward, as if she just realized Angelikii’s presence. Her plea was desperate and chilling. “Open the gate! I’m Sororitas Arcadia Houlis! Celestian of the Cannoness Anatolijus and her personal bodyguard! By the throne, open the gate!”

Lyra felt Arva glance in her direction and she shrugged, her ironsight not leaving Arcadia. “I don’t like this already. She could be possessed or a deserter, hell if I know.”

Alexandra huffed a hearty laugh at Lyra’s expense. “Thea, Nomiki, are you listening to Arva and Lyra? I told you, didn’t I? Possessed? Deserter? You should give your fellow sisters some more credit and a good deal more slack. Both of you.” She ruffled Lyra’s hair now that her helm was gone, her stare hitting Arva square in the eyes. “Arva, be a good girl and inform the Sister Superior of our new guest.”

Arva bit back a scowl. “Why don’t you just radio her?”

Nomiki and Thea replied at once. “Too easy.”

Alexandra flicked Lyra’s friend in the nose with her ceramite finger. “Now off you go! Shoo!”

Flustered and flushed, Arva straigtenend her posture and marched away with an impercetible nod. Alexandra watched her go from the corner of her eye, her wave to sister Arcadia far more welcoming. “Be not afraid, sister! We’ll gain you clearance momentarily! What news do you bring from the reserves and command center? Judging by the gore encrusting your armor, I would guess bad news?”

Lyra barely made out Arcadia’s nod from the actual gate itself. “The Witch Theodora Chronis has played her trump card. A demonic host attacked us, without number and without pause! Hundreds of us have died!”

Thea sighed. “That’s not good, Alexandra. There’s only what, a thousand and a half in the reserves altogether? And most of those are guardsmen.”

Nomiki nodded in agreement. “There’s not much good our assault force can do, given the situation. Most of our resources were spent taking this accursed fortress!”

Alexandra waved them silent to continue her conversation. The earth began to tremble when she asked the next question, her heart noticeably beginning to race. “Arcadia, where are the other thousand survivors! Are there any survivors!?” She gestured to the rest of Angelikii. “Ready your weapons, prepare to sound an alarm!”

A strange laughter came from Arcadia herself. “Where do you think, sister?”

“Arcadia, enough!” A woman clad in ornate power armor suddenly emerged from the fog behind Arcadia. Behind her, the marching formations of the Celestian squads followed in her footsteps, made visible by their striking standards and lesser banners. Hundreds more of the regular Order rank and file marched in behind them, until a phalanx of gore splattered Sororitas came to an abrupt standstill before the Sorcerer’s Eye. The high ranking female commander pointed upward, squarely at Alexandra. “You there! The one thundering from on high, what is your name?”

Alexandra snapped to attention. “Superior, I am Sister Alexandra of squad Angelikii!”

The wizened Amazonian snorted with arrogant laughter. “I am not Superior, girl, but your Commander. Now, Alexandra, my troops are exhausted and a Demonic host is in pursuit of our immortal souls. So I advise you open this gate. Now, is preferable.”

“Of course, Canoness!” Alexandra snapped at Thea. “Open the gate!” 

Canoness Anatolijus rattled off another order. “And Alexandra, I want all of my Superiors waiting for me inside the courtyard.”

“Yes, Canoness!” 

The metallic gateway thundered open with a slowness bordering painstaking. Anatolijus folded her arms patiently, standing in wait alongside her army. The doors had been reinforced with wooden palisades, keeping the shattered entrance in place temporarily. The laboring of guardsmen to remove them filled the air for long minutes until the massive entrance pushed backwards. She gave the order to march on, she and her army crossing into the ruined fortress in moments. 

The courtyards inside the Sorcerer’s Eye were caked in blood, gore, and the endless dead. Theodora Chronis’ magnificent banners still billowed from the high towers and battlements, draped in liquid flame that continued to burn well into the dark. The possessed mercenaries whom fought under those heretical sigils laid scattered around the surviving bands of the Imperial Coalition. The Canoness waded through the hundreds of shattered human remains toward Superior Anthanasia and her remaining Superiors among the first assault wave rallied around the hundred stair. 

“Sworn defenders of all mankind,” Canoness Anatolijus stood on the hundred stair, passing by the banner of the Emperor’s Grace gripped in a Sororitas’ admantanium grip, surrounded by dozens of Sororitas and scores more guardsmen. “three oaths have you taken on the day of your recruitment into service. Purge the alien. Purge the mutant. Purge the heretic.” Athanasia embraced her in a bear hug as she approached. The other five Superiors likewise did the same. “I am glad we’ve achieved one of those three.

“Is this all that remains of us?” Anatolijus swept her gaze across the ruin of the fortress, nearly a hundred Sororitas manned the battlements while another fifty toiled in the courtyard, trying to quickly burn the fallen. Behind them, the Imperial Guard hastily rebuilt the collapsed fortifications. Heavy weapon nests, firing lanes, and chokepoints were formed in a precisely woven deployment of human shields and bristling weaponry. Twenty Basilisk artillery batteries and two manticores that had survived the fighting were entrenched firmly behind sandbag walls. “I estimate that with our forces combined, we would number nearly four hundred sisters with two hundred guardsmen.”

Anthanasia openly grimaced. “Several hundred? Canoness, where is the entire reserve?”

“Dead.” Anatolijus quipped. “We were attacked by a demonic horde. We managed to survive their first assault, but soon executed a fighting retreat to here, the Sorcerer’s Eye. They came at us again and again, eventually, the Guard volunteered to hold our enemies at bay while I led my troops to safety.”

Sister Chrysanthe of the Seraphim shook her head gravely. “You should have quit the field, Canoness. That way you could have mustered reinforcements.”

“Reinforcements can stil be mustered!” Anatolijus snapped. “I won’t leave a hundred of my finest to die in some no name backwater. It’s only a matter of time before Ardaran notices this plague spreading in Upper Helike.”

Cesare grunted with approval, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Then all we need is to hold this Demonic invasion at bay. How long until they besiege us?”

The Canoness winced, snarling. “Any moment now. I’ll reinforce your defensive positions with my troops.” Anatolijus laughed spitefully. “I’ll become a legend before the next day is done. So long as you, my noble and esteemed commanders, bring me victory. “Remissionem Per Ignem, Veniam Per Mortem!” (Absolution through fire, forgiveness through death)


----------



## Myen'Tal

Mae’s holographic image fluttered with instability, her voice a hollow crackle compared to the authoritative command she was known far. Her gaze flickered from Lriean, Qunalan, Kasilenesh, Jelann, her psyker, and finally the toil and bustle surrounding the group in the depths of Belatha’s tomb. “Greetings, Lriean and my kin. How is your progress into the Ghost Crypts faring?”

“Very slow, Seer.” Lriean grimaced, throwing a glance over his shoulder at the massive rampart, smoothed with gilded cold steel, behind them. Entire companies of Militarum Tempestus and the Imperial Guard marched through the Mausoleum gates down the ramp, accompanied by a host of war machines and vehicles. Even a squad of Imperial Knights had climbed down into the tomb without effort. He turned back towards the conversation. “It could take us another day or two before we are out of the tomb. And we still need to discover the Ghost Crypts.”

“The latter has been accomplished for you, my archeologist.” Mae retorted. “I have already entered into the Ghost Crypts. To say that I found myself not the only one to arrive, but without your support is an understatement, to say the least.”

Kasilienesh immediately stepped forward and fell down on one knee. “Honored Seer Mae! How could you enter on your own? Certainly, you of all should know the perils that could exist down there. You must rendezvous with us at once!”

Qunalan shared an empathetic glare with the Ulthwe’ Warlock. “Kasilienesh is correct in this matter. How did you even find it before us?”

“Everyone,” Lriean stepped in between the hologram and the rest of the team. He had his hands raised in a soothing gesture. “Everybody, calm down.” He stared at Mae, shocked. “Tell me you decided to bring the War Host with you.”

The Spirit Seer shrugged, her breath a sharp intake. “No, I did not. However, I am not without skill myself and worthwhile comrades.” Mae took a step backwards from her communication device and a pair of Eldar joined her on the hologram. 

Another Spirit Seer dressed in ruby and white gave a deep bow. “I welcome you, Lriean Tarithinon, and your companions. I am Iraa Calderis and am pleased to meet you all.”

A warrior outfitted in the aspect armor of the Striking Scorpion stood two heads over the female Seers, unclasping his helm and inhaling deeply. “So the Seers were right about you after all, cousin. You truly do need all the help you can get.” Aryriel shook his hair free and answered with a triumphant smirk in Lriean’s direction. 

Qunalan breathed, a wide smile on his face. “Vaul’s forge…”

“By Khaine’s shattered glory,” Lriean stepped forward, eyes peeled and dissecting every piece of the Eldar warrior before him. “… Aryriel! It is you, isn’t it!? What in all the hells are you doing here!?”

The Striking Scorpion shrugged. “Helping to save you from whatever this curse is that’s haunting you. And the planet too, I suppose.”

“Honored Seer Mae?” Jelann bowed curtly. “Where is your current location? Perhaps we could cut our foraging short and join you in the Ghost Crypts.”

Mae stared at her impassively. “Who is this mon-keigh speaking with me, Lriean?”

Jelann blinked, unfazed. “My name is Jelann, an Acolyte to Inquisitor Arruns.”

“Hmm,” Mae hummed, her expression brightening at the Inquisitor’s name. “That explains your presence. Unfortunately, I cannot even grasp our current location, only that this is indeed the Ghost Crypts. Yet Jelann is right, there are archenemy everywhere. My old friend, Kasilienesh, I am afraid that I must ask for your aid in getting us out of this situation.”

The wizened Warlock grinned with a proud look. “No harm done, Spirit Seer. I will consult the runes with you and open the way for our reunion.”

“Good.” Lriean finished. “I will leave the Seers of this group to themselves. Qunalan, Jelann, let’s go oversee our progress, hm?” 

Lriean left the meeting behind to join the Commander of the Tempestus “Titan’s First” First Company standing aside just beyond the rampart. Hundreds of men and women marched by them, creating a storm of dust left in the tomb from the centuries of neglect. Scion Teventus “Sky-Fist” paced around in his bulky Carapace armor the color of ebony and bolts of bright yellow. Flesh that had been cut a dozen times over regarded Lriean with mild contempt, Teventus fixed his berate and turned back to the deployment of the expedition forces. His voice was a dignified authority that came with noble blood. “Commander Advisor.” He acknowledged. “Beautiful isn’t it? Even the Knight-Errants we had on call were able to deploy without effort. It’s a testament to whoever built this place, they knew war would come to it one day, so they built it to accommodate that fact. That’s something I can admire about this backwater’s ancestral heritage, at least.”

Lriean spared him a small laugh, observing the ground troops march onwards, carrying gear for nearly a month’s long encampment. “Glad to know the Imperial Guard’s elite can find something to cherish on this increasingly hellhole of a planet.”

Jelann joined the conversation from Teventus’ other side. “Isn’t the instability of Tyrannus something we should hold our allies responsible for, Scion? They did promise to stem this dire threat, did they not?”

Lriean interjected before the Scion could answer. “If you believe that, then Inquisitor Arruns is just as much responsible for the failing defenses of Tyrannus as much as I am.” He allowed himself a triumphant smirk when a retort did not counter his own. He looked back to Teventus. “Where are our troops going? Have you scouted out the area?”

Teventus nodded. “There’s a vast chamber, nearly a mile from here that is completely void of whatever remained there before. A lot of statues and columns, but that’s it, plenty of resting room for the infantry. All the armor and support will have to camp down here for now, until we can be sure of our next moves and the safety of the Mausoleum.”

Lriean snapped his fingers and his party was soon hard on his trail. “I think I’ll make an assessment of this encampment. Keep up the good work, Scion.”


----------



## Beaviz81

Good stuff thus far. I have just skimmed through as I have been preoccupied with my own writing and life. I liked the hologram-depict as its really faithful to the Cain-thingy which I love.


----------



## Myen'Tal

No worries, Beavis , thanks for comment, as always.


----------



## Myen'Tal

The Navigator droned over the quiet mummurings of the command deck onboard the Gaze of Stars. “Ten minutes to breaking warp!”

Philemon leaned forward in her admiral’s seat, trying her best to ignore the hemorraging of her own ship. Damn these Astartes. “Zondra, we don’t have the time! Jump the ship, now!” 

Canoness Serhilda Unger leaned heavily on the chair, observing each observation feed rather stoically. Philemon traced her superior’s gaze. A massive battleship that could rival the Gaze of Stars in size and girth was fixated on the image feed. The gothic architecture was rich and elaborate, the hull painted in the beige and browns of the Sundered Legion Third Company. Torpedos were being loosed from the bowels of the ship and every bristling weapon the Battle Barge maintained fired relentlessly on the vessel attempting to flee its wrath. 

Tyrannus’ orbital docks rapidly shrunk and shrunk, but still its presence dominated one horizon of space to the next. Philemon watched other passing vessels attempt to steer clear of the engagement and erupt in silent balls of flame. The Imperial Navy had attempted to intervene more than once, but the Gaze of Stars was an Emperor Class Cruiser. To swat her out of the skies required an armada, not a garrison. The Gaze of Stars’ shield batteries flickered and fizzled with every hit, thinned to straining to maintain power. Yet they would continue to hold for a few hours more, if the technician crews were worth their salt. 

Why Canoness Serhilda remained standing to organize the marines and Sororitas onboard, leaving Philemon to direct the desperate hit and run battle over Tyrannus’ atmosphere was beyond her. She bit her lip down and grated her teeth through the stress. Thirty four sections of the battleship were already sealed and vented to space, but she could still make the journey. So long as Zondra saw fit to live instead of dying at the mercy of the Sundered Legion and Inquisition. 

“Ambassador!” One of the bridge techs called over the panic in the bridge. “The enemy are dispatching boarding parties. Enemy craft inbound!”

Serhilda barked before Philemon could. “How much time!?” 

The tech sighed, patient. “Two minutes.”

“Time to organize the girls.” Serhilda moved away from the command chair toward the V.O.X. unit. 

“Can we have a visual on these pods, please?” Philemon struck her arm chair, nearly crushing it with her armored fist. “Zondra, how long until we can jump?”

Zondra’s voice proved frustratingly docile. “Ten minutes, if we can hold on until then, Philemon.”

“Zondra,” Philemon glanced over to the image of her psyker laboring to guide the ship toward the desired destination. “If you can’t make this jump within two minutes, we’re all going to die traitor’s deaths.”

Serhilda shouted from the V.O.X. station. “I don’t intend to die on this dessicated, mutant infested backwater, Philemon. Zondra, make the jump or I’ll have your guards extend you the Emperor’s peace and install someone who can.”

The Psyker looked exasperated. “I shall commence warp jump in one minute. Please try to negate the presence of landing craft in case I must proceed with secondary measures.”

“Engage those pods!” Philemon replied. “This is our last stand if the enemy boards. See to it that things do not come down to that, my sisters.”

Close quarter lances opened fire from across the hull and dozens of Astartes died in flames or drifted out into the void. Sundered Legion fighters and bombers swept down in that moment, covering the assault with a wave of destruction that cracked open the Gaze of Stars in a dozen more places. 

The sisters of the Emperor’s Grace’s salvation was announced. “Warp jump in ETA thirty seconds.” 

“Canoness! Ambassador Demarchis!”

Come on. Just thirty more seconds, damn the false Gods. Justilius, I spit in your eye.

“Ambassador Demarchis!” 

Philemon snapped out of her concentration. “What is it?”

An old veteran Imperial Guardsmen replied hoarsely. “I’m picking up strange readings, something is about to break warp!”

“Give me a count, man!” Philemon barked. “And where!?”

“… I don’t think – hundreds, thousands – I think it’s a fleet!”

“What?” Philemon jolted from her chair and joined the veteran by his station. Emperor knew she couldn’t read any of this equipment, it was solely for spacers. “Are you sure the system hasn’t been dama…”

A massive rift in reality began to bleed into the dephs of space, leaking pinkish and purple aether as the rift between reality and the immaterium was torn asunder. The warp jump occurred some kilometers to the northwest and had a much higher altitude than the Gaze of Stars, but the arch—enemey’s flagship that emerged was so beyond scope that it nearly collided with the fleeing vessel anyway. The Battle Barge fit for a legion beyond counting roared right over their heads. Clad in sapphire and gold hearldry, even as warped as the gigantic ship was, the ship looked more glorious than neglected. 

A couple dozen more rifts tore into reality around them, followed by hundreds more, and then the amount of breaches in space rapidly climbed beyond count. Vessels that could rival the Thousand Sons Battle Barge erupted around them, already setting to the task of elminating or capturing the orbital dockyard in a storm of destuction. A horde of lesser ships surrounded each of them, in such number that they nearly blotted out the sun and the orbital dockyard itself. Philemon watched with her heart leaping in her throat the Imperial Navy being swept aside in the blink of an eye, such was the magnificence of the invasion fleet’s power. 

Serhilda had taken her place in the command chair while Philemon was occupied. “Zondra. Hail the Sundered Legion at once. We shall surrender if they allow us onto their ship via teleportation. Better to die under the Emperor’s yoke than to fall to the predations of chaos.”

Philemon twisted around, raising an eyebrow at her Canoness. “Do you think they’ll even accept that?”

Serhilda shrugged. “If they’re attempting to board, then they want us alive. If not, they would have called upon the entire system fleet and oblitered the Gaze of Stars some odd hours ago.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Getting a little rusty, better get back to the drawing board :grin:.

Ienar Rain Forest

Four decades ago...

Lriean wove through the last of the rain forest foliage that threatened to overtake the Serpent's Path. He climbed the hill nearly lost in the collage of the wild forest, Aryriel already awaiting him on the peak. "Cousin, after an hour of walking through Ienar, I would like to think that I deserve an explanation on where we are."

"Father used to meditate on this..." Aryriel extended a naked arm from his meditative stance and patted down the wild earth of the hilltop. "Once every cycle, he would guide me through the wilderness and start droning for hours. Not even the dangerous animals in the wild sought to disturb him, there was some aura he always created to keep us safe."

Lriean fell onto his knees in his scholarly uniform, woven with smoky blue, cloth--like material stitched with golden characters. Shielding his small shoulders from the wild was a flowing cloak as dark as night, with only the words in the Teyl-Jheni dialect that formed the Tarithinon name emblazoned on the back. He gazed out toward the noon day sun. "You must miss him, as I have."

Aryriel mumbled beneath his breath. "I suppose, even in death, he has more time to fight than any Eldar has a right to. On the subject of current political warfare, how is your father, Einar, faring?"

Lriean's stare glinted with the memory of conflict, but that knife cut smile was still on his lips. "Bitter and determined as ever. He wants me to join the path of the warrior, 'follow in his legacy' or so he would say. Failing that, he has a diplomatic delegation soon to visit the mon-keigh Imperium. He thinks I could be of use for something."

Aryriel studied him through a sidelong glance. "Well, that isn't a surprise, is it? You are a prodigy among many in the family. And you don't think you can be useful. Ironic, given the circumstances."

"Ironic?" Lriean's retort was genuine, but he felt a pang of anger pierce his heart when Aryriel just shrugged in reply. "I am afraid I don't get you meaning, cousin."

The Striking Scorpion threw his hands onto his knees, closed his eyes, and inhaled the damp and misty air for a long moment. Dewy mist came spilling from his nostrils with a sudden exhale. "Many of us could have been many things other than a warrior on the Path. Our people are artisans and engineers, spacefarers and philosophers. Unfortunately, many of us do not have the opportunity to choose when the Craftworld becomes endangered.

"I'm still surprised that you have such a choice, when your father is a Autarch and your mother an admiral. Lriean, you will have training far beyond what even I have experienced, if you so chose. Only a fraction of our people could ever say that. It has taken you longer than most to learn the basics of being a warrior, though you are not one to begin with. You have taken to learning the histories and sagas of the Galaxy, in spite of being born a slave. You do not have a single drop of Tarithinon blood in your veins, but the legacy of the family has already rubbed off on you. You of all have the potential to create great things during your life. Do not take it for granted, little cousin.

"It's funny," Aryriel started, watching fish leap from the untamed river below. "I had despised those times my father took me here as a child. It is ironic, that I cherish the act now that I am forced to make the journey and thought process alone. I never realized how much of my life I would spend being alone, away from kin and family. Only one mournful mother and a cousin to know an exiled soul, along with his cadre of loyal comrades."

Aryriel was correct on that account, most of the old friends that had fought alongside them during the war dwindled to only a select few. Quint’os had died fighting on Tarmathon IV, along with Hui’Kim, both slain by the young Tau. Reiko had nearly died there as well, to the hands of Archon Tallise of the Blinded Blades Kabal. She was rescued by Aryriel’s daring bravado, the reason of his exile, but still he could not save all of her. Tallise no doubt held his friend’s hand as one of her trophies. Others had come and gone, died in the last war or disappeared, back into the cluttered mazes of Eldar society. And then there was Nyla, the one Aryriel was destined to marry, but she could not bear the burden of Aryriel’s exile, and disconnected from his life without warning. 

Aryriel threw a hand onto his younger cousin's shoulder with a firm grip. He resumed after a brief pause. "You should leave with the delegation, learn about the galaxy beyond Teyl-Jhen, and realize your place in the galaxy. Who knows, perhaps you will come to understand the meaning behind the life of Lriean Tarithinon? Only the Gods can tell, for the random hand of Fate guides us all without explanation."

Lriean ruffled Aryriel's hair and answered with a light shrug. "I will think on your advice, honored Ulthuan!"


----------



## Myen'Tal

Chapter may undergo re-organizing soon, just so people are aware k:.



Just as open warfare had come into the intricate networks of the web way, Archon Nhilus of the Blinded Blades shuddered and awoken to the sight of relentless slaughter within the catacombs of the ghost crypts. The weapon discharges of primitive weapons and splinter rifles intermingled through the nigh lightless halls of the catacombs. The hundreds that wielded them, Dark Kin and Mon-Keigh alike, were at each other’s throats, piecing apart each other with an enthusiasm that sent fresh power coursing through his chill veins, even as they were still latched to his life pod. 

The Kabal of the Blinded Blades were not prepared to be awakened. Nhilus immediately realized this as scores of his warriors were humiliatingly naked, just wakened from their stasis. Despite the disadvantages, Nhilus knew how deep the Kabal ran within the intricate underground realm, the numbers remained on his side for the time being. 

_“My dread Archon, have you awakened? Your vital signs appear to be reviving themselves rather healthily. I’m retracting your pod back into the hangar bay, prepare for eminent release.”_

The Archon observed the battle rage from high above, his pod bay infused into a massive triangular jut in the wraith bone walls. There was a nagging whine building in his ears, then preservation fluids within the pod began to drain through the unseen vents. Intricate machinery set about the task of collapsing the tubes injected into his body. The irritating whining burst and died with a flash of sickly green light and the pod reclined backwards into the wall itself. 

_“Archon coming on board, ship systems are green, weapon systems are green, crew is eighty-five percent revitalized. My Archon, once you are free of your pod, I will have servants in your chambers to don your armor.”_

Pressurized air escaped the pod in a wailing howl as the vessel rotated one hundred and eighty degrees into the hangar bay. The door popped open and Nhilus spilled out onto a sleek, obsidian floor. Shadow painted Void Raven Bombers and Razor wing fighters surrounded him, all silent and docked, their crews missing. Dark Grey ribs rose from smooth hexagonal tiles that formed the floor, creating a vaulted ceiling alight with a dim, yellowish glow in spaced intervals.

Nhilus grunted, tested his strained muscles, and staggered up to his feet, slick with fluids. The world beyond his vision was still translucent and fragile, the only thing being certain was the ventilation of more pods. He waited patiently until he could wipe away the last traces of preservatives from his eyes and waltzed toward the grav-platform that would take him further into the bowels of his flagship, the ‘Chalice of Avarice’. Dozens of naked bodies were picking themselves off of the floor and marching like a wave of undead creatures toward the sealed doors leading from the hangar. Crimson and jade runes lit up around the platform at his approach, the elevator rising gently before it lurched sideways into the bowels of the ship. 

Nhilus’ voice cut through the silence like a razor. “Xevayia, is my flagship at one hundred percent efficiency?”

An image feed of the bridge flashed into view on the surface of the platform. Nhilus glanced down to take in the face that had been guiding him for the last few minutes of his rebirth. “Yes, my Archon. How long do you think it will take the primitives to discover that this is a fleet docking station?” One ship, but that was enough to carry the Kabal back to Commorragh in one piece. 

Nhilus smiled viciously. “They will not, until their city is all but ash left in the wake of our launch into real space.” He remembered the battle that was witnessed while still trapped inside his pod. “Who meddles in my hallow crypt? I can smell the ooze of She Who Thirst and her kin stained on this place. It is not safe for hiding anymore, we must make our exit swiftly.”

Xevayia bowed her head a fraction. “I have readied our lone vessel for departure, whenever you’re ready.”

“Not yet.” The Archon quipped. “The pawns of Chaos must have come seeking only one desire. I would reward them for their faith and let them have it. What of the Craftworlders, the false kin that slept with us?”

Xevayia appeared uncomfortable by the question, as if wondering how she could side step around an unpleasant answer. To tread lightly before your betters is always the wiser decision. “The majority have passed away in their pods, unsurprising given the fact that they’ve been entombed here far longer than us.”

Nhilus openly scowled. “How much is the majority?”

“Fifty-five percent, my Archon.” Xevayia said.

A predatory grin crept onto Nhilus’ scarred, but youthful features, and then croaked with raspy laughter. “That will give us an edge. They will still number in the thousands, however, and will no doubt put up a spirited resistance.”

Xevayia’s voice answered back with a slight warning in her tone. “My Archon, the web way portal the Craftworlders are guarding have been lost for centuries. If you reopen the gateway, no one is certain what will spill out.”

“Your opinion matters little,” Nhilus replied snidely. “We will not be here to reap the tally of our devises. Let the warp spawn kill them all. Go ahead and open the emergency web way gates. Gather my finest warriors who are keen for some sport. I would meet our enemies in open combat, before we vanish from this world.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Chapter Seven: Battle for the Glorious Dead 

At first, Mirathir was convinced that the awaking Dark Kin inside the Ghost Crypts were simply throwing their lives away in defiance. The further the Wardja advanced into the subterranean labyrinth, the harsher and stiffer the resistance came. Naked fanatics without a shred of perception beyond an attack were being replaced with larger and larger bands of Kabalite Warriors and other supporting troops. The pathways within the catacombs twisted and turned, blossomed and then closed again. By the time the rest of her cultist army had found their way into the crypts, there was an obvious point of contest between twisted Eldar and soul--sworn cultists: the Bridge of the Leviathan. 

The elegant wraithbone bridge rose from a vast stretch of abyssal darkness, writhing and uneven, like the back of a massive emerald and obsidian serpent. It was vast enough for Mirathir to gather four thousand of her forces and march down the barbed and spiked walls of the Leviathan for an attempt to claim the route as her own. Leman Russes and gigantic Defiles were driven forward between marching columns of sleek armored cultists masked by demonic face guards. The Hydra anti-air vehicles razed the sickly green skies in preparation for the coming storm emerging from the sleek, intimidating fortress at the Leviathan's end. 

Dark Kin warriors from the Kabal of the Blinded Blades frothed and screamed their defiance from the northbound defenses along the serpent bridge. A great tide of barbs, colorful accents, and sickly neon green lights watched the approaching horde of Chaos from behind great barricaded walls and massive turrets. The underground cavern surrounding the Leviathan's Bridge was vast, small fleets of anti-gravity vehicles hovered over the amassed force from Commorragh. Squadrons of nimble fighter craft, jetbikes, and Hellion rift--raft circled in between the formations. 

Mirathir quickly rose one hand into the air from the first ranks of her forces, an iron fist that controlled her entire army. "Tell the legion to stop, Nyst."

The demonic Centaur behind Mirathir split its maw in an ear rending scream, a raw wave of emotion swept over the first ranks of the Forlorn's Beginning. The legion of Cultists marched for another twelve feet before grinding to an abrupt halt several kilometers beyond the reach of the Blinded Blades' defense. The Dark Eldar continued to rile themselves into a frenzy of reckless slaughter, growing in boldness and ferocity the closer Mirathir marched her forces into their teeth. 

Theodora eyed the Blinded Blades skeptically, whispering from Mirathir's fallen shadow. "My master, why do we halt? These fools need are too occupied gathering their courage, they will not fight well. We should attack."

"Patience, Acolyte." Mirathir purred, her lips curled in a cat--like smirk. "We should hear what they have to say, at the very least. One of them wishes to speak with me. I can sense it on the foul winds."

A demonic grumble, one of displeasure, Mirathir realized, rippled in Nyst's throat. "Certainly, there shall be some trickery involved. I trust none of these Eldar with the simplest negotiations, let alone an open battle. Especially one in which they maintain a distinct advantage. Why not deploy the majority of your forces? A quick crushing is usually the best, I have discovered, when opposed by multiple armies at once."

Mirathir uplifted her gaze in satisfaction at the sight of a Venom Chariot detaching from the armada of Raiders and Ravager tanks, in the general direction of the chaos army. "Do not fret, my pet, you shall turn the odds in our favor, as you always do. This so--called commander shall meet me alone. Do not follow me." Mirathir departed from the front ranks of her forces, treading along the hilly and winding bridge for some meters. The Dark Kin riding the Venom noticed her and instantly made to intercept. Mirathir felt no fear as the small skimmer passed overhead in three passes, before finally setting down mere feet from the Raven Prophet. 

The female Eldar aboard the transport was no Archon, her armor wore little markings of status save three silver runes in the Commorragh Dialect on her chest. Her armor was a deep oceanic color with striking green accents, covered in barbs and blades in enough number that only a madman would attempt to cleave through her armor with a blade. Such an attack would lop away limbs in a moment. Slender, armored fingers picked up the majestic helm sitting squarely on her shoulders. The long silver plume came away from a pale face formed by a long lineage of royalty. Her skin and features were undiluted with the genes of the slave races: large violet eyes, a straight and narrow nose, full lips shaded into the color of luscious burgundy, and flowing silver and raven black hair that fell to the back of her knees. The form of her body was full and voluptuous, not slightly emaciated like the naked warriors Mirathir had been fighting throughout the crypts. A daughter of one of Commorragh's few noble houses: the truest of the True Kin. 

The Dracon licked her lips lustfully, absorbing every facet of Mirathir with a hidden sense of longing. A cruel smile graced her lips, realizing that Mirathir had certainly noticed. Her voice was smooth, boisterous, and laden with ancient pride. "Forgive my appraisal, many of my kindred would say I have a strange and exotic taste for all things of unparalleled beauty. And an Eldar fallen to the schemes of your irrelevant God, still sane and unscathed like a gem hidden beneath a volcanic waste, is nothing to simply disregard. Perhaps I shall fight for you tonight?"

Mirathir returned the Dark Kin’s pitiless grin. "Good. You know that night has finally come for you, Dracon. All of your worst nightmares have come to consume the great hunters under the moon. The night has turned against you, and now, you hide behind your final fortress. Your control over this place is slipping and soon I shall pay my tribute to my 'irrelevant God' with the souls of all of your brave, fearless warriors. Ha! Irrelevant? How do you even know who I have been sent by? I could be the envoy of She Who Forever Thirsts, the siren to your eternity of damnation."

The Dracon nodded knowingly, a rueful sneer on her lips. "You truly serve none of the four, believe me I know, I have seen the destruction such a taint can unleash. Otherwise, you would be a simple pawn and I would lose what little respect I have mustered for you. My name is Xehia. If you wish to battle my forces on this bridge, then you should know who I am. The Dracon who shall claim your life and your freedom, and put your army to the sword. Now, shall I move my pawns against yours?"

Mirathir's eyes turned to slits. "A last ditch effort to repel us from this place? Once I have the bridge, I shall have access to the Webway Portal beyond it. I know you intend to open it should you be repelled and defeated. I wonder what lies beyond?"

Xehia scoffed. "The Muses take your eyes! What do you want from the True Kin? Riches? Glory and fame?"

Mirathir laughed softly. "I am the Raven Prophet of the new word, called Mirathir. I desire the power hidden within this Crypt, but I doubt you know anything about what I wish. I grow tired of conversing, shall we spill the blood of our followers or not?"

Xehia hefted her shoulders in a shrug, turning her back to Mirathir, and then stepped aboard her Venom chariot. The pilot immediately ascended into the skies, only the last traces of the Dracon's words left on the wind. "Hmm... more religious nonsense, our kind have a knack for turning out such twisted creations of Eldar virtue." The craft turned around and darted back towards the Dark Kin lines. 

The Raven Prophet barely blinked when the first volley of wall mounted turret fire swept around the bridge around her. Long stretches of dark energy immediately closed in, engulfed her in a storm of firepower that instantly blinded those who had looked upon it. Hundreds of cultists fell screaming, clutching at their ruined eyes even as the smoke began to clear from where the energy weapons had struck Mirathir. The Raven Prophet remained, hands outstretched to power the shield of warp energy protecting her from the repeated attacks from the barricades. 

Theodora's command to commence the attack echoed through the silent void of the under dark. Soon silence was replaced by the tumult and cacophony of warfare on a large scale. Defilers and armored tanks threw volleys of shells into the sleek barricades of the defenders, covering the charge of thousands of cultists rushing into the storm of fire. The armadas of anti-gravity vehicles slipped from anchor, their weapons blasting into the thick of formations, escorted by hundreds of jet bike and Hellion scum descending toward the fray. 

Mirathir kept her eyes shut against the storm, her hands raised, maintaining her protection as literally hundreds of her followers were obliterated around her. Dark Energy scythed through her charging ranks and occasionally attempted to strike her down again and again. A storm of white runes circled around the golden aura her body projected, kindling sweat and a powerful emotion of blood lust that she could not shake. The voices of demons intermingled with her mind, bleeding an ethereal power into her own psychic potential. The shield of flames and warp stuff crackled and blistered, expanding exponentially as the desire for bloodshed and destruction that only a great and powerful demon could possess overtook her. The flames peeled away skin, flesh, and bone from her servants that came too close to her person, possibly dozens. The fanatic cultists broke away from her increasingly unstable power, even as her power continued escalate over and over. 

Like insects attracted to a bright light in the darkness, squadrons of Raiders, Hellions, and Jetbikes sped toward the source. Yet Mirathir's legions were there, bolts of warp flame and crackling lightning from her Psykers were sent through the emerald skies. Their powers tore slick craft from the air and annihilated riders from their mechanical mounts. Volleys of las-fire beat them away, but the Dark Kin continued to come back for more punishment. 

The Raven Prophet remained in place, screaming with the rage of the Blood God, fixated in place as if she was bound by invisible chains. Thick crimson blood seeped from between her fingernails, her nose, and her eyes, every drop like a sporadic spike in her psychic strength. Nameless warriors began to take up the chanting of her name, sensing something momentous was going to happen. With an inhuman strength, Mirathir struggled against her invisible chains, her hands struggling to claw hopelessly toward the skies. 

Not hopelessly, the Raven Prophet soon realized, as the immaterium began to bleed into the sickly green darkness of the cavern above the Dark Kin's entrenched army. The ooze that spilled in from the other world was a purplish ether, swirling and expanding as a gaping hole in the ozone. The Dark Eldar did not seem deterred by the flashy display of power, but soon they would have something to lament. The tear in reality continued to swell and as it did, the more instability threatened to snatch away Mirathir's control. When Mirathir could fully out--stretch her arms toward the rift, still howling with unbridled power, she curled her hands into fists and pulled with all of her might as if she tore away reality herself. 

The gesture was the last part of the spell, the air was filled with the earth quaking laughter of the Blood God as the rift suddenly ignited with same white hot flames and warp stuff that made up Mirathir's shield. No demons came roaring through the tear in reality, only pillars and meteors of hellish fire that rained down in a great storm upon the unsuspecting Dark Eldar. The Forlorn's Beginning sent up a great cheer as flaming meteors swatted squadrons of Raiders and Ravagers from the skies. Jet bike Reavers and Hellion riders simply melted from the heat of nearby meteors. Dark energy turrets were pulverized into slag. Minutes passed. The pillars of flames sent from the Blood God descended upon the barricades and became a seething sea of fire and screams. The mighty walls of the Leviathan's Bridge defenses ran with rivulets of boiling blood and liquefied wraith bone. Mirathir's warriors ran forward, reinvigorated by the sight of the unleashed fury of Chaos. 

The shield dissipated around Mirathir in a moment, Theodora calmly strode to her side the next. "That commander you met, perhaps we are fortunate and she is dead. The Eldar shall break swiftly afterward, we should wait and see."

"Not probable." Mirathir quipped, dissatisfied. "This battle is just beginning. I only evened the playing field."


----------



## Myen'Tal

***​Code-Lavender had done more than simply save the lives of Ayriel and his entourage of Spirit Seers, he knew something had stirred deep in whatever supervised the entirety of the Ghost Crypts. The haunting moans echoing from the maws of demons was eradicated in a glorious light, and the alien screeches that followed no longer plagued his every waking step. Dormant halls, laden with stasis pods and slumbering Eldar souls, now shone with a new life, lit by an artificial power that easily replicated a midday sun. Where fresh blood seeped through the recesses and grooves of hallow gateways, a strange lavender fluid swept away every trace of life fluids. Aryriel, Lriean, Qunalan, Iraa, Mae, Kasilienesh, and his escort of Warlocks briskly walked through paths once thought lifeless, saluted by dozens of Guardian Defenders and Dire Avengers that had awoken ahead of everyone else, None of them recognized the Eldar that their Autarch marched ahead of, but they did not question their presence. 

Tarianna’s disembodied voice swept through the circular chamber that the team currently found themselves in. _“Autarch Muran, thirty seven percent of our warriors have successfully awoken through the cryo-stasis. We will near fifty percent functionality of our forces within the hour. How shall we proceed to reclaim our base of operations?”_

Autarch Muran towered a head over even Aryriel, his vermillion and creamy white armor so splendid and detailed that everyone around him instantly appeared inferior in status and ranking. Upon his back was an elegant warp generator that the Warp Spiders used to leap in and from the immaterium. Within his sword hand was a great spear, decorated with pulsating, violet runes along the haft of the weapon and ended with a bladed tip that looked as if it had been dipped into a volcanic furnace. He wore a helmet carved with an image of Khaine’s howling face, blackened and cracked with an intricate detail that resembled molten lava. He did not pause in his movement at Tarianna’s words, instead deciding to answer her question with another one. “One issue at a time, my dear, give me a status report on the effect of Code Lavender.”

_“Very well, Autuarch.”_ Tarianna sighed in resignation. _“Ninety—five of breaches exposing us to the Warp have been effectively contained and dismantled. Most hostile forces not of this reality have already been purged by Code Lavender. They are no longer a threat. Our main concern should now lie with our intruders and the Dark Kin, Autarch.”_

“Right,” Muran expelled a single breath. He spared a glance over his shoulder in Mae’s direction. “You must forgive our rush, but if the Dark Kin manage to scramble to full functionality before us, our time awakened could prove incredibly short. Have you considered my proposal, Spirit Seer Mae?”

Gentle laughter wafted through Mae’s war helm, she inclined her head toward Muran in agreement. “I have, your lordship, but I am afraid that I only bring a small fraction of the Imperial Army with us. In truth, I should not spare you a single soul, considering there is a planetary invasion happening above the surface, even as we speak. And if that wasn’t enough, I am not even certain about who you or your warriors are.”

Muran’s expression was unreadable through his helmet, but the calmness in his body movement relayed his relaxed and understanding mood. He indicated the Ghost Crypts and his surrounding warriors with a sweep of his hands. “So you have warned, but alone, none of us present in this place could ever hope to prevail, army or no! You have no reason to fight by my side and I have no reason to fight by yours, except that you are an enemy of my enemy. Should I include you as a friend? You would be the only one I can turn to at this point. How many have you brought to fight with you?”

Mae shrugged. “Lriean?”

The Eldar Relic Hunter stepped forward, receiving a number of quizzical stares at his Imperial Guard uniform, he paid them no heed as he bowed low before Muran. “Nearly two thousand fighting men with armored support, Autarch. We expected trouble down here, but not three armies looking to annihilate one another. I doubt such a force would be enough to change the inevitable: certain death for us, should we seek conflict with the Dark Kin and the fanatics of Chaos.”

“Do you know what this place is, Lriean Tarithinon?” The Autarch pointed toward Lriean’s chest with his long spear. He changed his target every few seconds, going across the expedition’s commanders. “Do you, Seer Mae? Or you, Chosen of Khaine? There are ten thousand Eldar souls here, roughly. Some have been lost to time and the trifling of demons, others simply by accident. Look around you, this is what remains of a great Webway Nexus, hundreds of individual portals that stretch across the galaxy. I am Autarch Muran, the commander of the last remnants of the Craftworld Myriell. Some leagues above us, the Kabal of the Blinded Blades no longer remains dormant. Once many centuries ago, our two warring nations came together for a great battle against the surging Arch-Enemy in the sector. The resulting battle was disastrous, our home world, Myriell, was destroyed, along with hundreds of web way portals with worth beyond value. The survivors of the first Tarmathon War landed planet side on this world, what you call Tyrannus, and harbored themselves in this subterranean city, one of three sleeping under the vermin hives of the Imperium. We were to awaken sometime beyond the forty-first millennium and arise to see if the Imperium had been defeated so we could reclaim our system. Yet that does not seem to be the case.” He turned his gaze toward Lriean. “From what Craftworld do you and your friends hail?”

“Teyl-Jhen, my Autarch.”

“Teyl-Jhen.” Muran reiterated the words, then cackled boastfully, relieved and joyful. “Ah, Ulthwe’s sister Craftworld? So after all of these years, she still survives and fights today. My heart sings to hear such good tidings. I see the Arch-Enemy are threatening this sector once again, but now it lies in Mon-Keigh hands. I would simply take my warriors and be rid of this place forever, if our escape routes were not blockaded and most of the Ghost Crypt fallen to the Arch—Enemy. Spirit Seer, perhaps if we joined forces against the Dark Kin and the Arch-enemy here, I would be obliged to aid your attempt to save the lesser human race still fighting upon the surface. Though I will simply say now, I shall not fight a war for you. As you pledge your forces to one conflict, so to shall I pledge mine for one battle, no more and no less.”

Iraa interjected. “Tell me, Muran, what is it about this place that makes it worth guarding for centuries? I understand that all of the Eldar lives hidden away here are a great reason enough, but is there something more to this than preserving the Eldar and the Webway gates?”

Muran nodded, his grunt grim.“During the first war for Tarmathon, the Webway within the sector became unstable, became overran. The citizens and warriors we sent toward safety never made the journey, and the only reason we knew was because a select few were able to make it back into the settlement. We were forced to destroy many of them, to protect the sector and ourselves, but the portals that were calmest, we maintained in secret, but did not dare travel through them in case they became corrupted. We were forced to go into mass cryo-stasis when one of those gates began spewing warp ether into settlement, and demons the likes we had never laid eyes upon descended upon us the moment we thought we were safest. We were not able to destroy that gate, but instead sealed it away, deep within this ruin, where even Tarianna cannot reach.”

“Lriean.” Mae whispered, her interest piqued. “Perhaps this could be what the Arch-Enemy is seeking?”

“Honored Mae,” Lriean protested. “I already said my opinion on the matter, there’s no way we can simply defeat an entire army sent to capture this place. Not to mention a second one that has always been here. Reinforcements would be days away and if what you said about a planetary invasion is coming true, there’s no way a single soldier would be redirected here to help us, not in time, at least.”

The Spirit Seer shook her head disapprovingly. “Everyone, listen to me. There is no chance of winning this war if we cannot deny our enemies their prize. I understand the odds are against us, both the vast majority of us belong to a race that has always faced the impossible and lived to tell of our deeds. And for those of you that are not, you have a planet and potentially an entire sector at risk. Aiding the last of Myriell’s populace will in turn grant their aid in a pivotal battle that I foresee is coming soon. If we cannot destroy the Arch-Enemy fighting underground, then we already have no hope of rescuing Tyrannus. If we cannot force the Dark Kin into submission, then we shall simply become victims to a fate far worse than death. As Lriean has mentioned, defeating the enemy conventionally will amount to too many sacrifices. So I propose that, with the help of every Seer available, we locate the main agitator of the events happening in this catacomb and cut the head from the writhing beast. Success or failure, we do not have the time to spare to foresee which one shall be ours this day. But we must act, none—the—less.”

“My Autarch, Seer Mae,” Kasilienesh pushed through the crowd of Warlocks and fell onto his knees. “Long have we foreseen the disaster that is upon us. We are as dedicated as you are in bringing stability back to this part of the Galaxy. The Warlocks of Ulthwe’ are yours to command.” The rest of Kasilienesh’s comrades followed his lead and bowed similarly, reciting their allegiance.”

Aryriel fell on one knee before the warriors of Myriell. “I am unaware of my own fate, but I shall do what I can to bring us victory. My blade is yours, Mae, whatever help it may be.”

Jelann joined Aryriel in the center of the chamber. “The Inquisition will honor the alliance between our peoples. We shall fight to the last drop of human blood to defend our world and see this foe from within eradicated.”

Lriean inclined his head respectfully, a wicked smile on his lips. “And, of course, you have the wits of my crew and our expertise. This is our mission and we’ll follow it to the end, so long as we’re paid.”

Muran flipped his spear downward and thrust it into cold wraithbone, he also fell on one knee and bowed before Mae. “I owe you a debt for aiding my people. You could have turned your back on us, in order to save the lives of your own. However you may fight today, I promise my warriors shall fight with two fold the strength against your enemies above. I look forward to entering combat once more, beside you.”

The elder Spirit Seer glanced around the chamber, noticing that each of Muran’s assembled warriors were similarly bowed before her. “The hand of Fate is random indeed, to reward us with such a reunion. It is a shame that it must be on such terms, but at least we may fight alongside each other, as in days of old. It is settled then. Lriean, Jelann, and Qunalan, assemble the Imperial Expedition, ready them for battle. Everyone else shall be fighting with Myriell’s Warhost, which we are still unsure of their current numbers.”

“Five thousand in total,” Muran quipped immediately. “We should have reached forty percent full functionality, so that is two thousand warriors available to fight right now, with support, of course. I am confident in the numbers we already possess for the current mission. I do not want to commit my entire force to this battle, anyway, or I would risk complete destruction.”

Mae nodded in agreement. “Then we must make do. Let us prepare for war.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The Bridge of the Leviathan writhed with unnatural flames, brought by a supernatural storm and things far more physical. The battle between the Forlorn’s Beginning and the Kabal of the Blinded Blades was fully joined. Mirathir observed hundreds of her own throwing grappling hooks over the tall barricades that brimmed with poisonous splinter rounds. Fanatic human after human climbed up the wraithbone walls in spite of the casualties they received for gaining every inch. The cultists answered with numerous, withering volleys of laser fire while other weapons attempted to swat anti-gravity vehicles swarming the skies. 

Raiders filled with half naked Dark Kin passed overhead in quick sweeps, each one unloading an entire squad of gladiatorial Wyches into the midst of the charging cultists. Reavers swept down on their jetbikes, their blade vanes cleaving through bone and flesh without effort. Hellions dived into the thick of battle, impaling unsuspecting victims with their double bladed weapons. The Kabalites strode upon the still flame wreathed walls with such an arrogant confidence that Mirathir could not help be angered by their defiant bravado. 

The first barricades were already near being overran and yet the Kabalite Warriors fought on with grim determination. Their bladework with daggers or even the barbs and blades of their armor far exceeded anything Mirathir could throw into them. Even her Wardja could not stand up to their martial prowess. The only thing she could rely on were her numbers and her closest allies, of course. She needed to be in that pivotal battle, destroying the new faith’s foes. 

The Raven Prophet stroked her greater demon’s hair from upon her animal shaped back. “Nyst, take us in, quick and easy.” She glanced back at Theodora, who was grappling onto her for dear life. “Try not to get killed before proving your worth today.”

The Greater Demon shrieked an unearthly cry and broke into a thunderous charge through the loosened ranks of the Forlorn’s Beginning. Everywhere they passed, banners were raised with renewed vigor and the surrounding army surged forward. Demonic engines that noticed them made to cover their approach to the battle, the shells of Defilers and Forgefiends ripping through Dark Eldar skimmers that passed too close to their commander. The battlefield was already littered with over a thousand fallen from the Chaos ranks. Mirathir could not tell how many had died behind the barricades, but she knew the enemy was bleeding. That was good enough for now.

Mirathir pointed through the gap in placed purposefully between the walls. “Between the barricades!”

The shadow of the barricades had fallen over them by now. Splinter fire tore into the assaulting ranks of the Forlorn’s Beginning, tearing them from the walls with precise volleys. More and more came on to join the fateful few that had already made it over the top. The vast majority of Dark Lance turrets had been ripped from their emplacements by the claws of Defilers. The enemy soldiers fighting up there were vulnerable now.

The Centaur creature merely shook her head, slowing into a half gallop. “I must decline your order, Master, it is certain death for you.”

Mirathir stubbornly kicked her mount like a horse. The Demonic entity did not seem amused. “And it is certain death for my entire army if the Dark Kin continue to hold it. We must lead the charge where the fighting is thickest if any of these men are going to follow me further. Theodora and I can defend ourselves. Now go, I command you!”

Nyst snorted derisively, her throat filling with mocking laughter. “It is your lives.” 

The Dark Kin had built small metallic stakes some feet within the gate, large enough to impale a number of inhuman beasts should the enemy be smart enough to deploy them. They were untouched, surrounded only by a floor filled with dead cultists that had attempted to breach the defense. The Cultists that had shied away from the killing zone began to amass once again at the sight of their commander marching towards it. The Bringer of the White Flames, they called her. A champion of the four to wield such power. Forward. Mirathir shouted over the den of battle and Nyst led the charge. The screams of hundreds of blade wielding cultists over took the razor edged cries of the Dark Kin as they rushed in after her. 

There were no Dark Eldar defending the barricades between the walls. Instead there stood a phalanx of pallid skinned, half naked monstrosities that looked as if they had been stitched together over and over. They braced against each other in a wall of corpse—like beings, holding their cleavers and hooked blades in anticipation for the fight to come. Mirathir extended her hands to form another bubble shield that encompassed Theodora and her in its sapphire aura. Acid spewing weapons were unleashed as the Greater Demon they rode literally smashed aside the first row of stakes in her way.

Nyst actually shrieked at the touch of the liquid and her impregnable hide came sloughing off on the tough, scaled surface. The result was worst for the Cultists that had followed her in there, fully aware that they were going to die terrible deaths for a greater reward. Exposed skeletons covered in liquefied remains tumbled to the ground wherever these weapons struck and in vast amounts. The Demonic Champion opened her fanged maw and vomited forth a stream of liquid warp flame. The phalanx writhed and shrunk backwards as the first half a dozen ranks in the center of the formation writhed as they burned alive. 

The Wardja and the Forlorn’s Beginning charged through the gap, hacking down any survivors as they pushed through the warp fire. They collided into the line of Wracks with a force that left something to desired, some bounced off of the wall of pallid muscle, others just hacked and hacked trying to spill as much blood as they could. The Wracks answered with slow but precise attacks, pushing their way into the human wave breaking against their bulk. 

Theodora weaved her hands of possession and drove dozens among the chemically enhanced specimens to such heights of frenzy that some could simply not be stopped. They threw their comrades around as if they were sacks of wheat, their blades lopped and severed until their armor was covered in unnatural gore. 

Lightning crackled and spat from Mirathir’s free hand, striking Kabalites amassing on the battlements that overlooked the assault. A handful simply exploded with direct hits, others suffered fatal burns or electrocution. She kept the shield strong in the other hand, reflecting a storm of splinter fire desperately trying to claw them down. 

Nyst waded into the battle despite the horrific acid wounds across her lower body. Her mighty talon claws on her feet came crashing down, maiming and crushing anything it could swipe beneath it. Her hands tore open flesh sacks filled with potent toxins, causing her to hiss in frustration. Warp flame continued to spill from her mouth, immolating dozens that charged into her, attempting to hack into her wounds. 

“Master!” Nsyt roared over the chaos. “I sense a familiar smell approaching!”

Mirathir scowled. “Imperials?” 

“No.” The Demon bellowed with laughter. “Something far more recent, coming straight for us.”

“Xehia!” Mirathir shouted, twin streaks of lightning cutting through the skies toward the Venom Chariot speeding towards her. “Die already!”

One of the blasts missed its mark, the other blinked from existence as it smashed against the chariot’s flicker field. The skimmer opened fire with its splinter cannon, punching into Nyst’s upper body and causing her to reel back several steps. As the vehicle swept to the right, Mirathir picked out several warriors in heavily marked and modified armor, carrying an assortment of weapons that looked far more menacing then what the average Dark Kin should be wielding. She had heard of these ‘Trueborn’ before, a branch of the warrior elite from Commorragh.

Xehia’s laughter wafted over the screams of battle as the Venom suddenly pulled over the Greater Demon. The Dracon leapt away from her bodyguard, wicked glaive shimmering in sickly green light as she flicked the activation rune. She slipped through the shield of sorcery the moment Mirathir was able to stand on her feet. Xehia caught Mirathir with her elbow, dodging Thedora’s fireball and managing to dissect her neatly in two before falling into the thick of the melee battle with the Raven Prophet caught in her arm. Theodora’s torso fell away without a word, Mirathir felt her anguish overtake her, blocking out the pain from falling onto one her cultists, Xehia’s full weight atop of her. 

Xehia took the Raven forcefully by the jaw with belied force, moving into a position to snap her neck. Her grip was harder than the caress of iron around the wrists, no doubt fueled by combat drugs. The Wracks fighting around her suddenly doubled in their efforts, pushing to form a clear space for their archon to perform without hindrance. The Dracon’s voice came out in an agonizing sound, her helm cutting into Mirathir’s ears like a sharp knife. “You should have taken me up on my offer, you would have lived much longer that way. Perhaps a couple more days in my collection. Perhaps I will just take your eyes and regrow you? That sounds like a fine idea.” She cackled maniacally, holding Mirathir’s rebelling face in her hand even as she raised a pair of fingers to the fallen Eldar’s eyes. 

Mirathir spoke a few words in diabolic and her fingers pushed out with irresistible force, throwing Xehia into the nearest Wrack and leaving gashes on Mirathir’s cheeks. The Dracon snickered defiantly and rolled to her feet in a quick roll. The power weapon in her hand crackled and snapped, she gave the glaive a few swings. “I did not think it would be that easy. I wonder how good your swordplay is.” 

A Wrack leapt backwards behind a savage elbow from his commander, Xehia snorted, and then waltzed through the gap between her and Mirathir. She swung upwards in a half—hearted strike, one that Mirathir could easily dodge. She followed up with two more attacks, each one faster than the last. The Trueborn stared on in silence as the Raven sidestepped the second strike and blocked the third with a psychic shield. “Not bad, but incredibly boring.” 

Mirathir allowed floating runes to swarm over her right hand, she drew her ceremonial sword from its scabbard and white flames rushed up the blade at her touch. The runes carved into it glowed with a blackened aura, promising death to those who touched it. Without speaking another word, she pushed forward with her shield hand, pushing Xehia back several steps before she leaped away from Mirathir’s reach. Xehia slipped away from a second attempt to drive her back and answered with a flick of her blade, flying playfully just beyond reach of Mirathir’s midriff. 

Mirathir spat onto the bridge, smiling her disappointed look. “Have you come to play games after all? This is no way to win a battle.” She lifted her hands and geysers of white flame sprung from them, engulfing Xehia in a torrent that was impossible to dodge. 

“I have a gift especially for you.” The flames receded, leaving only the murky darkness of an activated shadow field where the flames had struck. Mirathir could not peer through the flickering field, but the howling shriek that emitted from it sent her onto her knees with her hands clutching at her bleeding ears. A winged entity shot through the shadow field and flew over the battle, Mirathir thought it would leave after a moment of lingering. Yet it sensed her psychic mind and instantly rerouted back towards her. 


The physical essence of the Arch Angel shimmered into nothing, but the presence remained. The pain of a demon attempting to invade her mind sent the Raven Prophet screaming helplessly. She could only reinforce the gates to her mind, she could only resist against this powerful force. She glanced up with gritted teeth, catching Xehia standing there with her weapon lowered, watching curiously. Mirathir screamed louder, Xehia spun on her heel, and then disappeared into the throng of her Wrack servants.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Beyond the Bridge of the Leviathan, the last fortress of the Dark Kin within the Ghost Crypt was proud and unbent. Most of Xehia's guards marched off to war in her defence, but a choice few chose to remain behind, observing the battle from afar. At the foot of the Leviathan’s bridge, sits a sealed vault, large enough to hide away a massive vortex leading into the myriad depths of the web way. The stench of ozone lingered over the sealed entrance, growing thicker with every passing hour. The Dark Kin remember what awaits on the other side. Something dark, terrible, and thirsting for souls. None of the remaining guards realize their fate until it is far too late. They do not flee from conflict or scream in fear, but gather at the gates. One last phalanx formed for their lord and Dark city.

The brilliant light of the web way swirled and crackled into life, it shone through the cracks of the closed vault. The earth trembled beneath their feet, quietly at first, but now the ground is shaken by the rumblings of something far beyond mortal comprehension. The vault trembles. The light now burst from the seams. The doorway that has been locked for over a millennia threatened to give way. Then… there is a choir of voices intoning as one, ethereal and malevolent, rising up in vicious howls and war cries. 

The Lady of the Tower spoke and the vault is undone. The explosion obliterates flesh, armor, and wraithbone. There is no screaming, only the sound of souls being silenced forever. Those few loyal warriors that remain fire their splinter weapons with wild abandon into the pulsing waves of blinding white light. Their howls go unanswered, but shadows begin to emerge from the web way gate. First there are three, twelve, four dozen, and then a hundred. Massive, centaur like creatures with bodies of humanoid females fused with the bodies of lions and reptilian creatures. Each one is a looming creation of long fangs, sharp claws, long talons, and liquid fire breathing maws. 

The Web way portal is large enough to fit an Eldar titan with little room to spare, but the Lady of the Tower slipped through without effort, nearly as tall as a Wraithlord. A sapphire skinned giantess that stood on two hooves, impossibly slender as an Eldar, the musculature and physiology of an Ork, and the cruel majesty and features of a Queen amongst demons. The right side of her chest, waist, and left leg were cloaked in a pure white garment, inlaid with gold and inset with emeralds and sapphires. Her left breast was covered by a long column of raven hair, penetrated by a pair of long, curving horns that jutted from her forehead. She commanded three demonic relic blades in three lithe arms, the fourth held up a great spell tome, crackling with eldritch power. And her eyes, they were as hollow and dark as oblivion.

The Lady of the Tower raised her three blades in the air and eldritch lightning struck from each of them. The pitiful guards of the tower are annihilated one by one, their souls feasted upon. When all are dead, the centaur horde is finally unleashed.

NOTE: Edited that last part, tense usage should now be more uniform .


----------



## Beaviz81

I loved this read. Though one thing seemed a bit odd. I mean


Myen'Tal said:


> And her eyes, they were the darkness that lurked within the soul.


I would have taken a page from Conan the Bsrbarian and said the void between the stars instead of soul, but thats me.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Thanks, Beavis, always good to hear from you. I will look into changing that sentence with something else :grin:.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Chapter Eight: Final Countdown

Governor Bastien Nikolaou sighed in resignation, somberly watching his Capital writhe in a thousand infernos across a hundred levels of his hive city, Helike. The orbital dockyards in the sky were raining down across Tyrannus in pieces. The Thousand Sons armada loomed over the besieged planet from twisted and bruised skies, as if the collective gaze of some apathetic God, content to allow an entire planet to burn. The skies were filled with thousands of aerial craft, combatting each other for the fate of the planet. The situation on the ground was even bleaker than these one sided engagements. 

Bastien stroked his auburn beard, spotted with grey, as he continued to watch the battle for Helike from the glassine windowpane of his Council Chambers. He spoke in his richly refined, baritone voice. “There must be another alternative, Inquisitor Arruns. I cannot accept that there is no appealing option to protect the citizens of my world, of my city! Look at her burn! This day has come far too soon! A fate that you were supposed to help this planet avoid, Inquisitor. You have failed.”

Inquisitor Arruns and his surrounding generals remained behind the tactical map of Hive Helike, bent and pouring over each facet of material as it streamed in from the battlefield. The Inquisitor grunted in dissatisfaction. “This battle is not over yet, Governor Nikolaou. Though it is regrettable, protecting your palace is the most essential key to winning this siege. The Thousand Sons are certainly attacking Helike to ensure they sever the governmental head from the rest of Tyrannus. Helike has already fallen into chaos, her regiments are scattered and trying to defend whatever they can manage. A full scale demonic invasion is sweeping through the upper city and is threatening to surround us overnight. And the Thousand Sons are clearing a landing zone too close to the Palace for comfort. We must rally whatever resources we can and defend the fortress to the last man, Governor, and that is the bleak truth.”

One of Tyrannus’ P.D.F. Commanders grunted his approval. “The Inquisitor is correct, if planetary leadership falls so early in this siege, Tyrannus will not last much longer. The palace must hold at all cost. A fact made more feasible if the Order of the Emperor’s Grace would send their reinforcements from Gythium.”

Arruns pressed a finger onto the holographic interface of the map and zoomed in on the Adeptus Sororitas Fortress Monastery. “Any word on what is holding them up?”

Bastien scoffed. “I have received a couple of hails, their Canoness and taskforce has yet to arrive from a heretical hunt somewhere in the Hive, Inquisitor.”

Arruns looked up from the tactical map, immediately alert. “Governor, when were you going to say anything about this?”

“I just assumed that—“

“Never mind,” Arruns quipped. “Someone get a Tech—Adept in here and several servitors! Lord Commander!” He called from over his shoulder as he strode toward the Council Chamber doors. “Take over the defense of the palace walls, gather every spare soldier you can and ready the defense. Acolyte Alaric, assemble my personal entourage and enough transports to move an army across the city.”

Two of the Governor’s personal elite slammed shut the chamber doors behind the Inquisitor and his hurried Acolyte. Alaric had been dissecting emergency broadcasts and tedious information for the better part of three hours. Arruns had to give the man his due, he worked well under pressure. Alaric snapped off his comm. link and addressed his superior. “My Lord Inquisitor, I have just received word about Captain Justilius…”

“About him?” Arruns snorted, aghast. “What about from him?”

Alaric shook his head. “He’s dead, Arruns, his Battle Barge was annihilated by the Thousand Sons armada. However, he tasked three Sundered Legion marines with the bringing back of several important heretical rogues before he was killed. I believe you gave them orders to take these individuals into custody? They have teleported back onto palace grounds and our awaiting further orders.”

Arruns cursed beneath his breath, he did not have any time for this. “Send an escort to take the prisoners into our custody and put them in the dungeons. Tell those Astartes that they should report to the palace walls and defend it to the last man.” He paused in his orders for a split second. “Are there any Eldar still here?”

“Just one, sir.” Alaric hissed. “She killed a servant, apparently and was relocated to the dungeon.”

Arruns replied, “Who was the superior of that servant?”

“Uhh… Philemon Demarchis, sire.”

“Well,” The inquisitor bubbled with grim laughter. “Philemon is a heretic, so technically, that Eldar did us a favor. Send someone to go fetch her and send her to me, I could still have use of that alien. I will be at the armory to collect my things.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The torture that went on below the darker chambers of the Governor’s palace had swiftly come to a standstill. Stark white light flooded Taryi’s isolated cell, reflected from porcelain tiles polished enough that her reflection glared back at her. She sat on an uncomfortable bed, her knees pulled up to her chest as she observed her mirror mirage. In the far corner of the room was a gothic dress, discarded and thrown aside for a plain black jumpsuit. She soaked in the recycled air into her lungs, as she had for several days. 

There was bright red blood plastered around one wall, where chains and restraints dangled uselessly. Taryi stared at the congealed liquid, her eyes downcast with regret and sorrow. Why had she slain that pitiful little human? Why was Philemon’s business even more important to her? All she could think of was Kasilienesh’s last words to her, about the removal of her war mask. Perhaps her spirit was controlling her body, making her flail blindly in an attempt to rekindle the endless rage she had drew so deep upon. Now all she could feel was remorse and an overwhelming sense of stoniness and empathy.

Her breaths came to her in calm inhalations. The chill, dank air tingled on her pallid skin. And she could hear herself think for once. Not of war, murder, and pride, but her forgotten family back on Teyl-Jhen. The time she used to fight the young men when she was but a child. The end of her intimate relations with Qunalan. Contemplation was becoming her friend over anger. It was as if her mind was filling her in on everything she had seen, but could not really see. 

A sharp buzzing sound snapped Taryi from her reverie, she turned towards the door as the metal slab slipped away from its locks. A young human male leaned in from the hall outside, dressed in the clothes of one of the Inquisitor’s acolytes. The boy appeared hesitant and regretful of his sudden entrance, but he cleared his throat and stepped into the bright light. 

“Alien.” He said. “You must come with me. Inquisitor’s orders.”

The Howling Banshee made no move, but glared at the acolyte inquisitively. “I am being executed, human?”

The boy simply laughed, awkwardly scratched the back of his head. “Uhm, no. However, we must go quickly. You’ll understand once you are before the Inquisitor.”

Taryi slowly came to her feet, popped several bones, and made to walk past the acolyte. She whispered a scathing warning as she stepped by him. “I hope I will not have to kill him.” 

***​
Out of all humankind, the worshippers of the Machine God struck fear in Taryi the most. They were horrific creations, born from the melding of primitive technology and sacrificial flesh. The Eldar possessed similar arts, but were more elegant and free for the brave souls to fight and do as they wish, though what they wished to do was very little. She continually came across human bodies that had been severed from their enslaved minds, now fully dedicated to the menial tasks and labor that a simple A.I. would be capable of doing. 

The elevator shut down to a halt. The grating along the doors slid away and revealed a noisy cacophony of the Astra Militarum’s vast armories. The vast complex was dimly lit and stunk of oil and gasoline, plasma fluid and furnace flames. Hundreds of robed semi-machine humans milled between uncountable stockpiles of weapons and armor. Massive mechanical arms moved across the chamber, building other machines and hauling supplies. The darkness that draped the armory was peeled back in some places by blazing forges, and in others with storms of large sapphire sparks. In the distance, tanks and other vehicles were being pieced together on a complex conveyor belt. 

The human called Alaric indicated that Taryi follow and merged into the bustling crowds of Tech—Adepts. Faces congealed with machinery glared back at her with compassionate hatred, red lenses and augmented eyes sized her up as if an inferior being. One look at the inquisitor’s acolyte sent them hurrying away, too afraid of facing the organization’s wrath. The pair walked deeply into the vaults, where the light was a fraction brighter and the machine arms twice as loud. 

Two Tech—Priests surrounded Inquisitor Arruns Ulpius on either flank, performing sacraments and rituals as several other minions worked on doning him in an ornate suit of armor. The entire suit was silvers and obsidians, with some splashes of polished gold from the décor. A large weapon was strapped or built into one of the gauntlets, doudle barreled and connected to a large ammunition feed. Four machine minions were required to keep a large thunder hammer from falling to the ground. The blunt ends of the weapon were stainless steel, engraved with scripture that Taryi could not read. 

Arruns caught wind of their approach, his gaze bore down on them through a ceramite helmet with a chrome finish and bright blue visor slits. His voice thundered alongside the machinery, amplified by mysterious means within his armor. His laughter struck her like a fist to the gut. “So she comes at last. Taryi, is it not? Well met, it has been a while since we have last seen each other.”

Taryi skipped to the point. She felt uncomfortable amongst all of these robed priests and walking armored suits. “What is to be my punishment, Inquisitor?” She fell to her knees. “I have sinned against you and drew blood in your own palace. I went against your command and my own pledge to aid you in any way I could. I placed myself in your hands without conflict.” She searched the Inquistor’s concealed stare, as if what she was about to say would pain her. “All that I ask is that you spare my life. I am not ready to pass from this world, not yet.”

Arruns scoffed, but indicated that she rise. “Please stand, my friend. I must say that I am a little disappointed in you, Taryi. You should know never to ask an Inquisitor for mercy.” He paused as he considered his next words. “Philemon Demarchis is a traitor. Thanks partly to you, we found that out before she could depart this system and make fools out of the Inquisition. There will be no punishment for slaying a heretic on the Emperor’s sacred soil.”

Taryi cocked her head slightly, her expression troubled. “Then why did you summon me here?”

The machine minionis offered the Inquisitor the thunder hammer when the priests signaled that they had finished their work. Arruns took the massive object and laid it upon his shoulder similar to a child waving a toy. “Do you remember your bodyguards that kept you safe when you were first here? Lyra Savakis and Arva Liatos? Well, they and hundreds of their sisters, including their entire order’s commander, are fighting for their lives somewhere in the upper city. There’s also a demonic incursion transpiring in the nobles’ quarter and I must retrieve my allies before they can be overwhelmed.

“I have a good team of bodyguards, brave and skilled men who would lay down their lives for me whenever I come under threat. But I have a feeling that I will need just about everyone I can muster to my side. Lriean has told me a good deal about you, he says you’re a great warrior. So does Kasilienesh. I could use your help, Taryi. Help me bring back Canoness Anatolijus and your friends. Do that and I shall give you not only an official pardon, but a great reward worthy of an Inquisitor to you and your team. I have noted that your search for treasure has left a little to be desired.” Arruns chuckled at his last sentence.

Taryi’s cheeks flushed cherry with embarrassment. “I am not used to the human way of war. I fear that I shall be useless to you.”

Arruns hefted his pauldrons in an over exaggerated shrug. “Then fight as the warrior women of your people, the Howling Banshee personified.” He stepped aside to allow an adept to take his place, holding up a suit of sleek, alien armor and a double bladed pole arm in a bundle of rich cloth. 

“You’ve modified it.” Taryi stated emotionlessly. She took the Executioner and shoved it into Alaric’s hands. Then she reverently grasped her armor and held it up for full examination. There were much more vibrant and decorated robes weaved around the waist, leggings, and chest plate of the armor. Beneath them, Taryi could see thin plates of reinforcing silver ceramite that coated the limbs, ribcage, and legs. That explained the reason behind the heavier weight. “You shouldn’t have.” A warm smile crept onto her lips. She was prepared to take up the blade again and see what her body had gained from her period of rest. “Very well, I will fight with you against the forces of chaos, inqu-“

“Arruns, please.”

“Inquisitor.” Taryi finished. “When do we depart?”

Arruns set the pace back towards the armory entrance. “I still have a dozen guards arming themselves, but the force I am taking will be mostly ready by the time we arrive at the dockyards. Let us move swiftly and rescue our dear friends at once.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

“Lord Inquisitor,” The static laced voice of a Valkyrie pilot came through the speakers toward the back of the aerial craft. “We’re approaching our destination. No resistance in the air, good tidings for getting our lads on the ground.”

Arruns remained strapped into his seat in the hull of his personal transport, Flight of Grace. A small team of five Tempestus Scions and four humans clad in archaic armor and shields shared the ship with Taryi and himself. He barked at the comm. system. “Give me an image feed!”

Taryi leaned in beside him as a holographic image snapped into existence from a device along the Inquisitor’s arm brace. The scene below was one of chaos and the glory of battle. The Order of the Emperor’s Grace manned the battlements of a palace wreathed in embers, smoke, and dying flames. What remained of the complex was but a crumbling, blackened husk surrounded by a courtyard and plaza thick with the slain. There was spilt blood everyone, along the palace walls and everywhere in between, and there was still more being spilled. 

Taryi estimated about seven hundred warrior nuns were in a desperate siege against the demonic forces of chaos. The demon army surrounded the entire fortress on all sides, a seething tide that clashed repeatedly against the high walls of the burnt down palace. They dashed themselves against it as if water upon stone, she saw the piles of dead left from their previous assaults, stacked high enough for a demon to nearly climb onto the battlements. Forged engines of flesh and machine converged on the weak points the defenses borne from previous fighting. A flood of ethereal creatures flooded through an entry point where the main entrance should have been. 

There was intense fighting in the courtyard, raging around ruined vehicles and hastily built fortifications. The sisters manning the walls and battlements were occupied with fighting a flood of aerial borne monstrosities that fell upon them in a great swarm. Taryi wondered if Lyra was still amongst the survivors. 

The pilot’s voice crackled again. “Orders, Inquisitor?” 

Arruns snapped off the display and laughed grimly. “All fighter craft engage the enemy in the air, all bombers focus on ground targets. All transports, swoop in and get our friends out of here! Anyone bought here to fight, get your feet on the ground!”

The seat harnesses came off quickly and the soldiers within the Flight of Grace stood on their feet. Taryi took the opportunity to flex in her new armor, nearly the same except with a thin coat of ceramite across most of the surface. The weight increase was noticeable, bogged her down on slightly. It would be easy to work within the constraints for once, perhaps she would favor the extra protection more. She donned her banshee’s mask as the hull rampart fell open.

The noise of battle washed into the aerial craft in perfect, horrific clarity. The Valkyrie swept further over the palace and descended as close to the walls as their pilot could manage. The Tempestus Scions in front of the ramp opened fire with their modified las-guns, cutting down any winged creatures that came flying towards them. Battle worn Sororitas glanced up from their dire struggles to watch Arruns’ relief force throw themselves into the fray. Thunderbolt fighters tore into the swarms of demons in the sky, clearing the path for the rest of the larger vessels. 

“Go, go, go!” The Leader of the Scions waved Arruns’ bodyguards forward toward the slowly moving battlements. One by one, the Scions leapt ono the walls of the fortress in a loose line, until Taryi’s turn came.

“Good luck.” The Inquistor raised a fist in salute. He pointed toward the four men he called ‘crusaders’. “You four, I’m following Taryi, get yourselves on the ground and fight your way up to me. Or we’ll come down to you, whichever happens first.”

The Howling Banshee gripped her executioner and suddenly rushed down the rampart. There were two furies tearing a sororitas apart where she was going to land. Taryi was already leaping through the air the moment she realized. Her two handed pole-arm twirled around in her two handed grip, cleaving through a blackened wing membrane withought effort. She bounded off her feet in a backwards somersault, dodging the second beast’s claw with the waist of a human woman gripped in its other. 

Bolter fire erupted everywhere around Taryi, the atmosphere was filled with golden burst of thunder and lightning, pulverizing demonic bone and flesh all around her. Black blood arced, spraying her armor and sash. Things screamed their pitiful death screams in her pointed ears. All she saw was the pair of furies before her, one clacking along the wall, the other rising into a gliding charge. 

“Teyl—Jhen!!!” The amplification of her Banshee Mask produced a furious, ear splitting cry that had her attackers shrieking in a frenzy. Taryi crossed the several feet between her and her enemies in two bounding leaps, catching the gliding fury in the belly with her double bladed executioner. She flicked the activation rune of her power weapon and the blade split open the creature without effort. Taryi side stepped the clumsy swipe of the other, spun in a one eighty movement, and brought her bottom blade up in an uppercut. A claw arm began spewing blood from where the hand fell away from the limb. She continued her strike until it reached the neck for a swift decapitation. 

“Demons are coming from below the walls! Don’t let them cut us off!” The whoosh of a hammer came from behind Taryi and she spun around in time to witness Arruns pulverize a Bloodletter’s ribcage with a swing of his thunder hammer. The thing collapsed in nearly two pieces, too weak to sustain its physical form and sputtered from existence. Arruns stamped his foot into the empty space where it once lay and parried an overhead strike of another minion of Khorne. “You there!” He shouted at an injured warrior nun clutching a gash in her thigh. “Where is your commander!?”

“Anatolijus?” The warrior nun stared at the Inquisitorial rosette on Arruns’ person. “She leads the defence at the gates!”

“Damn it!” Arruns bellowed through his vox grille. “I thought she would be up here!” The rest of the Inquisitor’s bodyguard formed up around him, shooting down anything that came too close. He flicked his hammer once and took the head from a rotting creation. “Taryi, we need to get down there! We’ll have to move down the walls. Where all of these demons are coming from.”

Taryi watched a squadron of Sororitas on jump packs soar from the courtyard onto the wall. They hammered into their foe with brutal sweeps of their chain swords, blood splashing all over them as they pushed their way into the fight. “Of course, Inquisitor, I will follow.”

“Come, team!” Arruns shoved his way through the phalanx of his Scions, the Eldar maiden hurrying after him. 

The Inquisitor brought his left fist up into a momentous punch that struck away a grasping hand away with several more broken bones than it once had. His hammer came roaring down and crushed the sternum of a demonette. His scions covered his confident gait as he strolled across embattled walls. Unarmored creatures collapsed in waves against their fine shots, until a stairway revealed itself. 

Arruns shrugged. “Aliens first.”
Taryi was not certain what he meant by that, but she had been away from battle for far too long. Her blood was pumping in rush through her veins, her heart was practically leaping in her throat. She relished the challenge of a close quarters combat. She sprung into the stairway without another word, plummeting into shadows barely lit by artificial torches along walls of unadorned steel. 

The roar of bolt pistols echoed within the hallowed halls, the roar of chain swords and the screams of the dying joined them. Taryi slipped into a widened corridor where gunners could open fire on enemies outside the wall. Several sororitas were defending themselves against a dozen demons of different gods. There were few corpses, several humans that had perished mere moments before. 

Taryi kicked off her feet in a momentous charge, slamming shoulder first into a pulse filled Plague Bearer and sending it sprawled onto the ground. She ducked beneath a diagonal strike of a hellish blade and cut upwards, leaving a weeping gash on a Bloodletter’s chest. Another demon meant to round past the wounded servant of Khorne, but the beast roared in defiance, incidentally cracking bone with a flail of its arms. 

Taryi leapt aside of the overhand strike that followed, twisted on the flat of her feet, and thrust with all of her might through the open maw of the demon attacking her. It stared dumbly back at her, before using its last stability and strength to slide further down the executioner to rend the fragile Eldar apart. More humans rushed in behind her. The creature’s face was blasted apart by precise volleys. 

“Emperor cleanse your filth from his world!” A superior flicked her blade back and forth, severing several limbs and even more heads with practiced fluidity. Her other pair of compatriots unleashed round after round from their pistols, cleaving a bloody swathe through the horde now that a fraction of pressure was taken off of them. The room was filled with babbling demons, their bodies too broken to be of any kind of threat. She glanced first to the Inquisitor and then to the alien. “Thank you.” She stated, begrudged. She glanced back to the Inquisitor. “You must be searching for our commander, my lord? Take several more levels down, she should be in the courtyard. We will join you."


----------



## Myen'Tal

“Sisters!” Sister Superior Anthanasia stood beside squad Angeliki’s standard that Nomiki now kept raised. She roared from atop a mound of demonic corpses piled against the battlements. “Take heart! Reinforcements have come! If you die, make sure the Emperor does not find you wanting!” 

Lyra rolled beneath a flaming sword and came up with a savage thrust of her knee into a Bloodletter’s groin. The demon screamed amusingly, but she cut off its wail with an arched sweep of her chainsword. The head rolled away into the swirling melee. She cursed beneath her breath as another aerial creature swept down from the skies and attempted to snatch her. Alexandra was behind her a moment later, Lyra leaned away from her comrade’s bolter as it found its mark several times in the Fury’s chest. The demon ploughed headlong into the melee, knocking Alexandra and several other sisters onto the ground. 

Hesper was suddenly given a clear view and she hefted her melta gun toward a throng of foes surmounted over the wall. The weapon powered with a hellish glow before unleashed a torrent of superheated energy into the enemy. The creatures fell in pieces before her, but still the foe came forward for more punishment. Thea and Arva covered their recovering comrades with another strafe of their bolters, riddling anything that came too close with crater sized wounds. 

The Repentia and Seraphim fought on as well. Eviscerators and Inferno pistols shed blood and immolated together in a righteous song of battle. Superior Maria ascended into the air with several dozen other sisters and brought gory death to the winged monstrosities dominating the air. Yet each time they came back to the earth, their would be several less still amongst the living.

Mistress Oria continually assembled more reinforcements from her Repentia to throw back into the fray. They fought everywhere within the foretress, painting its walls with fresh blood and viscera. Few demons could match the momentous strikes of their two handed Eviscerators. Wherever they went, demon blood was shed and it poured amongst the battlements in an unending tide. 

“Nomiki!” Thea darted across the wall and leapt into the air, chainsword held overhead. “Move aside!” Her blade came flashing down. The teeth whirred. Skull fragments and lilac skin sprayed everywhere as Nomiki dropped onto her knees, standard still in hand. 

“The bastards just keep coming!” Alexandra spun into Lyra’s guard as Lyra spun into the empty space she left. Her chainsword parried a crab—like claw, pushed it away, then then came back down to slash across the lithe creature’s right leg. The thing shrieked and cartwheeled backwards into Lyra’s clubbing death blow. 

A Thunderbolt fighter craft banked hard, its weapons unleashing a withering torrent of fire that cut down anything in front of it. Another swept down from another angle and did likewise. Creatures were falling from the skies, left and right, splattering across the stainless steel battlements. Just more casualties in this bloody war. 

Nomiki leaned over the lip of the wall and thrust with her banner, the sharpened pole end crushed through another demonic creature clinging onto a firing slit for dear life. “I think they mean to extract us.”

“I hope so!” Lyra shouted as she parried a hellblade, spun in a circle, and brought her blade down to cut into an exposed waist. “Because there is no winning this battle!”

“Careful, new blood!” Thea shouted in laughter. “If we weren’t fighting for our lives, the Superior would have you flogged for blasphemy!

There was a flash of brilliant pinkish light behind Lyra, she twirled around with her blade pulled across her chest. A bluish skinned creature with many mouths stared back at her, spewing flames from its dozen maws. The Flamer attacked before she could even react. One moment she was standing in her defensive stance, the next she was engulfed by warp flames. The heat was substantial, she could feel her skin slowly cooking underneath her armor. She could not hold back a chilling scream as the flames meant to engulf her. 

“Lyra!” Anthanasia raised her bolt pistol and emptied her clip into the creature. Still the flames came on, in spite of its unnatural cries. Arva and Thea answered with another volley of fire that finally brought the creature low. It’s body sputtered weakly as flames consumed it. She ran towards the still smoking spot that her sister was. “Lyra!”

There was a wheezing cough and the fanning of a gauntlet that cleared the lingering tendrils of smoke from Lyra’s form. She was on one knee, her armor blackened completely from the front, warped in some places. Her robes were nothing but tatters and cinders, but she still moved. She was still alive. 

“I am alright, Superior.” Lyra coughed sporadically. “I think.”

Anthanasia opened her mouth to respond, but a sudden transmission cut her off. The Canoness’ voice came through, clear and authoritative. “All units! Reinforcements have arrived with our means to escape this cursed place. Inquisitor Arruns Ulpius has his troops in position for us to begin a withdraw. All units on the battlements, fall back to the transports! I repeat, fall back to the transports! Be quick, if you are too slow to make the withdraw, you are on your own!”

“All units.” Another voice came. “The Repentia will continue fighting to last woman standing. Hurry and leave this place!”

Anthanasia sighed with relief, she addressed her squad with a finger pointed toward the aerial craft sweeping in. “Squad Angeliki, fighting retreat! Fighting retreat! Alexandra and Hesper, help sister Lyra to the transports! Let’s move!”

Angeliki hurriedly moved past their Superior, whom waved them down into the walls. Other squad leaders were doing likewise, even as the Repentia continued their fight as best they could. The fight was already turning against them the moment that some of the sisters disappeared toward safety. Furies descended upon them with renwed fury, plucking them from the wall as if they nothing more than small rabbits. 

Thea and Arva descended into the dark chambers of the estate walls. The tides of battle were immediately blotted out here. Yet there was always the nearby roaring of demons. They readied their bolters as she came into a narrow corridor. Demonic entites surged from another hall into the teeth of their guns. Bolter casings slammed onto the floor in rapid succession. Leaping Demonettes were cut down, but more leapt through the storm of fire. 

Alexandra and Hesper dropped their charge and entered the fray with their blades purring. Hesper mistepped and a Demonette swept her feet out from under her with belying strength. A demonic claw found her neck and snapped close before she could even scream. Blood erupted onto the whooping creature before bolters could send it back into the other plane. Hesper writhed on the floor for only a moment before Thea gifted her with the Emperor’s peace. 

“Be more cautious, sisters. This is where we are most vunerable.” Was all Anthanasia had to say. She quickly charged sister Stheno to aid Alexandra with carrying Lyra. 

Through the winding corridors, Angeliki proceeded. More demonic entities leapt at them from the shadows, but bolter fire constantly thwarted their attack. Other squads were making progress alongside them from different and similar paths all at once. The interior of the walls was filled with all manner of battle and screaming as the factions vied to cut through each other. 

“Watch out!” A random sister called as she charged at a huge beast of the Blood God headlong. 

The creature was more lithe and graceful than the average Bloodletter, its gaze alight with a malefic intelligence that far outweighed its other ravaging ilk. It had a black brand across its chest and a long, blazing blade that dissected the sister’s head from her shoulders with one half—hearted blow. Behind the beast was one of the many gateways that led out into the courtyard. There was a mound corpses at his feet of those who had tried to gain access to it beforehand. 

“Stand back!” Anthanasia cried. She stepped to the front of the squad. “Give us some room! This one is mine!”

The Herald of Khone howled with scathing laughter, mocking the bravado of his new opponent. It spoke in common gothic with an accent that had everyone human flinching in pain. “Come then, little human. One more skull for my lord’s throne!” 

The Herald stomped its hooves onto the cold metallic floor and lowered its horns in a swift charge. Anthanasia rolled aside, her bolt pistol firing into the creature’s exosed flank with abandon. The Herald pulled up short from colliding into the other members of Angeliki, apparently a notion of honoring the duel between him and their Superior. He shook off the pain from the wounds blasted onto his left thight. 

This time he came on in a normal advance. His long blade clashed against the whirring teeth of Anthanasia’s chainsword. Hot sparks showered her power armor as she attempted to push the blade away. The Herald’s strength was overpowering, with a squeeze of his bulging muscles her own chainsword came a fraction away from cleaving into her own armor. Anthanasia dropped her bolt pistol and gripped her sword with two hands. 

The Sister Superior immediately rolled away, out from under the Herald’s blade, but the creature was upon her again in a moment. It howled with unbridled bloodlust. Chainsword and Hellblade clashed repeatedly, peeling back the shadows with cascading light. Anthanasia spun and weaved with every one of her strikes in order to avoid a terrible death. The demon of Khone simply laughed, amused. 

The Herald stomped a hoof into the ground and the entire floor quaked beneath Anthanasia’s feet. Already made weak from fighting, she collapsed in a heap, but rolled onto her feet just as quickly. She side—stepped an overhead strike and ducked beneath the creature’s massive arm and into its guard. The demon reared up, its shrill scream promising violence as monomelcular teeth sliced through skin and muscle around the ribcage, driking deep of blood. It continued to howl for long seconds until it began laughing once again. A massive knee connected into Anthanasia’s ribs and sent her spiraling away. 

Anthanasia rolled across the floor, her helm knocked away her bolt pistol another foot away. Feeling the Herald’s feet thunder towards her another time, she swept up her sidearm, turned onto her shoulder, and emptied what remained of her clip into the beast’s groin. The herald roared in fury, compelled by an unholy power that isolated any notion of pain its body. It raised its sword in a downward slant and thrust home for the kill. 

Anthanasia could not even close her eyes when a brilliant blue flash blinded her. She heard a piece of a blade clatter onto the ground and when the light subsided, there was an alien creature that guarded her prone body. The Eldar female twirled effortlessly around a clumsy, clutching hand, leapt high over antoher and onto the outstretched arm. She leapt again from the creature before it could swat her like an ant, landing on one knee behind the Herald. Her double bladed pole-arm came through the creature’s ruined groin, sending electrical jolts of agony through the outmaneuvered demon. 

The Herald collapsed to his knees. Something or someone moving in heavy power armor sprinted into the corridor, wielding a massive Thunder Hammer in both hands. The man within let rip a thunderous roar, the hammer swung, and a demonic skull expoloded across the entire chamber. The body fell to the ground.

There was an Inquisitorial Rosette embedded into the suit of power armor that had saved squad Angeliki from total annihilation. An Inquisitor then. Lyra watched the Inquisitor help her commander to her feet, addressing them all as he did so. “Inquisitor Arruns Ulpius, at your service. If I were you, I would hurry to the nearest evac. transport and get the hell out of here! Understood?”

“Understood, my lord.” Anthanasia inclined her head in grateful thanks. Her voice came out in breathless gasps. “Angeliki, move out.” She paused to regard the Eldar female. “I did not expect to find you here in all places, Taryi. Lyra and Arva have told me much about you. I am glad that at least some of that appears to be true.”

Taryi inclined her head in silent acknowledgement. 

“Taryi, go with Angeliki.” Arruns ordered. “Make sure they are not cut down by anything else. If you happen to make it back to the Imperial Palace, then I will seek all of you out there. Now go!”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The fighting in the courtyard was unlike any other fight Anatolijus had ever experienced in her long career. Just beyond the wall of sandbags that her Celestian and Retributor squads continued to defend, a demonic horde was sweeping toward them like a maelstrom of death. The Canoness had paused in giving orders, every sister under her command had singular purpose: purge the demon. She was content to witness the retribution brought by a hundred multi-melta and bolter weapons, flamers and heavy bolters that pushed the seething storm back towards the breach in the gate.

The demonic host continued to advance across a field of corpses left from the previous battle and a score of their own to meet their enemy. Close quarter fights had broken out across several sections of the defense. Dozens were dead and many more were dying. Precious human lives that she could ill afford to lose. The Canoness spared a quick glance over her shoulder to see the remaining tanks of the Imperial army pouring their own weight in fire into the advancing enemy. Just beyond them, Inquisitor Ulpius’ aerial transports swept in for quick landings. 

Thank the Emperor for his salvation, Anatolijus thought with a grim smirk. Already, the Sororitas that she ordered to fall back from the fortress walls spilled from the access points of the estate fortifications. Her troops in the courtyard covered them as best as they could, but that could not save some of them. Here and there, a sister was pulled into the horde and cleaved apart. Yet the majority came on, still intact, across the gaps in the courtyard defense being opened just for their safe passage. 

Gina, the standard bearer and personal bodyguard to the Canoness, finally spoke up from her hour’s long silence. “Golden Throne, do these beasts not know the meaning of numbers? If we cannot hold them here, then what can be said for the rest of Helike?”

“Do not give into the council of despair, Gina.” Anatolijus allowed herself a small smirk. “Or I will have to kill you, here and now. In truth, my sword arm is itching to show these cretins just how mortal they are before my wrath.”

Gina slowly shook her head, still in awe by the never ending horde coming towards them. “You should save your strength, Canoness. Use your sword when it can make a difference.”

The Canoness shot her standard carrier a withering look. “And when will that be, Sister Gina!? When we’re fighting the final war beside the Emperor himself?”

Gina bowed her head in apology. “I only meant that Inquisitor Arruns sought us out because there may be one more battle that is worth fighting. One that we can actually win and turn the tide of this terrible war.”

“Still your tongue or see yourself flogged by my hand!” Anatolijus hissed through gritted teeth. “There is no terrible war so long as the Emperor reaps his vengeance upon those who would see his will undone.”

Several dozen Sororitas from the battlements stampeded past them, toward the first aerial transports. By now the courtyard was filled with her own troops that were falling back. Swirling melees and point blank volleys raged across the courtyard as the Sororitas fought for every inch of space to break themselves free. The retreat was a mess, but it was the best that she could hope for given the circumstances. 

A voice roared over the storm of battle, amplified by the unnatural distortions of a vox grille. “Anatolijus! Canoness!”

The canoness peeled her eyes and searched the crowds of unorderly soldiers. “Who is that calling my name so?” 

There was a crackle of bluish lightning behind a pair of sisters giving support to an injured comrade. As they made to move past her, a figure, or several, stepped into the warped light. A man encased in silver and black powered armor, surrounded by a dozen Scion bodyguards. He held a thunder hammer upon his shoulder and a storm bolter built onto his left wrist. She immediately recognized Inquisitor Arruns Ulpius and sighed in halfhearted relief. 

The Canoness chided under his stare. “To be rescued by a radical…”

Arruns’ gentle laugh reverberated as a boisterous shout to those that surrounded him. “It is good to see you well, Canoness, even if our long overdue reunion will pass without appreciation.”

“You have my thanks.” Anatolijus forced a polite smirk. “I suppose I am in your debt. It is a dangerous thing to owe an Inquisitor a favor.”

Arruns shrugged his mighty pauldrons. “The only one I would ask of you is to fight with me against the Thousand Sons. The bastards have sown chaos throughout the capital and the other hives. They’re preparing to launch a final attack on the Governor’s Palace. This will be our final stand, for Tyrannus and the Tarmathon Sector.”

The first aerial transports ascended into the air before streaking through the skies once again. More craft swept in to take their place, their ramparts falling early to allow in as many as they could. Tempestus Scions organized the flow onto each transport, waving on more and more troops until they could take no more. The entire rescue mission would be over soon. Anatolijus only had a few hundred sisters under her command to begin with at the second siege of this accursed fortress. 

“A fitting end for such a war.” Anatolijus sighed, her fingers grazed against her temple. “I would gladly give my life in the halls of the Governor’s fortress. If that is what is required to stop this menace, then I shall sacrifice my entire army to see the Thousand Sons stopped on Tyrannus’ soil. Let us finish the evacuation, I am eager to see our real nemesis in person.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

On the battlements of the Governor’s Palace

The energies of the warp surrounded Tyrioc. Within the labyrinth of the Immaterium, there was only the presence of watching demons and the eyes of the Gods. He listened to the insane babbling of the warp creatures as they reached out for his mind. The barrier he erected around his mind was strong and held the vermin back, but he could feel their presence like an overwhelming force that threatened to shatter the inner sanctum of his mind. There were others as well, whispering his name, chanting it as some dark incantation that would bring them into the other world. 

Then the warp shattered before him. Blinding white light poured through the flapping breach and engulfed him, so hot and soul cleansing that he knew this must be the end. What a premature death on the road to endless glory. 

He always thought of the worst whenever he succumbed to teleportation.

The warp shattered in the blink of an eye and suddenly it was completely gone. Tyrioc spied around his surroundings even as a dozen more flashes of white light burst into reality all around him. Hulking figures encased in sapphire and gold tactical dreadnought armor, decorated in all manner or horns, spikes, and bards, emerged from each flash. Their silver bolters and crackling power fields peeled back the shadows atop the battlements of the Governor’s palace. 

Hive City Helike stretched across the horizon and sloped down as a sprawling mountain range of ferrocrete, metal, and gothic architecture. Tyrioc watched huge swathes of the city collapse in unending flames and signs of battle erupt from a hundred other parts. The combined screaming of the innocent rose up into one singular pitch of agony and torture. The music of a city in its death throes played fittingly even as the final battle for the carcass of an Imperial world was already underway. 

At the foot of the Governor’s Palace and upon its first gates, a legion of cultists and demonic allies waged a bitter struggle against the Imperial forces charged with its defense. It was an infantry battle more than anything, the Imperial Guard and P.D.F. had drawn up tens of thousands of soldiers to throw into the meat grinder. Tyrioc could not spare any of his Thousand Sons to fight such an unrewarding battle, but he could spot the silhouettes of Adeptus Astartes armored vehicles lending their support to the fight. Land Raiders lingered behind the hordes from beneath the shadows of lesser Titans and Knights of the traitor Mechanicus. Vindicators spearheaded a hundred charges across the frontline, demolishing hostile defenses with relentless barrages. Rhinos were lying in wait until a decisive blow could be delivered to the enemy.

That was their battle. Tyrioc had his own above the swirling chaos of lesser mortals and he would see it through. 

The first Imperial troops that realized their defenses had been breached were laid to waste by precise volleys of bolter fire. Tyrioc had killed so many using his favorite weapon that he barely had to try and aim anymore. Wherever he pointed his storm bolter, men dropped with ragged holes in their corpses. The defenses upon the third tier of the fortress walls were still being organized. Hundreds of Imperial Guard swarmed about the wall, moving equipment and heavy weapons, building entrenchments and setting up kill zones. Forty terminators rushed into them like demi-gods of battle. Power mauls cracked and splintered, axes hacked through bones and flesh, and bolters swept through the increasingly chaotic crowds as they broke nearly all at once. 

Automated turrets revealed themselves from high vantage points and unleashed withering salvos against Tyrioc’s bodyguard detail. Where a dozen mortal Astartes would have collapsed as smoking ruins, the Thousand Son legionnaires persevered and continued their slaughter. Those wielding assault cannons and missile pods made short work of the turret emplacements, but many more appeared to take their place. 

Hydra Flakk Tanks hidden on the higher landing pads burst into motion and unleashed withering payloads of shrapnel into the skies. Drop Pods streaked through the air at impossible velocities, effectively outmaneuvering any attempt to destroy them in the air as they touched upon solid ground. They came down across the third tier in their dozens, joined by the white flashes of Thousand Son marines teleporting into the battle. A hundred bolters roared where there were once forty and reaped five times their number in deaths in the blink of an eye. 

The Sorcerers of the Thousand Sons ordered their subordinates about as they unleashed spells into the enemy that came to reinforce their comrades. Bolts of eldritch lightning tore through flak and immolated the flesh that laid beneath. The horror of the Imperial Guard as they realized their doom was thick in the air, Tyrioc savored the emotions as he all but strutted across the walls. Before he could even blink, something heavy and searing punched into his armor. He grunted at the sudden force and looked down upon the blackened crater in his armor the size of his fist. 

Ripples of yellowish weapon discharges lit up the night, assailing the Thousand Sons from above from every direction. The Tempestus Scions shouted and barked as they ambushed their foes. Plasma fire rained down on the traitors, punching holes through ceramite without effort, but not even that was enough to bring down a single Son of Magnus. Archaic looking transports that rumbled on four separate treads rushed in from the front and rear of the Astartes force. Gatling guns spewed dozens of ejected shell casings in moments and missiles streaked from the top of the transports, punching Tyrioc’s men off their feet. 

Men and women encased in carapace plate leapt from the dozen or so transports and slipped into the half erected entrenchments wherever they were found. They were followed by hundreds of average guardsmen and P.D.F. troops, whom in turn were flanked by lumbering battle tanks. Standards were quickly hoisted by both sides and the real battle was begun. 

Tyrioc screamed a wordless cry and his terminators were following hard on his heels. The lesser Astartes of his legion fell into cover wherever they could, trading fire with men, turrets, and battle tanks. He punched through a collapsed sandbag wall and stomped through a field of enemy dead. His storm bolter rattled in his ears, slaying three Scions with a pair of shells for each.

The Terminators crashed into the first line of defense before he could. Power mauls lashed back and forth, bludgeoning through carapace plate and cracking a dozen bones beneath. Whoever they touched fell screaming in unendurable agony before they were crushed into lifelessness. Tyrioc flipped his blade as a Sergeant amongst the Imperial elite leapt up to catch the Sorcerer’s sword on his own. The power fields snapped and crackled, Tyrioc easily leaned into the blow to dissect the man’s head from his shoulders. 

Several multi-meltas unleashed atomizing beams of energy into a pair of terminators. Even the resiliency of the rubric curse could not save a Thosuand Son from a head pulverizing blast. The pair of bodyguards slumped over and quickly crumbled to dust. Missiles streaked into the melee and destroyed the armor of another tactical dreadnought bearing Astartes. Tyrioc was down to thirty seven of his elite. 

Tyrioc unleashed a mental impulse to his other sorcerers. “Bring in the Hellbrutes and the mercenaries!” 

Formations of traitor aerial craft were already sweeping in towards the battle in their hundreds. They bore the war machines of the legion: Land Raiders, Predator and Vindicator Tanks, Forge and Maulerfiends, and the infamous Helbrutes. Dozens of them were already in the process of landing across the massive battlements of the Governor’s Palace when a fusillade of weapon’s fire smashed them into pieces. Tyrioc looked up to see a fleet of Imperial fighters and transports sweep over the battle, unleashing strafes of withering firepower that engulfed the Thousand Sons’ positions. Marauder bombers swept in on the trail of destruction they left and virtually wiped out entire pockets of Legionnaires in explosions of white hot flames. 

Tyrioc snorted in disgust. “Damn them, did they think it would be so easy?” He placed a finger on his comm. link. “Continue the assault! Their one trick has been played.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

I haven't forgotten about this, just letting people know . Once exams are over this week, I'll be working on an update pronto . We're getting very close to the end, probably two more chapters until we're completely through. Then an epilogue to wrap everything up, maybe with some thoughts on the entire thing. 

So yeah, stayed tuned :grin:!


----------



## Myen'Tal

As promised, the Eldar arrive before the Imperial Expedition at the Bridge of the Leviathan...


Chapter Eight: The Forlorn Tower and The Golden City


Autarch Muran reclined in his seat onboard his personal Falcon Grav-Tank, quivering slightly from the turbulence it was gliding through. The skimmer’s interior was painted in a bright blanche light that reminded him of some hidden room upon a craftworld, near somewhere where the planet ship hummed. His helmet swept through the hull, picking out Farseer Mae, her apprentice Iraa, and the Chosen of Khaine, all shaking slightly with the vibrations of the vehicle. A number of Spirit Seers, Warlocks, and Farseers were also onboard. They were the last remnants of Myriell’s council, the survivors of the lost craftworld. Beneath their facades of calm and stoic faces, the sense of fright was written in their psyche. Everyone could feel each other’s hopes and fears, lapping at the nearest minds like a wave of raw emotion. 

Muran remembered when he had felt such dread. He remembered the countless deaths that were brought upon his people, first by the Dark Kin, then finally by the warp itself. It was impossible to think that any Eldar God had foreseen these catastrophic events and aligned them perfectly for some ray of hope to shine through at this juncture. The Eldar trapped on this doomed planet had truly been alone for centuries. He would have to lead his people to create their own fate. 

“Chosen of Khaine?” The Autarch breathed through his helm. The resultant voice was a blisterous distortion, yet somehow elegant despite it. He waited until the young Striking Scorpion looked him directly in the eye. “Do you believe in destiny?”

“Autarch?” Aryriel cradled his helm in his hands. To think that the Aspect Warrior could kill something just by putting it on and using an impulse from his mind. The young eldar thought on the question for a moment. Muran already knew the answer before he spoke. “No. I foolishly believed in it once. I would never do so willingly again.”

The Autuarch leaned forward in his seat, a gauntlet on his knee. “Such is the story of those chosen by Khaine. The Bloody Handed One is greedy and cruel. He offers with one hands and takes with the other. I can tell when I look upon you that you know something of loss and suffering. I can also see a strong presence of vanity, tempered by a humble spirit. 

“One must believe in destiny to overcome the treachery of the Great Enemy. How can a warrior fight well when he believes that he will become damned? How can one hope for victory against an enemy so numerous and unending? Faith in the Gods alone shall suffice, for they still walk amongst us. If you are a child of Khaine, you will not think about your own life when your greatest trial arrives. Let his wrath course through you as never before, allow him to guide your hand, for he shall steer your blade when you challenge his enemies. When I allow myself to think only of sacrificing my life and the death of my foe, I become more than the mere creature I am. Destiny compels us to achieve the impossible, so for just this instance, I urge you to believe in it just this once.”

_“Autarch,”_ Tarianna’s voice spoke over the Falcon’s inter-comm. _“Our forces are approximately within twenty kilometers of the Bridge of the Leviathan. The tunnels that I have guided us through will bring us just beneath the bridge, near the Twin Gate Outpost.”_

Muran’s grip tensed around the Bright Serpent, the spear tingled with a warm sensation. “You cannot give us anymore information, Tarianna?”

_“The Twin Gate Outpost is beyond my reach, Autarch. There has been random debris falling into the maintenance tunnels. Analysis has determined that they are the remnants of Pre-Fall technology. The Dark Kin must be combatting a threat upon the bridge. Lastly, I am detecting a resurrection of immaterium energies leaking into some parts of the Crypts. The source is beyond my reach. That is all I can provide, your lordship, my deepest apologies.”_

Farseer Mae broke the silence that followed. “I am afraid the skein cannot be read, there is a presence that is clouding our mind sight. We will enter combat as the lesser races do: blind, but prepared for anything.”

_“Destiny.”_ Muran reminded. “It shall bring us out of the dark and preserve us. That aside though, a resurgence in immaterium contamination is a cause for concern. Surely, the Dark Kin would have noticed such a breach.”

“This Web way gate,” Iraa piped up, “that you mentioned was sealed off before this place could be overrun. Where is it, exactly?” 

Muran instantly understood what the Spirit Seer meant. “Nearly twenty kilometers above us, at the Twin Gate Outpost. The seal must be broken. Our true enemies have revealed themselves.”

Another female Farseer from Myriell entered the conversation. “Then our priorities change from defeating both Dark Kin and Arch-Enemy, to destroying a Webway Gate. To think I lived for so long only to die such a meaningless death.” 

Another mumbled. “Fate has a sick sense of grandiose today.”

Muran shouted over the rising chorus of panic. “It is the only way to defeat what lies beyond that gate! Destroying that Webway gate is our only option! Summon your courage, we will be in the midst of battle any moment now!”

_“Warning.”_ Tarianna droned over the bickering Seers._ “Hostile craft engaging allied forces. Autarch, you will be beyond my sight in approximately thirty seconds and counting.”_

Muran waved his hand over a large dataslate carried by one of his advisors. The Bridge of the Leviathan appeared, blurred by formations of green and red arrows moving back and forth across the map. 
“Squadrons _Radiant Spear_, _Bound Serpent_, and _Twin Moons_, engage incoming targets!”

Muran studied the holographic image intensely and feverishly hoped that he had not lost his knack for warfare.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Fire Prism Gunner Aolesh leaned forward in his seat as the Grav-Tank, _Heroes of Anarith_, zoomed through the exit of the mechanical tunnels. A hundred pinpoints of bluish light surrounded his vehicle as they emerged just beneath the vast Bridge of the Leviathan. Each pinpoint was a skimmer vessel of the Myriell Craftworld, divided amongst Squadrons _Radiant Spear_, _Bound Serpent_, and_ Twin Moons_. Fire Prisms, Night Spinners, Falcons, Vypers, and Crimson Hunters poured from the tunnels and into the sickly emerald light of the cavern. 

“Be careful, brother,” His brother Holesh spoke telepathically. “Hostile formations incoming. I know it’s been a couple centuries, but try not to miss, eh?”

Aolesh would have made some hissing retort about his brother’s lack of piloting skills, but realized that his steering through the tunnels was actually magnificent. “I pray for both our sakes, Holesh, that I will not.”

Aolesh could see the formations of slick, bladed oceanic craft that glimmered like serpent scales beneath light struck water, descending from above the bridge to meet them. As the Fire Prism continued to climb, the cavern ceiling blossomed with explosions and streaks of weapon discharges. There was a battle being fought here already. 

Holesh called over the comm. link.. “Hold your fire… Hold… Isha’s Tears, incoming fire! We’re in range, fire away!”

The void beneath the bridge was filled with hundreds of unleashed cannon payloads as the two factions collided. Aolesh smiled, watching cutting beams of dark energy rush past through his goggles. Bluish pinpoints surrounding Heroes of Anarith suddenly burst into jade tinted spheres as holo-fields absorbed impacts. He trembled as he could hear the psychic shrieks of pilots that had already lost their crafts. 

_Heroes of Anarith_ weaved between squadrons of bladed Raider transports, at the fore of a dozen other Fire Prisms. Crystalline light from the primed cannons touched passing grav-craft and dashed them into pieces with fiery explosions. Aolesh swivelled the main turret gracefully, searching a worthy kill. As the Raiders began to fan out around the advancing Fire Prisms, he picked out a squadron of heavily modified attack craft. One look at the triple lances that blazed from their hulls was all the evidence he needed. 

“Careful,” Holesh cautioned, having sensed his brother’s thoughts. “There are more hidden beneath some form of stealth shields. You’ll attract their attention. We’ll need a diversion before we tackle those brutes. I’ll call in for some support.”

Aolesh gritted his teeth, locking onto a small group of wicked jetbikes flying through the chaos. He switched the focus on the prism cannon and pulled the trigger. The magenta streak smashed squarely into the reaver champion, he disintegrated the moment the blast exploded into a bright sphere that caught several more bikes in the backlash. He smiled to himself as several of them tumbled into the darkness below. 

He said. “I think we have a problem. Reaver squadrons are joining the battle.”

Holesh merely laughed. “Keep looking, little brother…”

Aolesh made to swivel the prism cannon around for another blast, but his targets were pulverised by a fusilade of heavy shuriken fire. He watched as a cloud of Reavers was slowly eaten away by nimble Vyper Jetbikes as they charged into the battle. Even more diverted from their headlong descent and began to swarm some of the vunerable eldar craft. Heavy payloads of splinter cannon fire and the occasional blast of superheated energy tore into the first teams that attempted to intercept them. The resulting explosions were large and blinding, enveloping some of the jetbikes that strayed too close. 

Aolesh laughed sadly. “Impressive show for the Vipers! For the second they survived.”

“_Wielder of the Radiant Spear_,” Holesh spoke into the channel. “_Heroes of Anarith_ have spotted hidden squadrons of gunships lurking behind the engagement. They seemed poised to surprise us any moment now! Permission to engage with support?”

A voice came back over the channel._ “Understood and granted, Heroes of Anarith. Hold off on engaging until the Crimson Hunters strike.”_

“Understood.” Holesh changed channels. “All nearby Fire-Prisms, fall-in and follow our lead.”

The Crimson Hunters broke through the Dark Kin’s aerial swarms with an ease that made Aolesh jealous. He watched dozens weave through the formations of Raiders and Jetbikes just overhead. Grav-craft blossomed in sheets of brilliant flame and reaver champions were blasted from their bikes by precise strikes wherever the craft flew in number. The Kabal of the Blinded Blades must have sensed the danger they posed, entire squadrons attempted to intercept them, but regular transports and tanks could not keep up with them. Fighter craft from the Dark Kin also veered off to intervene, but were frustrated by the Wielder of the Radiant Spears’ pre-emptive steps to distract them. 

“Now!” Holesh cried. The formation of Fire Prisms accelerated through the gap they created in the Blinded Blades’ defenses. 

In the same moment, the Crimson Hunters found their mark on the invisible targets. There were a dozen explosions of imploding shields, followed by gouts of flame, forcing the anchored gunships to mobilize into action. The _Heroes of Anarith_ were upon them before they could make their escape. Aolesh fired the Prism Cannon once more and speared a Ravager through the belly. The combined fire of a dozen cannons cleaved through the first squadrons even as Dark energy lances desperately tried to intercept them. 

Holesh sped through the worst of the storm of fire. The Fire Prism tilted and flipped over several salvos and Aolesh destroyed another target. The _Talisman of Asuryan_ attempted the same maneuver beside them. Both of the brother’s screamed in outrage as the Talisman’s cockpit took a direct hit and collided into a fleeing Ravager Gunship. The collision tore the Dark Kin craft into several pieces before an explosion of retinae scarring light took place behind them. The _Terror of Ellune_ darted through the flames, but was struck from behind by a Razorwing Jetfighter and vanished into the abyss. 


The _Wielder of Raidant Spear’s_ voice came over the channels. _“The Implacable, engage! All remaining squadrons! This is our chance! The enemy is faltering and several paths lay open! Ignore the Dark Kin and make for the Twin Gate Outpost! Get our warriors on the ground, so that this unholy taint may be forever extinguished! Khaela Mensha Khaine be with us!”_


----------



## Myen'Tal

Trueborn Azorek observed the battle at the Twin Gate Outpost devolve into wholesale slaughter from above. The venom chariot weaved through a storm of dark energy beams and speeding grav-craft, the splinter cannon mounted on the hull spitting death at the vicious demons below. He noted the sense of horror building in his heart at the mere sight of the magnificent demoness that emerged from the broken seal of the webway and reveled in the sensation while he could. On the heels of their Mistress, a small horde of centaur-like Greater Demons flooded through the broken gateway, their lower halves clad in animal fur or scales and their upper bodies, an alluring humanoid shape. 

A feminine voice, razor-sharp, cut through the comm. link on Azorek’s helm._ “Azorek, I need your squads on the ground, push the enemy back through the webway!”_

Azorek rolled his eyes, what an obvious guise to have him commit suicide. “Of course, Lady Xehia, your will be done.” He switched the channel to the one his trueborn used. “Those of the blood! For the Dark Tyrant!!!” 

The Trueborn responded with whooping and vicious war cries as several Venom Chariots suddenly descended into the chaos below. The whole picture of the battle at the Twin Gate Outpost became horrifically clear as Azorek’s chariot bobbed and dipped through formations of blockading Ravager gunships. Hundreds of slave Wracks and Kabalite Warriors were rushing in from the battle at the bridge and into the towering bastion. Within the courtyards of the fortress, where the ether spilled from the corrupted web way, the fighting had become a desperate melee. 


Azorek shrieked the moment the Venoms came close enough for disembarkation. “The dark city awaits you!!!”


The foremost members of Squad Razer Talon leapt from the grav-craft together and behind the massive corpse of a Greater Demon, scared to hell by potent toxins. Azorek jumped to join them in the same moment a gout of warp flame struck the Venom’s cockpit. He landed gracefully behind his warriors. The wreck of the Venom corkscrewed until it skidded across the courtyards of the Twin Gate Outpost. Greater Demon and True Kin alike were swept up in the fiery craft until it plummeted through a fortress wall. 


Azorek and his minions cackled madly. “That’s one way to make an entrance! Where are the rest of my Trueborn!?”


Ereki was already leveling his blaster and opening up with repeated salvos into the melee. Sollanesh joined him and together, their heavy weapons punched several gaping holes through a fire-spewing Centaur, from front to back, and felled it. Azul and Gorresh primed their splinter cannons and unloaded into the horde of charging Greater Demons that tore their way through the tattered kabalite warriors. Azorek had counted four confirmed kills before he even deign to blink. He also realized that a number of demonic entities had diverted their attention directly on his troops. 


A Greater Demon of emerald skin and a scaly hide for her lower body erupted in a sudden charge that trampled through the Kabalite squad attempting to surround and isolate her. Several Dark Eldar were trampled under her hooves and her vicious claws tore innards from flesh with but a reflexive swipe. Splinter fire followed her as she broke through the barricade of warriors, pot marking her skin with cracked and sickened flesh, but the thing was made of sterner stuff. 


Several Wracks rushed forward to intercept the charging demon and in turn were reduced to paste, even as they hacked wildly at her legs. Azorek switched the rune on his blade and lowered his blast pistol. The secondary weapon struck the Greater Demon directly in her right arm, Razer Talon cheered as the limb came away in a spray of blood. Azorek always thought that demons could not feel pain, but agony filled those black eyes and the demon skidded across the courtyard as it collapsed. Ereki and Sollanesh argued over the kill after they had blasted the creature apart. 


The rest of Razer Talon arrived in mere seconds, alongside Archangel, in the spots in the closest danger of being overrun. The True Kin merely laughed at the sight of their lesser brethren being slaughtered. They fed on their terror and deaths. Wherever they aimed their weapons, demonic flesh was torn asunder and demons died, greater or no. 

Then the mother of the Demonic horde entered the battle. 

The demonic entities that fought against the Blinded Blades understood the eldar tongue, at least the darker dialects. The ‘Lady of the Tower’ was on their lips even as they died charging into the phalanx of the True Kin. Azorek had no clue as to what sort of place that could even be, but he knew that his soul would never be fated to enter such a realm. When his life was eventually claimed, his soul would be at the mercy of the Prince of Pleasures, the rival of all Eldar. Fighting these monstrous creatures gave Azorek no fear of his ultimate fate.

Yet before the Lady, Azorek knew despair, and the realization that he had sacrificed the lives of his warriors by throwing them into this battle. 

The Lady of the Tower bore a massive tome on her third hand, and three swords that arced with eldritch lightning on the others. She was deceptively quick, despite her dominating presence. She crossed the length of the courtyard in less than a dozen bounding leaps, crushing her fallen into the wraithbone, and was amongst the Trueborn. Blaster fire from across two squads was funneled at her and to Azorek’s surprise, actually struck her several times. The Dark Energy weapons merely dissipated against an emerald aura that sparked into flames wherever it was touched. 

Ereki was stamped into paste, so quickly that Azorek barely managed to blink before he was kicked backward across the courtyard. The three blades flashed back and forth, fast enough to leave a trail in the motion of the Lady of the Tower’s body. Sollanesh was cleaved diagonally by the first blade and his body, armor and all, disintegrated into a fine jade mist. Azul was impaled through the chest by the second, the sword howled as it stole his soul away from the deprevations of She Who Thirst. Gorresh’s upper torso fell away by the third, his corpse ignited into ethereal flames. 

The rest of Razer Talon and Archangel died in a whirlwind of violence, a grand display of grace and elegance that Azorek had ever seen. He picked himself off the floor, even as the Greater Demons that served this demonic mistress began to herd themselves into a mob behind her. What remained of the Blinded Blades’ forces were quickly falling back beyond the Twin Gate Outpost, toward the fanatic Mon-Keigh. They were doomed to die against either foe, without the rear or front secure, there could be no escape. They would all die together. 


But not Azorek. He whispered into his comm. link and the pilot of Archangel’s Venom Chariot descended onto the Outpost moments later. The Dracon quickly leapt aboard and the skycraft took off. Azorek cackled manically as they quickly ascended, but his laughter died in his throat as lightning arced from the Lady of the Tower. A powerful strike connected against the Venom’s engine and caused it catch fire. The pilot fought for control, but the Venom veered off course and away from the Bridge of the Leviathan. 

It was as his chariot dipped beneath the bridge, that Azorek saw a curious sight. Hundreds of sleek grav-tanks soaring toward the bridge, away from a raging battle below, and painted in the colors of hated craftworld Myriell. For a moment, hope soared in his heart, and then the explosion of the Venom chariot took his life.


----------



## Myen'Tal

I've been avoiding cutting back to Mirathir for several posts now, been meaning to, but I've always ran up against a wall. Tonight, however, that wall collapses. And no, I haven't forgotten about certain Hospitallers, in case anyone was wondering .

***​
Mirathir heard her mother’s voice call from somewhere beyond the void. The sensation of psychic communication coursed through her nerves, breathing life back into every cell. The screams of the raging demon withdrew from her thoughts. It recoiled away from her essence with a vile shriek and suddenly vanished from her mind’s inner eye. The invasive aura of oppression and stabbing agony subsided as if the receding of the ocean’s tide. Yet Mirathir could not wake herself from the dreamscape. Her mind forever raced across a white ether. 

_“The ancestors bid you come home, my daughter…”_

Mirathir replied, startled. “Mo… mother? Is that you? How is this possible?”

_“The ancestors bid you come home, my child, but you are washed with taint. I fear for you.”_

Mirathir’s thoughts pulsed across the ether, her voice disembodied. She was outraged. “No, you’re nothing more than a mere demon! Your tricks shall not fell me!”

The white ether began to slow as her spirit became anchored in this strange reality. Before Mirathir’s eyes, a convoluted shadow began to take shape in the blinding light. The shadow became lithe and beautiful. Her features formed into concrete physicality, but there were large pieces missing. An outline of a face similar to Mirathir’s stared into her soul, eyeless and without lips to speak. And yet it spoke.

_“Destiny is nothing more than a piece of glass, child. It is broken and cracked in a myriad of places. The wise may claim to study them, but the stories they foretell are infinite and forever altered by your actions. Do not mistake your bout of fortune for security, my daughter, not even for a fleeting breath. It is all just waiting to shatter by the tiniest pinprick. You have chosen the only path given to you, but it is not the only answer.”_

The Raven Prophet’s voice quivered, confused. This shadow of her mother was no foul creature. “Why have you come to me only now?”

The shadow reached out to touch Mirathir’s bodiless spirit. _“Uplift yourself. Your journey has not ended. Come, take my hand. Do not be afraid.”_

Mirathir shirked away from the spirit and heard it sigh harshly in irritation. Once again, it reached out with the both arms invitingly. She observed the spirit, bewildered, but quickly realized that without its guidance, she could be stuck in this reality forever. Uplift yourself, it said again. She gritted her teeth and with reluctant acceptance, snatched up both offered hands. The white ether suddenly rent itself apart with a guttural roar that quaked her spirit. Beyond the gaping wound in reality, there was smoke and the carnal taste of death in the air. Then the world transformed around her. 

A familiar voice cut through the noise of billowing smoke and crackling flames. Faint explosions transpired in the near distance, they drowned out the battle cries of the living and the screams of the dying. _“Master?”_

Mirathir fluttered her eyes open to a sickly emerald light that lingered in the heart of the cavern. The Bridge of the Leviathan remained under prone her body, which was cradled snuggly in Nyst’s arms. She glanced up at the greater demon that gazed down upon her and smiled weakly, aware of the alien blood encrusted over her face. The corpses left in the wake of two vying factions surrounded them for what looked like forever. She was where she had been before the crazed demon had assailed her mind: at the first walls of the Twin Gate Outpost. The field of butchered dead were surrounded by wrecked engines of war and were lit by blazing pyres of still burning vehicles. 

Mirathir noted the absence of her own armies. She looked up at Nyst with a curious look. Her voice came out fragile and dazed. “Where is everyone? Have we won the battle? I can still hear the sounds of battle in the distance, but everything is so quiet. Eerily so. Have you ever had this kind of peace before, Nyst? Have you ever known the calm after the storm? Or do your kindred howl onto the end of eternity? Ha, so this is the fate I have chosen, insanity?”

The Greater Demon swept her clawed fingers gently through the Raven Prophet’s hair. “I have known the true silence for several centuries and would know several more, if you had not found me. A loan eldar girl fell from the stars, from a great battle that was fought amongst them. She wandered a dead planet for days, hungry and tired. Alone. Then fate sought to guide you into my domain. Imagine a demoness’ surprise at the mere sight. Insanity, you say? No, wisdom, my master. You knew that you did not wish to die. You chose the only path worth taking. You placed your faith in the truest of lords… and now she is unleashed upon the world. You have succeeded, Mirathir. The Lady of the Golden City has arrived. You finished your mission.”

Mirathir pondered on the revelation of her success. Yet she did not find comfort or solace in the news. She thought about her loving mother from centuries before and tried in vain to keep her eyes from turning misty. She placed a hand on the Greater Demon’s wrist. “Did you foresee all of this? Did you know already the feelings I would have, right at this moment?”

Nyst smiled tenderly. “Didn’t you? For centuries, we have journeyed across these familiar stars together. Without one another, we were nothing, merely destitute beggars in search of something beyond mere happiness. Now we have come to a crossroads. You must make a decision. And with myself being the objective and omniscient being that is inherently flawed, I shall remain by your side until you make that decision. And before you ask, I have not seen foreseen it. The demon snickered devilishly. “That would simply ruin the moment.”

_The ancestors bid you come home, my child, but you are washed with taint. I fear for you. 

Uplift yourself._

Delusions. The Raven Prophet was anything but naïve. There was no undoing this endless scourge of death and despair. There was no room for her at the sides of the dead eldar gods nor in the infinity circuit. The Greater Demon had truly spoken honestly. Mirathir had chosen the only path that remained to her. She feared death. She especially feared it when she was only a child. She felt ashamed that she still felt that way now. It was the greatest of reliefs that Xehia had not slain her outright. 

Wherein lied the true path?

A thought suddenly crossed her mind. She blurted. “Where are the defenders of this webway conduit? Where are the craftworlders? They will attempt to stop the Lady… We must defend her until our last breaths.” A quick burst of laughter escaped her lips. “There is nothing worse to the powers of the warp than an oath breaker. And I have sworn myself to them like any other mad fool. This galaxy is filled with victims and fools. I have chosen the way that shall obliterate such ignorance in the flames of warp ether. I have chosen the way that makes me stronger. The Raven Prophet is no mere plaything. Take me to her, Nyst. Take me to our mistress and tormenting overlord. I must rally our forces.”

The Greater Demon snapped her jaws approvingly. “As you desire, my master.” She quickly urged Mirathir onto her back, who was quickly regaining her strength. At her master’s command, Nyst darted across the bridge with crushing hooves.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Two updates today:grin:.


The Twin Gate Outpost was ablaze with unnatural flames and filled with the screams of the dying, living, and the mechanical as Nyst finally reached the gateway. The wraithbone doors had been blasted into cinders, only a large archway remained. Perched upon the long arch, an eldar maiden weeped over the countless souls that had perished beneath her. The high walls of the bastion were crumbled in a score of places, breached in several others. Above the maiden statue, hundreds of sleek and bladed eldar grav-craft were engaged in a spectacular battle. 

Nyst charged through the shattered gates and slid from one side of the passage beyond to the next. A hail of shuriken fire followed her. Mirathir leaned further across the Greater Demon’s back as laser discharges stitched themselves into the wreck of a Dark Kin craft she hid behind. There were panicked cries, followed by a spike of suppressing fire. 

Nyst hissed in frustration and pressed herself against the twisted craft. “Master, clear these vermin from our path. I have already sustained enough wounds for one day.” Her quick laugh was stifled with pain. “I’ve been in this plane for too long. I am beginning to feel my injuries.”

Mirathir had already noticed the gaping wounds on Nyst’s body, a handful of severe wounds where the flesh had been melted by potent poisons. Bloody ichor streamed from the craters in the demon’s flesh unchecked. 

Mirathir held a hand over her head. Flickers of eldritch lightning danced along her fingers. “Give me a better angle on those guardians!”

Nyst leaned halfway into the open. Mirathir leaned with her and caught sight of a dozen guardian defenders hunkered behind a barricade. There could be no crossing into the outpost without pushing them aside. She could not recognize their colors, it belonged to no craftworld that she had ever encountered around the Tarmathon sector. 

Mirathir drew upon her psychic might and unleashed an arc of lightning into the eldar. A blinding flash overtook her for one moment, followed by a light rain of gore that fell upon the scattered survivors. She blew out a breath and loosed another bolt, followed by another. Two remaining guardians routed and sprinted madly for refuge. 

Nyst leapt over the barricade and into the chaos that enveloped the courtyard. Wreckage and debris collected across the battlefield, littered with the fallen. The Dark Kin were scattered. Holed up in their makeshift cover as they battled an onslaught of Centaur creatures and their cultist minions. The Greater Demons from the Forlorn City tore apart anything their claws found and unleashed warp flame from their mouths. The Kabal of the Blinded Blades used their potent weaponry to vaporize anything that came too close, but not even their expert gunners could hold back such pressing numbers. 

And amongst all three factions was a new contender: aspect warriors from the craftworlds and their civilian warriors. The nameless eldar that defended this decrepit ruin advanced into their enemies under the cover of aerial bombardments and precision strikes. Guardian Defenders and Dire Avengers disembarked from their transports onto the higher tiers of the Twin Gate Outpost. An endless rain of shuriken fire descended upon bunkered groups of kabalite warriors and cultists. Mirathir observed them cut to ribbons in mere moments. 

Eldar in heavy emerald armor striped with golden filigree struck from hidden places. Their chainswords whirled back and forth around them and slew half-naked gladiators and shadowy fiends apart in a marvellous display of skill and gore. Howling Banshees charged into combat with the lumbering Greater Demons, the numbers of their foe already dwindled by the Dark Reaper and Fire Dragon Shrines. 

Then Mirathir caught a glimpse of the Lady of the Tower. She was nothing more than a mere blur, she weaved through her foes so fast. The light of three blades cut through the air and sung a wailing song as eldritch lightning forked into her challengers. The breath caught in Mirathir’s throat as realization dawned upon her that her life’s work was complete. 

Her Queen was free and in the flesh. 

For the briefest moment, the Raven Prophet made out her master’s stare being cast down upon her. A knowing smile tugged on her lips. 

A voice so sing-song, but mournful and more powerful than anything Mirathir had ever heard before entered her mind. _“You have succeeded, young mortal, your anarchic wake has cleansed the failings of the others. Never in a thousand years did I believe that one such as you could give me form. Of all the races, I am pleasantly surprised by the eldar most. In this moment of despair, death, and anguish, I shall bind all of your work into a new faith. My word is not damnation, but the refuge of the lost and forgotten… the forlorn. 

“I am bound by the word which is mine and I shall honor the pact that was struck betwixt us. Mirathir, my herald, I am most pleased by your actions. I name you a prince amongst demon kind and bestow upon you a fortress within my realm. I also give unto you the blessings of the warp, upon your first death. You shall be forever changed in the likeness that I have given you the power to choose.”_

The Lady of the Tower still spoke as she fought, her words degenerated into a fathomless choir of whispers. 

_“... You shall want for nothing.”

“... You shall be a wise queen.”

“... Fulfill your every desire, upon every whim.”

“... You shall never know death.”

“... You will be eternal.”

“... I would look upon you in the flesh, raven prophet.”_

“Our master is in peril,” Mirathir unleashed another blast of lightning from her fingers. The blast caught a young eldar girl in a guardian suit and obliterated her. “I can sense psykers. How much would you gamble that the Seers are attempting to interfere with our plans? They cannot be here solely because our presence is an affront to them.”

Nyst snorted and snapped her jaws testily. “Let us discuss the enemy’s plans after we’ve disposed of them, Mirathir!” 

Mirathir kicked at the Greater Demon’s flanks. “Let’s go!”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The Wave Serpent’s pilot skillfully descended through the storm of dark energy hurtling towards them and inside the bastion of the Twin Gate Outpost. Aryriel caught glimpses of other craftworld transports already on the ground, disembarking their troops under the cover of a withering fusilade of fire. The Striking Scorpion slammed on his helm and breathed in as the suit’s systems displayed on his visor. Only the Autarch stood behind him, covered in head to toe in ornate armor and a heavy helm with a long golden plume. The Warp generator on his back whirred silently as everything within the grav-tank fell into silence. 

The Seer Council held up their eldritch witch blades and whispered incantations to incite the wispful runes weaving around them. Aryriel marked them one last time: Kasilienesh of Ulthwe’, Iraa the Spirit Seer, Farseer Mae, and a small group of Warlocks from the three allied craftworlds. He could feel the raw power echoing from their minds and lapping at the fore of his mind. 

_“All passengers, prepare for immediate disembarkation . Warning, the deployment zone is hot. I repeat, the deployment zone is hot. Rampart collapsing in ten, nine, eight…”_

Muran flicked the activation rune of his weapon. “The fate of entire craftworlds shall be decided upon these ruins. Stand united in this dark hour and see our enemies extinguished!” 

The recycled air onboard the grav-tank filled with enraged cries of exertion as the ramp fell backward and the Seer Council charged onto the battlefield. Vivid lightning flashed behind the bright yellow tint of his visor, quickly followed by sprays of blood and chunks of gore. The terrible howl of Witch Blades sang a mournful tune as they cleaved through armor and flesh and gave way to frantic screaming. 

The Autarch of Myriell guffawed and prodded Aryriel with light jabs of his spear’s shaft. “Go! Chosen of Khaine! Before we are too old to fight!”

The Striking Scorpion needed no encouragement. He dashed through the hull and sprang across the ramp with a mighty leap. The Twin Gate Outpost was a crumbling ruin, littered with the corpses of three committed armies and the wreckage of their technology. Several twisted bladed grav-craft surrounded the fanned out Seer Council, buried beneath heaps of rubble that teemed with lithe shadows. He thought of them as nothing more than the shadows of the Dark Kin that must be bunkered behind the wreckage at first. Realization quickly dawned upon him as his feet found purchase on the rocky ground that the shadows were unnatural things. One detached from the ground and swung a serrated blade in his direction. 

The mandi-blasters on his helm were activated on an impulse. A stream of yellow shards embedded themselves into the shadow’s face and it loosed a screeching wail as it staggered. The corporeal creature quickly shifted into a physical form, all emerald and ritually scarred skin that danced with baleful flames. The Mandrake tore open it’s toothy maw with another resounding cry as it half stepped, half slunk away from Aryriel’s natural counter-blow. The rusted blade in it’s grip whirled back and forth, scraping harshly against the teeth of his chainsword in rapid sequence. Aryriel parried an overhead strike meant to cave in his skull and answered with a savage knee into the Mandrake’s stomach. 

More otherworldly cries surrounded him as he fought. Shadows once content to remain in the dark came slunking forward and moved to quickly surround their prey. A blinding flash of super-heated energy hurtled past him and smacked a reckless twisted creature in the chest. The thing howled as it’s innards were atomized and whatever was left became nothing more than a blackened mess. Muran materialized beside him, his great spear dipped in a crackling power field. He cast the spear through the stretched open maw of another Mandrake, unleashed another salvo of his fusion pistol, and then ripped free his main weapon in time to crack the pommel into an unprotected face. 

Aryriel headbutted his opponent without thought and sent him reeling into the debris. His sword arced in a blur, so quick that the Mandrake’s head remained in place for a sliver of a second before plopping onto the blooded stone. His arm lashed out, pushed away an overextended strike before his chainsword flashed in a horizontal arc that rent through an unguarded midsection. 

“Look out!” Muran’s body slammed Aryriel into the uneven ground as laser fire rippled from further behind the wreckage. 

Las-fire tore through the ranks of the Mandrakes, who were caught from behind and completely exposed. The shadow creatures shrieked as they were riddled with volley after volley. One of the Warlock’s of the Council grunted in surprised as a trio of bolts bore into his back. He folded in on himself as Iraa turned around and unleashed a torrent of flames at their attackers. 

Muran sent a psychic impulse through his ranks. _“This is Muran! I need assistance!” _

The guttural tongues of the Mon-Keigh shouted over the chaos as several of them charged onto the Seer Council’s position. Iraa cried out as a bullet flung itself into her arm, but managed a vile curse as she sent up a wall of flames at the feet of the cultists. The first amongst the humans became enveloped in the flames, their screams sending their comrades hurtling backward and firing blindly through the flames. 

An Exarch’s voice cut through the comms. _“Coming to your aid, Autarch! Keep your heads down!”_

“Are you well, Chosen of Khaine?” Muran managed before a deafening explosion made the ground beneath them tremble. More laser fire materialized from above as a squadron of Swooping Hawks descended from the aerial battle. For mere moments, the sound of armored bodies flopping into the dirt could be heard. 

Aryriel’s heart hammered in his chest and his blood was flowing, but he realized that nothing had touched him yet.. “I am not wounded, Autarch... “ He shoved himself back to his feet and helped Muran to his. “Yet the battle if far from over. The last time I was in a conflict of this scale… well, I became exiled.”

Muran placed an affirming hand on his shoulder. “I would wager it was not because you were a coward? I have already seen your courage and cannot find you lacking.”

“It is a complicated matter.” Aryriel mentioned with an air of finality. He peeled his eyes and surveyed the battlefield. “My cousin, Lriean, he has not yet arrived? I see no sign of the Imperials.”

Muran nodded and though he did not give voice to it, Aryriel could imagine the grim expression written on his features. “Give him time, Chosen of Khaine. Who could know what might assail him in this grand ruin?”

The exile merely shook his head. “We could all be snatched away by the jaws of damnation if we give him too much. Khaine’s blood…”

Muran holstered his pistol and produced his data-slate depicting the battle of the Twin Gate Outpost. “Over half of our forces are on the ground. Yet we’re taking more casualties in the air. I’ve lost a quarter of the _Implacable_ and a third of _Radiant Spear_.” He pointed toward the other side of the outpost with his power weapon. “There’s an outpouring of demonic creatures further north. My commanders are reporting a massive entity overwhelming them there. Reports also mention that this creature is whittling our aerial superiority. We must give them aid!”

“My Autarch!” Farseer Mae approached, followed by her Spirit Seer --whom cradled a wounded arm--, and the Warlock from Ulthwe’. Aryriel glanced at the other Warlocks, whom were gathered a respectful distance away, waiting for the Autarch. “I would request that I take my comrades and bolster the defenses at the gates of the Fortress. More cultists are pouring in every hour and their numbers should be checked.”

Muran grunted with approval. “Understood, Farseer.” He shifted back to Aryriel. “Chosen of Khaine, you should go with them. They are of your own kin and need you more than I do.”

“Then,” Aryriel said breathlessly. He looked north, where the flickering traces of the webway were visible. “Perhaps I was not fated for destiny as you thought.”

Aryriel could sense the smile beneath Muran’s helmet. “I believe that destiny tends to find us, Chosen of Khaine, not the other way around. Now I must take my leave of you all. Good fortune to all of you.” 

“Lriean has not yet arrived.” Iraa uttered dejectedly as the Autarch’s footsteps resided. “Every moment without reinforcement could spell our doom.”

“My cousin will come.” The Striking Scorpion was certain to edge his voice with his steel. Doing so seemed to stir some faith back into the Spirit Seer. “I can promise you as much.” 

“Your cousin has never known a real war also.” Kasilienesh said. “Perhaps he could not stir the Imperials to fight. It was foolish to believe that they would do our work for us.”

Mae tilted her helmet slightly in askance. “The Mon-Keigh have every reason to see this fight through as we do. If we cannot eliminate the threat, then this planet is doomed and all of the souls upon it. In either case, there is nothing that can be done about their arrival except to continue fighting. We should make haste toward the main gate, I can sense a powerful force approaching.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The hour of confrontation has come, who will win!? :grin:



“Honored Seer!” One of the Dire Avengers slinking behind a makeshift barricade of torn wraithbone and twisted metal whistled sharply at Aryriel and his comrades. “Where are you headed?” 

Aryriel spied several other Avengers hiding in the dust and debris, their rifles pulled over their chest as they leaned into the open, searching for trouble. Each of them wore a crimson crest on their teal helms, their sapphire mesh armor interrupted with more streaks of red. Upon their flanks, three scores of Guardians hunkered down and formed a nigh invisible phalanx upon the path that led further into the courtyard. Grav-platforms that held aloft heavy weapons hovered in place and watched the killzones for movement. Many of them bore chainswords and shuriken pistols, even the occasional fusion gun.

Farseer Mae thrust a fist into the air and signaled her comrades to halt in their tracks. She gazed down upon the Dire Avenger, whom remained crouched in the dirty wreckage. “We make for the main gate of the Twin Gate Outpost! If you are not occupied, you should join us there and aid in its defense!” 

The Dire Avenger took a hand away from his shuriken catapult and placed it firmly on his chest. There was an eerie malice in the way the crimson slits in his visor pulsed. The twin banners on his back billowed in a gust of air permeated with blood and gore. “I am Exarch Verithan of the Shrine of the Destined Hand. I am honored by your presence, but I must inform you that the main gate has already fallen into enemy hands. Something broke through the Defender team sent to guard it before reinforcements could be sent. Whatever may be lying in wait beyond those gates are certainly headed in this direction. The Mon-Keigh shall arrive any minute now. You are welcome to aid us in repulsing them. Perhaps we would be obliged to help you take the gateway back?”

Iraa spoke as Mae nodded firmly. “The thing that broke through the guardians? Have you seen it?”

“No.” Verithan mused. “Yet I recall the Guardians mentioning that there was only one creature assailing them. It was not backed by another force. It tore through them quickly, we lost communication within two minutes. It must truly be a beast worthy of legend…” The Exarch pointed at Iraa’s limp arm. “Would you wish one of our medics to look at your wound?”

Iraa managed her whimsical laugh, something that had become rarer as of late. “I am fine, but thank you, Verithan.”

Mae quickly led her entourage into cover, behind a collapsed slab of wraithbone just above the Shrine of the Destined Hand. Their decision to slip into cover could not have been more timely. Aryriel found himself a small enclosure to perch himself in the same moment one of the Guardians shouted over the sound of screaming soldiers. 

“Mon-Keigh!!!”

“Destined Hand, lead your kindred!” Verithan leapt onto his feet, his free hand made a cutting gesture at the four scores of cultists that charged from the shadows. The Dire Avengers unleashed a rippling volley of laser fire that hewed apart the front ranks of the enemy. The Shuriken cannons immediately filled the air with a shrieking howl as they joined the defense. Their heavy cannons stitched death through the humans wherever they were caught out in the open. The Defenders finally joined the fray and hacked down the last remnants of the charge.

“Find your cover!” Verithan shouted. “Grenades!”

A string of explosions detonated amongst the Eldar. More cultists revealed themselves from behind the wreckage that blocked off the path to the main gate. Their weapons coughed distinctively, lobing primitive fragmentation grenades onto the eldar. Guardians tumbled backwards with brutal force from stray impacts. Others were more unfortunate, their bodies shredded by shrapnel or pulverised into a gory mess. 

Aryriel’s thoughts raced through his head in a blurr. “Farseer, Warlock, cover us!” He hefted his chainsword and leapt down amongst the scattered Dire Avengers. His armored foot landed upon a carcass leaking blood in a hundred places. “Storm Guardians, follow me! Cut them down!”

Primitive laser weapons opened fire at the mere sight of Ayriel, a dozen shots hurled past him and into the Storm Guardians as they rallied behind him. The first dozen were cut down as they attempted to charge, but Aryriel’s armor held against round after round smacking into the heavy suit. Streaks of lightning soon flashed through the air into the shielded cultists. The earth heaved under the momentum and force of psychic might. Screams followed as wreckage twisted into itself and collapsed. 

“Teyl-Jhen!” Aryriel rushed through the storm of fire and leapt up the wall of wreckage as if it were nothing more than a steep hill. The Storm Guardians shouted their own cries as they charged in behind them and finally clashed with the foe. 

Aryriel suddenly spun on the tip of his foot, away from a point blank shot from a grenade launcher. Another Guardian appeared by his side as the round flew past and in moments, the fusion gun left a crater in his assailant’s chest. His chainsword flashed in a diagonal slash through another Mon-Keigh and cleaved him from shoulder to stomach as he landed. Laser fire desperately trickled in after him, attempting to find a mark. Aryriel rolled away into a deep crevice within the wreckage. He leapt out as quickly as a striking serpent, his mandiblasters sending needle sharp trails into the exposed chest of another cultist. 

Once committed in battle, the Storm Guardians quickly gained an upper hand against the Mon-Keigh. They leapt from enemy to enemy, their swords arcing and their bodies sliding away from death in a graceful dance that left the Mon-Keigh staggering in confusion. A cultists would attempt to charge down one eldar, only for his opponent to slip away and let him fall to the blade of another. 

Aryriel found himself joining the dance in it’s fullest and felt a burst of pride and joy. When was the last time he had fought alongside comrades? Beside kindred whom knew swordplay and discipline as he had? As he fought on, memories replayed themselves in his thoughts and took him back to that fateful war so many years ago. 

He twisted around a bayonet strike and cut his blade sideways across an exposed chest. 

_The pitiful spawn of Slaneesh squealed in delighted agony as the teeth of his blade found it. Black ichor sprayed everywhere as it collapsed onto the warm sands of the island. He looked up and saw only chaos, the Eldar fighting for their lives as an army of demons descended upon them. _

“Aryriel!” Iraa shouted as she hurtled a blast of raw psychic energy into a cultist ready to plunge a dagger into his back. 

Aryriel decapitated his opponent with a flick of his blade. 

_“Aryriel!” Reiko sobbed, tears poured down her eyes as the Archon jerked her by her hair onto her knees. She cradled her left hand -- no, only her wrist, that weeped blood -- as she look downcast at the floor. 

“Ah, and whom might you be?” Archon Tali smirked, her face placid. “A young boy trying to play hero?”

“And you’re a coward.” Aryriel retorted hotly. “Do you have such little faith in yourself that you would willingly duel such a young girl? You truly call yourself a dreaded archon? Leave her and face me instead.”

Tali feigned a hurt expression. “You are alone, Aspect Warrior. And you are foolish for believing that I would be as well. I’ll cut you a deal. You defeat even one of my Incubi and I’ll give you the honor of facing me for the girl’s life. It should prove quite entertaining.”
_
Aryriel leaned away from an uppercut, the knife embedded in his attacker’s fist flew upwards, then suddenly changed direction. He snatched the mon-keigh’s hand as the knife came mere inches away from his visor slits. The bones shattered with one twist, Aryriel let go of the arm and brought his chainsword down upon human’s skull with both hands. The man’s screams were cut short as gore exploded onto Aryriel’s faceplate. 

_One of the Incubi volunteered without a word. He hefted his glaive up toward his chest and immediately began to swing at Aryriel as he approached. The bodyguard of the Arhcon was quick, deceptively so. By the time Aryriel had made several dodges, the Incubus had already made fifteen fatal attacks meant to cleave his limbs and head away from his body. The glaive in the Incubus’ hand crackled with a sickly green energy field and rent through metal and stone as it carved a path through the chamber. 

Aryriel’s mandiblasters slammed his opponent in the face, but earned only a silent whisper of a laugh. The Incubus made a cutting gesture, but then feinted in hopes that Aryriel would attempt to parry. The Striking Scorpion was nearly foolish enough to do so, but quickly distanced himself with a great leap backward. Had he stayed his ground, he would have been cleaved from head to groin…_

The Striking Scorpion lashed out with a savage kick that connected into a midriff. He suddenly spun in a pirouette that struck down two more cultists attempting to pressure him from two sides. There was a great blast of lightning that forked close to him -- too close. Something sounded vaguely eldar as it screamed. He raced up a slab of tortured metal, leapt off one foot, and whipped his chainsword around in a full spin. 

He nicked something, and it shrieked such an otherworldly cry that Aryriel’s heart quaked with utter fear for a moment. It was a sing--song voice, that sounded reminiscent of the sounds of a waterfall. Then a powerful force slapped him away, like an insect, and he went skidding across the ground until he thumped into a wall. 

_“I see you.” By the Gods, the creature was monstrous, looming over him with an open maw, filled with fangs. It sat perched upon its hind legs, over a mound of eldar corpses it had created. Aryriel knew that the Autarch was among them. The Greater Demon yawned in boredom, it’s humanoid facial features feigning relaxation and enjoyment. “You wonder what I am? I can tell that you are. I suppose my answer to you would be ‘does that truly matter?’ in this instance. I am something far beyond your comprehension. I am Nyst…”

He heard a ghastly whisper calling his name. It sounded like death. “Aryriel! Aryriel!”_

Aryriel slowly fluttered his eyes open. The world beyond his visor was a blur of dust and blood. His back ached painfully. He was no longer holding his sword. Realization dawned on him that this was where the heroes died, however valiantly, and were sent to whatever gods awaited them on the other side. 

Verithan lowered himself into Aryriel’s vision and laughed quietly. “This is not the end. Not yet. Not for you.”

Aryriel coughed up a trickle of blood. He managed to wheeze at Verithan. “Ironic that you would say that, Exarch.”

“Your friends are in danger.” Verithan said matter-of-factly. “We must all fight and accept our fate.” He leaned backward and pointed toward the battle he had just been in. 

_“I see you.” _

The creature had not changed since the last time they had met on the battlefield. Nyst, the Seers called her. Neither had her master. Her hauntingly beautiful master, however corrupted and twisted as she was. Mirathir fought upon the back of the Greater Demon, casting powerful spells that slew eldar where they stood. Nyst herself weeped from a dozen wounds, but fought with all of ferocity that she had so many years ago. Could there truly be no defeat for this demon?

Mae, Iraa, and Kasilienesh provided spells of their own and unleashed them upon the sorceress, but her demonic pet was able to absorb each blast and chortle as if they tickled her. 

“Your sword.” Verithan offered the blade with no small amount of reverence. “Whomever taught you the way of the Striking Scorpion. Pass onto him my compliments.”

Aryriel took the offered sword and clambered to his feet. “For the eldar!”

“For the eldar!” Verithan shouted over the den of battle and unsheathed his power sword. 

The surviving cultists attempted to bar Aryriel’s path as he and the Exarch charged back into the battle. Between Verithan and himself, the pair of Eldar carved a bloody path through them without effort. The remaining Storm Guardians rallied around them quickly and hurled themselves into the Greater Demon. 

Aryriel ducked beneath Nyst’s razor sharp tail, a thing he had long remembered, in time to avoid being cut in twain. A pair of Storm Guardians weren’t so fortunate and were sliced apart by the wild lashings. It was only then that the Demon seemed to notice the eldar behind her. She kicked out with her hind legs that crunched into a Dire Avenger’s chest. Nyst continued her onslaught with a spew of warp flame that went over Aryriel’s head. The blast was cut short with a pained yelp as Verithan answered her with an overhead strike that cleaved through one of her back legs. 

Enraged, Nyst whirled around, her diamond hard claws ripping through the armor of another Guardian where Verithan had once been. Aryriel pulled himself over the demon’s extended arm with one hand until his feet was upon her bicep. The demon attempted to swat him away, but he leapt away before she could. He landed upon her back, behind the sorceress and promptly kicked her off before she could even blink.

The Chaos sympathizer, known as Mirathir, thumped onto the ground with a forceful grunt. She glared up in surprise and exchanged knowing stares with the Striking Scorpion. 

Mirathir smiled wickedly. “You have an odd sense of time, son of the Tarithinon blood, to fight a war on the brink of being lost forever.” The Raven Prophet leapt to her feet, whipped back her hair, and fluttered her lashes. “You could not miss the chance to immerse yourself in my beauty, I know.”

Aryriel looked down upon her, his face set in a snarl. “Witch! You’ll answer for the wars fought on Tarmathon and Tyrannus! And all of the Eldar lost on those battlefields!”

The moment he sprang toward her, Mirathir cloaked herself in ethereal energy and threw him several feet across the melee with an invisible force. 

Mirathir laughed triumphantly. “I’ll deal with you later!”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Farseer Mae allowed her psychic might to channel through her veins unchecked as she brought it to bear on her foes. Her witch blade hummed in her hands, neatly cut through armor and flesh without effort. She could feel the wisdom and guidance of her ancestors move the blade from foe to foe, in arcs and great overhead strikes that were too quick and powerful to deny. She weaved and danced through the cultists attempting to overpower her, answering them with sharp blasts of flames whenever she gained the space. Tainted creatures withered and cried as they became engulfed in a furnace of wrath. 

Myriell’s guardians and Dire Avengers bravely kept the Greater Demon at bay, but they could not give her much more time. Yet here was her chance to behead the serpent, the architect of the doom of the Tarmathon Sector. The Raven Prophet had at last shown herself in the bloody slaughter of battle. 


Mae leaned away from the radiant heat of an eldritch blade, her own deft hands immediately rushed to parry the next assault from the sorceress. The two swords clashed for sparse moments before coming together again in a deadlock. Mae twitched a smile beneath her helm. “Here we stand together, Mirathir. Two watchers of the skein that have beheld the fate of this planet. And yet even though we are of opposing forces, we have both come to see our parts played.”

The Raven Prophet grinned maniacally. The powerfields crackled and burst against each other. “You grasp only at broken straws, Farseer! I serve the true watcher of the universe. All fates lie open to me. And I have witnessed your death.”

“You mean a demon chortled in your ear.” Mae quickly leapt backward, swept Mirathir’s blade away with an upward swing, and hurled a blast of raw psychic power in her opponent’s direction. Her fingers thrummed with eldritch power and she gleefully unleashed them in the obstacle lying in her path. “Such fickle wisdom matters little to the masters of the stars!”


There was morose laughter as the onslaught of lightning dissipated against liquid ether. The shield faded into nothing, a confident Mirathir sauntered through the storm of shuriken fire, cloaked in a twister of runes. The Sorceress crunched her fingers into a fist and vanished into thin air. An explosion of light, quickly followed by a deafening thunder clap behind her. Sounds of struggle intermingled with the Greater Demon’s slaughter. 


Iraa darted through the empty space between Mirathir and her in the blink of an eye. Her staff shimmered with a radiant light as it smashed into the sorceress’ barrier. The strike was deceivingly strong, the serpent staff ripped through liquid energies with a sound reminiscent of torn flesh. The Spirit Seer followed with a string of fluid arcs and strikes that blunted through the shield and connected on Mirathir’s upper body. 


Mirathir wilted against the clubbing blows, but narrowly dodged the fourth blow meant to cave her head in, her fingers desperately clutched onto Iraa’s Ghost Helm, forced her backwards. She shrieked with great effort as the runes floating around her person were sucked into the palm of her hand. The energy was expelled in a great wave of light that rushed over her new opponent. No telepathic scream cut through the fabric of reality. Iraa’s head lolled to one side, her mind annihilated. Her staff clattered into the rubble, her body quickly followed. 

Choked with rage, Mae’s witchblade screamed in her hands as she made to charge Mirathir down. She was stopped by a subtle hand on her shoulder. The Farseer glanced over shoulder to find Kasilienesh beside her. 

The Warlock hummed with built up energies. “Farseer, let us fight together! Two shall fare better than one!”


Mae inclined her head in agreement. “Remain on guard, Kasilienesh, who can know what tricks this traitor has hidden in her sleeves. But I digress, let us rid the galaxy of this infectious disease: this so-called New Word.” 

Mirathir braced herself as she caught the two psykers in her crosshairs. She stood triumphant over Iraa’s still body. In the calmest manner, she spread her hands and they combusted into burning sapphire light. “I am ashamed that my own kind has no faith in the Gods that live. You throw yourselves at the feet of idols that whimper in eternal torment and shall never know again what it is to rule the galaxy.” She hawked a wad of saliva onto Iraa’s prone form. “You shall learn what faith in our New Word shall hold for true believers!”


The Raven Prophet snapped her fingers, in a way that sent a psychic resonance rippling through the air. Kasilienesh and Mae charged at her in that same moment. The Warlock and the Farseer darted across the ruined landscape with a speed that belied even their agile frames. Mae began to chant in a low droning whisper that made the air around her visibly darken and crackle with great bolts of lightning. Kasilienesh weaved his runes in such a way that cloaked him in an invisible blanket. 

The demons appeared suddenly. Two of them. Each possessed similar aspects to the ancient demon called Nyst. They were four legged and either cloaked in dense fur or scales, commanded by a humanoid figure that served as the upper body. Their hair flowed down in great locks, caught on the winds of their charge as they leapt over the scattered ruins and into the battle. Kasilienesh was nearly crushed into the earth, but was spared because of his invisibility. Mae caught the tell-tale flash of his witch-blade arc through the air and cleave into ethereal flesh. The demon he struck reared upon its hind legs and loosed a keening roar. 


Mae’s eldritch storm fell upon the other demon in a great tide of divine wrath. Streaks of lightning roared down in great flashes, connecting against the demon’s flesh with blinding explosions that sent it hurtling backward. The Farseer did not stand idle as Mirathir scurried away from the reeling warp creature before it could collapse on top of her. Remembering Mirathir’s earlier trick, Mae whispered to her runes as she rushed forward. In one moment, she charged in the direction of Mirathir. In the next, she was travelling through the warp, her fortress of a mind pulled her through back into reality within an eyeblink.


Mae burst back into reality and fell upon the Greater Demon her storm had laid low. The creature was badly mauled, her wounds gaped in a myriad of places on her massive frame. Black ichor streamed from the wounds, but even then, the demon was far from slain; only dazed. She quickly darted along the length of the demon’s side, up the animal-like body and over the humanoid parts until she reached the demon’s head. Her witchblade lurched forward without much prompting, easily cleaved through the thickened skull and cooking anything beneath. 


Mirathir’s voice resounded from the shadows, somewhere distant. “You’re too late, Farseer! All that I have set in motion shall come to pass! There is nothing that can stop my master! You were a fool to risk the lives of your kin!” 

“Coward!” Mae shrieked over the chaos. “Show yourself!” She caught Kasilienesh dancing around the Greater Demon, swaying away from her blows as if they were simply a small draft of wind rushing past him. The Demon was missing an arm. “Let us finish this!”


There was a thunderclap behind her. “As you wish.” 


Mae twirled around, her blade slashed away from her face, but only to clash against another ethereal blade. The swords parted. Then they clashed again, once, twice, several times. The pair of eldar psykers weaved a dance around each other. Mae expertly pressed her attacks with clever feints and lightning thrusts. Mirathir parried every blow, her movements unnaturally fluid. Mae did not know who had taught her the eldar style of combat, but it was very defensive and efficient. Their dance began to blur as they picked up speed, but with every strike, every parry, the Farseer could sense the cracks in her opponent’s perfect defense opening.. 


“This is the end for you, Farseer!” Mirathir instinctively leapt backward and made a pirouette. The defensive attack mattered little, Mae’s blade hammered home and shattered completely on an energy field. The force of the attack threw her across the melee and into a collapsed column of wraithbone. “Now you die!”


A eardrum piercing shriek cried out over the battlefield before Mirathir could summon another burst of energy. The keen wail was so overwhelming that she collapsed onto her knees, clutching softly at her pointed ears. Mae watched her stare up into the sky in time to see a bladed chariot craft soar overhead. Only one figure leapt away from the rear of the grav-craft. A pallid skinned female figure, equipped in bladed kabalite armor the color of the ocean and bright with jade accents. In her hands was a wicked glaive, raised over her head in her shrieking descent. 


“Xehia!” Mirathir screamed as she hurtled a gust of flame toward her. 


The Dracon chortled mockingly as she fell through the air and landed neatly upon the Greater Demon Nyst’s back. Her blade flicked gently away from her body, the powerfield easily cut through the unnatural flesh of the demon. Nyst had only a sliver of a second to do so much as a twitch a surprised look upon her face, before her head tumbled freely from her shoulders. The tattered remnants of the Guardians and Dire Avengers suddenly halted in their desperate battle. The demon’s body twitched violently before it sagged down onto its knees and rolled onto the corpse littered battlefield. 

Mirathir screamed. “Nyst!!!”

If Dracon Xehia had heard Mirathir’s gasping sob, she made no display of it. Instead, as the Craftworld Eldar quickly moved to surround her as she hopped off of the demon corpse, she quickly discarded her weapon and fell to her knees before a certain Striking Scorpion. 

“Farseer!” Kasilienesh’s hushed tone suddenly jarred her from her daze. The Warlock was suddenly beside her, knelt in his bloody robes, covered from head to toe in black ichor. The Farseer glanced over to the area that he had fought the other demon and knew it had been slain. He ripped away his helmet. She forgot how aged and wizened he had become. “How bad is it?”

“I’m fine, Ulthwe’an.” She breathed. Her hands raced across her body in search of pain, but found only soreness and bruises. Her head suddenly snapped up. She had forgotten about Mirathir. “Where is the Raven Prophet!? Did you not see to her, Kasilienesh?”

Kasilienesh merely shook his head. He was more relieved than fearful. “I do not know where she has fled to, Honorable Seer.”


***


----------



## Myen'Tal

NOTE: Thought I would people know that I shrunk the Lady of the Tower a little bit. Instead of immense titan size, she is now Wraithlord size .

Dracon Xehia’s message broadcast relayed throughout every channel on the Eldar comms. The True Kin of the Blinded Blades, sworn to the Dread Archon Asdrubael Vect and the dark city of Commorragh officially surrendered to the Craftworld Myriell in the very heat of battle. The battle for aerial supremacy above the Twin Gate Outpost was slow to come to an end. The Dark Kin had halted their counter attack all at once. Several dozen more bladed grav-craft were destroyed before the message became fully received. 

Muran was forced to accept the surrender, despite his innate desire to run down the Commorite cowards. Too many precious lives were already lost and many more would follow before this conflict would come to an end. The real shame came when he personally requested Xehia’s aid in destroying the Webway gate and the so-called ‘Lady of the Tower’. So many of his advisors had warned him against such action. They knew their ancestors would be humiliated by accepting such a mortal enemy as allies. 

But what choice did he truly have? Despite their losses, the Dark Kin still held a few hundred vehicles, though their infantry was all but annihilated. The demons from beyond had slaughtered them from behind. All Xehia had left under her command that could fight on the ground was an elite core of True Born and an Incubi shrine, probably fifty left between them. 

The Web Way Nexus at the Twin Gate Outpost swirled and crackled with unstable energies powerful enough to make the earth beneath Craftworld Myriell’s advancing warhost quake and splinter. It was almost as if the Leviathan Bridge would collapse from under and send everyone into the abyss. Muran had fought on this bridge before. One millennia ago, there was little more than reckless slaughter -- no, genocide. Most of Craftworld Myriell’s population was systematically wiped out and the tattered survivors were forced to undergo cryo-stasis. Now there was open and honest battle between the nemesis of the age. He observed the final battle with unmasked pride as the demonic assault began to falter and wither back toward the portal.

The Guardians, Dire Avengers, Dark Reapers, and Fire Dragons fought on both left and right flanks. They continually charged over the small mounds of demonic corpses, hunkering down to whittle down the next incoming charge before moving up again. The Striking Scorpion, Howling Banshees, Swooping Hawks, and Warp Spiders took up the center. The battle there had devolved into a great and violent melee and progress to route the Greater Demons in open combat was slow.

In the midst of that melee fought the Lady of the Tower. Muran watched the Demoness’ three blades whirl around her so quickly that they blurred in her hands. A Dozen eldar warriors were already dead before he could blink. There was no hope of crushing her in close combat, especially when she was protected by that nightmare horde of Greater Demons. No one except those born to fight legends such as this. 

The Autarch whipped back his cloak and descended the half collapsed pillar in the midst of the courtyard. Three lesser Autarchs, Seer Council, the Dracon and her retinue, and his friends from Teyl-Jhen approached him as he came down. 

“Commander.” Farseer Mae’s voice came from her lips weakened. Muran glanced over to find her half walking, half leaning on her Warlock from Ulthwe’. “I can sense that your victory is near.”

The Autarch shook his head grimly. “There is yet one more fight worth waging in this decrepit ruin.” He pointed toward the towering Demoness, too occupied with cleaving through the Eldar ranks to notice them. “I do not think that creature will simply vanish back into the warp once we cut it off from the webway. I believe that it needs to be killed on this fateful ground.”

“What is it?” Aryriel gasped as he joined them, his chainsword ready in one hand. “ It has no appearance of a demon I have ever seen.” 

Kasilienesh explained. “The Lady of the Tower is not a being of the Dark Gods. There are many realms within the immaterium free from the Great Four. She has been spreading worship of her into the Tarmathon Sector for centuries now. You cannot hope to match her prowess.”

Muran snorted arrogantly, he brushed away Kasilienesh’s words with a flick of his hand. “Oh, I intend to and I will. I shall challenge her to open combat and fight a battle worthy of legend. I’ve seen a dozen aerial craft strike her shield a hundred times, it has not failed once. Oh, what I would do for a Court of the Young King.”

“Muran,” His favorite Autarch, Yennali, uttered softly. “How do you intend to fight that creature yourself? It could easily crush you into the earth.”

“Not if you battle her from the skies.” Dracon Xehia interjected, before one of her Myriell guards kicked the back of her knees and made her fall. Her Incubi immediately grabbed their swords. 

Muran raised a hand. “That’s enough! Let her speak.”

Xehia cursed and spat as she recovered herself. “I have commanded what is left of my forces to follow your command. But I have kept a few score of my most elite warriors in case I needed them. Allow me to take you into the air and bring the fight to this demoness.”

“That’s suicide.” One of the Seer Council shot the Dracon a scathing look. “That storm erupting from her blades will inevitably destroy you.”

Kasilienesh spoke up. “Might I suggest waiting for our Imperial reinforcements to arrive?”

Muran quipped with finality. “I cannot afford to waste anymore warriors waiting for them. Isha’s tears, do I really need to send a recon party to find them?”

“Perhaps that is best.” Another Autarch inclined his head in agreement. “Better late than never.”

“Fine.” Muran rushed off one of his attendants. “Where is the status on that webway gate? It already looks damaged.”

Yennali replied. “Squadron _Radiant Spear_ estimates nearly one more hour and the gate will come crashing down.”

Another Seer sucked in a sharp breath. “Another hour against this horde?”

Muran nodded. “That is dire news. My center will crumble against the Lady of the Tower unless we intervene. Yennali and Burieth, gather your finest Exarchs, enough to fill two Falcons. Seer Council, you are now charged with the command of my army in case I fall in battle. Farseer Mae and Warlock Kasilienesh, I would politely ask that you advise my council.” He snapped his head around toward Aryriel. “Chosen of Khaine, will you come? Are you ready to face destiny?”

“I am, Autarch.” 

Muran nodded, then addressed his council. “Good. Not even a thousand years could rust our sword arms, woe onto the enemy once we meet face-to-face.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

EDIT: Made some minor edits and corrections for the last few updates .


Mirathir collapsed from her portal into a pile of human corpses, tucked away in a small corner of the Twin Gate Outpost. The bruised lights of the immaterium called out to her from across dimensions, swirling indistinctly until it evaporated into nothing. The cries of hundreds of warriors resounded across the fortress, but for the first time in what felt similar to an eternity, there was no fighting to avoid or be apart in. There was only the fallen beside her, tangled in the ruins, with only silence to mourn their passing. 

Mirathir tucked herself under a crunched Defiler, using it’s massive legs as a shield against the ashen and foul smelling winds. She winced repeatedly as she did so. Agony sprang from her two shattered ribs and bruised chest. The Seer armed with the staff, the one she had slain, had landed her blows well. Mirathir would have died had her fluid reflexes failed to kick in. She coughed up a wad of fresh blood and hawked it. 

She was dying, her internals had been smashed. 

“Nyst…” Her lips twitched into a smile, her thoughts turned to reminiscing. A loud rumbling noise suddenly came into hearing distance and the earth shook with it. Mirathir paid it no heed. “I shall join you soon.”

_“Come to me, oh Raven…”

“I name you a prince among demonkind.”

“Every whim, every desire.”

“This is fate.”​_


----------



## Myen'Tal

A howling gale blew through the Twin Gate Outpost. The stench of bloody gore and rancid death permeated its winds, stolen from the numberless dead that filled its pits and choke points. Through the tattered gates of the fortress and courtyard, one last bridge arched above the yawning abyss. The forgotten eldar of Myriell advanced once again upon the golden wraithbone bridge, inspired by the unbroken monuments of their ancestors and their silent vigil over the nexus that was broken. 

The demonic assault repeatedly crashed against the overwhelming firepower of the eldar, crumbled again and again on the flanks. Yet none of the ancient commanders of Myriell could save the center from fragmenting. Brave Aspect Warriors sold their lives dearly against the demonic horde. Their blades whirled in blurred strokes, powerful ranged weapons unleashed their unchecked ferocity to create any opening, to fell any foe. And many foes did fall before their feet, but even a mere grunt such as Aryriel knew that the cost was too much.

The exile observed the full scale and carnage of the battle from high above. The Falcon Grav-Tank he was embarked upon soared across emerald skies, the rear rampart already collapsed. Behind him, Autarch Muran delivered encouragement to his new retinue. Exarch Keathan of the Crimson Serpent, Illune of the Shrouded Moon, Quyan of the Dancing Flame, and Reihan of the Venomed Fangs remained on their feet in anticipation. 

“Exarchs!” Muran slammed the end of his weapon, the_ Spear of Khaine_, onto the hull’s floor. “Gaze upon the enemy and witness the doom of a planet! Should we fail here, entire Craftworlds and solar systems shall surely follow! Fight for the future eldar generations! Fight for our gods that still live! There is nothing in this galaxy that can surpass the kindred of the stars! This Lady of the Tower shall be forever banished from our realm when our blades find her throat! Myriell and Teyl-Jhen!”

The Exarchs intoned as one. “Myriell and Teyl-Jhen.”

“Young exile,” Keathan’s voice cut sharply through his helm. Crimson light pulsed through the visor slits as he made to stand beside Aryriel at the rampart. “Make our leap together. I shall cover your back. Be certain to cover my own, would you?” 

“Of course, Exarch.” The Striking Scorpion inclined his head in agreement. “The combat below is chaos, you know that we will inevitably separated at some point?”

“Wrong.” Keathan sighed with gentle snickers. “We are all united by the prey we hunt. Maintain focus and purpose, keep your footing as you fight, and your sense of direction, and we shall never be far apart. Good fortune to you, Chosen of Khaine.” The Exarch of the Crimson Serpent pointed with his two handed chainsword, the Biting Blade, into the heart of the battle as they soared overhead. 

A hundred dead eldar warriors surrounded the Lady of the Tower as she fought in the very thick of the combat. Three demon-forged swords flashed across her lithe form in blurred sequences, claiming souls, burning flesh, and turning mortal vessels into piles of ash. Wherever she appeared, the Aspect Warriors became fragmented, scattered enough to fall victim to the soldiers of her horde. 

The Demoness’ chest heaved with the effort of her slaying. Her arms were slick with the blood of countless fallen warriors up to her elbows. Her youthful skin was nicked with a myriad of scars, glimmering with thick teardrops of sweat. Aryriel watched as her arms slashed back and forth methodically, parried several assailants here, slew a handful of opponents with a lightning quick counter-attack there. This was the opponent he was called to face. 

Muran called over the rancorous chaos of battle. “Khaine be with us!” 

Keathan managed a hint of a nod before he rushed off of the rampart and into the raging combat below. Aryriel’s heart hammered in his chest suddenly, adrenaline glands unleashed their payloads into his blood before he could have second thoughts. He forced himself to leap from the gliding grav-tank, just in front of Illune, Quyan, and Reihan. 

_Keep your purpose as well as focus. The hunters are united by the prey they hunt, and as such are never far apart. 
_
There was a sickening crunch from the nearest Striking Scorpion, his helm split open as if an overripe fruit from a rearing kick. The contents within burst out over the Greater Demon that claimed the kill. The earth was littered with his blood when Aryriel hit and rolled across the bridge of the Twin Gate Outpost. He caught Keathan’s slippery shadow flying over him as the world whirled by, the Biting Blade roared out in bloodlust. 

Without stopping, Aryriel reached out with one hand, pushed himself up at an angle, and spun to his feet. He leapt away from a crushing claw, twirled from a razor-edged grip, and flicked his chainsword away from his chest. The blade merely cut across a demon’s beckoning palm, forced it away before it could impale him on sharpened claws. 

The Centaur whirled around, it’s lashing tail bisecting several warriors that had strayed too close. Aryriel instinctively leapt over the low sweep and leaned away from the second and third whiplash attacks. An Exarch that he could not recognize leapt through space and time, the warp jump hurried him into the perfect angle to unload his Death Spinners. More Warp Spiders appeared when winged creatures dove into the fray, their claws tore into them and they were stolen away into the skies. 

Illune kicked away from the head of a toppled monument to vault herself gracefully through the air toward Aryriel’s opponent. She twirled as she did so, her Mirror Blades crackled as they neatly severed through the flesh and bone of the demon’s right arm. The Exarch of the Shrouded Moon somersaulted forcefully the moment the tips of her feet met the bloody ground. The Greater Demon attempted to crush her into the earth, but Illune had already distanced herself by several feet. 

Adrenaline rushed through his veins, Aryriel charged headlong into combat before Illune could throw herself into danger. Reihan appeared before he could take three steps. The power claw on his arm flexed and crackled as he rolled beneath the monster, between the Greater Demon’s stamping feet. Black ichor erupted from beneath the creature’s belly from where the claw rent through its guts. The Demon collapsed so quickly, weakly yawning in agony, that Reihan was instantly crushed under her weight. His psychic scream tore at everyone around him. 

“Chosen of Khaine!” Muran called from behind him. The Autarch hefted his power spear and unleashed it like an ancient javelin. The spear tip and shaft embedded itself into one of the winged Greater Demons that continually swept down from the skies, plucked up eldar warriors, and rent them apart in mid-air. The Centaur plummeted into the bridge mere feet away. Muran raced to it to collect his weapon. “On me! Exarchs! On me!” 

Illune and Keathan were the only Exarch to arrive on the Autarch’s orders. The rest had already been killed. 

“Where is she?” Muran managed an arrogant, snide laugh. The_ Spear of Khaine_ came free of the unnatural corpse with a violent tug. “Where is this _Lady of the Tower_?” He pressed two fingers into his comm. link. “Yennali, Burieth, what is your status? … Very well, proceed with the plan. Execute the signal. Muran out.” He turned to the last survivors of his retinue. “Follow me.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The Lady of the Tower proved so dominant against the Aspect Warriors that they were forced to merely outmaneuver and avoid her. By the time Muran had linked up with Yenalli, Burieth, and three surviving Exarchs: Durien, Cealyn, and Arennia, the Demoness had backpedaled away from the battle. Her three swords were thrust into the golden wraithbone of the bridge. Her mighty tome hovered in the emerald air over her head. Her four arms were crossed under her chest, her body heaved up and down, veins thick on her skin, and her heart raced as she inhaled for air. 

“Good,” Muran mused aloud as he led his retinue through the opening in the enemy lines. “She can tire.” 

Winged creatures descended upon the Autarch and his entourage, but they were met by withering fusillades from the Swooping Hawk squadrons. The few that managed to break through the blanket of cover fire were sliced into chunks by the waiting webs of the Warp Spiders. Black blood and strange gore pattered down over Aryriel’s armor as they approached the Lady. 

The Demoness had no words for the eldar, not physically, at least. A smirk tugged on the corner of her lips, a minor ***** in her stoic facade. She parted her lips to reveal a slithering, forked tongue between sharp teeth. She sucked in a baited breath and expelled a keening diabolic wail. The voices began to slither into the eldar and their psyches as they approached. 

_ Sons of fallen Asuryan….
Noble Watchers of the Universe…
The time has come for a new force to supplant the Eldar…
Bend your knees and you shall know mercy… 
Or spend the rest of eternity on the edge of existence….
Eternal torment is yours…_

Muran hoisted his weapon overhead, his pose challenging. “Our destinies can no longer be unraveled through fear, creature! You have played every pawn at your disposal! There can be no more avoidance of confrontation! Draw your swords! Let us put an end to this!”

_As you wish._

The Lady of the Tower reacted on a level far from comprehensible to the mortal races. One moment, she stood proud in the eye of the storm, resting herself for the final assault against the craftworld eldar. In the next, all three blades had been drawn and she had already closed the distance between herself and Muran in three bounding leaps. Her three blades twirled elegantly around her as her body spun to gain momentum. 

Apparently, the Autarch of Myriell was also beyond the comprehension of mortals. The_ Spear of Khaine_ rose up in his hands and neatly parried the first of the Lady’s swords. The second and third blades hurtled towards him incredibly fast, but also clanged against eldar weapons as Yennali and Burieth appeared on either of Muran’s flanks. The three demonic blades were ripped away from their opponents and came biting back as the rest of the retinue threw themselves into the fight. 

The Demoness howled, weaved in between Yennali’s Executioner and Burieth’s ancient blade, and stomped mercilessly onto Durien’s knee at an angle that made it crunch. The Dire Avenger Exarch managed a split second scream of agony before the she whirled around him, the third sword cleaved his head from his shoulders. Durien’s corpse ignited instantly into flames, forcing Burieth back several steps away from Yennali.

Muran swept the_ Spear of Khaine_ from one side to the next, pushed away each serpentine thrust of the Lady’s swords with incredible reflexes. He easily slid beyond the reach of the Sword that Claimed Souls and dodged the Blade of Flames with a mighty leap forward. He allowed his momentum to carry him, too quick for the Lady outmaneuver, and plunged his crackling weapon into the soft flesh of her ribcage. The Autarch reinforced his blow with a forceful push, something visibly and audibly cracked before his feet hit the wraithbone bridge. 

Keathan, Illune, and Aryriel quickly replaced the three Autarchs as Muran withdrew his weapon and retreated several steps. The Lady of the Tower worked her blades similar to clockwork. Each block and attack became so precise and well placed that it was all the Aryriel could do but to work his way around the Sword that Claimed Souls. The sword was demon forged, created in some unimaginable hellscape for a dream where nightmares were nothing more than simple pleasures. His chainsword would break as easily as a child’s toy against such a weapon.

The Striking Scorpion stretched his right leg flat to duck beneath a reversed swipe. The Lady of the Tower spun around Keathan’s thrust of his power claw and lashed out at Aryriel with a savage backward kick. Her black hoof crunched into his chest, his entire body quaked from the force, his sternum felt as if it were about to cave. When he finally came to, Aryriel found himself sprawled along the bridge, chainsword still in hand, and an awful ache in his chest. 

The Demoness fought Keathan, Illune, Arennia, Yennali, Cealyn, Bureith, and Muran in a chaotic melee that seemed to be testing even her patience. Her arms cut at each of them as quickly as they could manage now, fast enough that the air sang as it was sliced open. The Sword of Ashes caught Illune as she vaulted through the air with a diagonal cut that split her neatly in half. The Swooping Hawk Cealyn rushed to take her place, relic sword in hand.

Muran managed to strike one of the three swords away from the Demoness and rolled through the screen of blades to deliver another thrust. This time the blow took the Lady through one of her calves and forced her backward several steps as Muran threw his weight into the attack. 

The Lady of the Tower counter-attacked before the Autarch’s allies could mount an all out assault. She split her maw open to terrifying proportions to vomit a torrent of liquid fire at her assailants. Muran narrowly rolled aside from the attack as did Yennali. Burieth, however, was caught mid-charge and became consumed by the flames as he skidded to a halt. His screams carried on as the battle continued. 

Eldritch lightning forked from the Lady’s three blades at a growled command. Muran charged again, but was halted by a unerring bolt of lightning to the chest. A shout of surprise was torn from his throat. Ornate armor peeled away as if soft layers of skin burned away by tongues of flames. His flowing cape became smoldering and ruined in an instant. A proud eldar general gazed down upon the defeated Autarch with a fierce look of pride as Muran crunched into the statue’s foundation. 

The _Spear of Khaine_ clambered away from its master’s possession. It was all Muran could do but to prop himself up against the statue, wheeze sharply, then gaze down upon the smoking, bloody ruin that had been carved into his chest. His head lolled quickly after, his last sputtering breaths amplified by his helm, before he became forever still. 

Cealyn suffered a similar fate and was torn from the air by another bolt. An arc of lightning pulverized Keathan before he could charge into battle with the Lady once more. Only Arennia and Yennali were alive to carry on the fight. 

Yennali retraced her steps backward to gain distance. “Where the hell is Xehia!?” 

“We cannot worry about that now!” Arennia shouted as she made to stand beside her commander. “Yennali, you are Autarch now. We are overcome! You must call a retreat!”

“A retreat?” Yennali hissed scathingly. “ To where? There is no other exit here than death.”

Farseer Mae’s voice came through the channels. _"The Darkness spreads, the beacon of light that is Tyrannus shall become consumed, perverted, defiled. Fate is cruel to manipulate us to such an end, but we must persevere and endure. Autarch Yennali, order a retreat of your warriors. There is one remaining Webway gate that will take your forces to friendlier shores: Teyl-Jhen. Though if any of us are to see its shores again, sacrifices must be made. I trust you know what must be done."_

The Lady of the Tower remained stationary as the eldar considered their plight mere feet away. They gazed upon her with fear that ran rampant in their hearts. Aryriel finally forced himself to his feet as Arennia slowly began to back away from the demon queen. Yennali was cursing beneath her breath, but finally relented and joined them in their retreat. The Lady of the Tower merely folded her arms triumphantly and gestured toward the Bridge of the Leviathan. Their exit. 

“_Squadrons Bound Serpent, Twin Moons, and Implacable,_ begin immediate evacuation of the Twin Gate Outpost… _Squadron Radiant Spear_, continue aerial support for ground forces. I am ordering a retreat, I shall provide coordinates momentarily. All reserve forces, prepare for immediate evacuation, I repeat, immediate evacuation. “


----------



## Myen'Tal

A mournful silence fell upon the Twin Gate Outpost in the waning hours of the final confrontation. There was no sense of passing time in the Ghost Crypts, but something noticeably changed in the decrepit air. The emerald light that pervaded the caverns dissipated as quickly as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. A night shroud descended upon the Bridge of the Leviathan, a darkness that lingered and suffocated all it ensnared. Only the feeble screams of the dying shattered it’s reverie of quiet contemplation. 

The surviving cultists of the Forlorn’s Beginning were scattered across the fortress and the Bridge of the Leviathan, lit by the glow of their makeshift pyres. Hundreds of human servants and their demonic overlords worked in tandem to overturn every broken stone and heap of wreckage for wounded foes and friends alike. It proved a gruesome and bleak task, foraging through the battle’s aftermath, but they went along with their work in reverent silence. 

The Webway Gate could still be seen from where Mirathir had tucked herself away from the battle. The swirling nexus crackled and vented channeled energies from time to time, but nothing stopped the demonic army from marching orderly through the tattered gateway. Small bands of roving demons simply lost their will to carry on the fight after their victory had become reality. They casually returned through the portal, back into the embrace of immaterium. No one halted them or even spared them a glance. 

Mirathir was drowsy and numb all over, but finally dragged herself free from the hidden alley and onto the grim battlefield. The Twin Gate Outpost was a scene captured from a dire nightmare, one that the eldar narrowly escaped. She had kept herself cloaked in shadow as Craftworld Myriell’s warriors were broken and overran. Their aerial support had dared numerous attempts to keep the horde at bay as a fleet of transports arrived to whisk the tattered remains of the eldar Warhost back to safety. 

Teyl-Jhen. Such a crown jewel would prove far more impregnable than any ruined webway nexus. They could rest themselves easy, for the time being. The Eldar’s part in Tyrannus’ story was at an end. There was no reason to further worry about their interference. 

The earth quaked rhythmically beneath Mirathir’s feet as a long shadow eclipsed her own. The sound of an erratic tongue moving between teeth slithered into her pointed ears. Something released a calm sigh, inhaled quietly. 

Mirathir dared not to look upon her master as she turned around, but instead collapsed onto her knees in a groveling bow. Her body writhed from within with agony. She gasped the words far less proudly than she desired. “My Lady, I did not hear you approach.” She dared look up from the courtyard floor.

The Lady of the Tower raised her pointed chin slightly. She glared down the bridge of her nose, amused curiosity glinted in her eyes. Her voice was one that commanded armies beyond reality, not one for enthralling the pitiful with it’s sing-song beauty. “Mirathir, you are wounded.” The Demoness clucked her tongue. Her expression feigned pity. “Death should mean nothing for the Raven. It lives to gorge itself on fields of burned fat and mouldering flesh. It is the omen heralded across the galaxy. For, my dear prophet, there shall always be wars, death, and slaughter across the universe. So long as there are Gods that champion such purposes and mortals races that serve them.”

“My Lady -”

The Demoness chuckled mildly. “_Ba’zariah_ is my desired title. The name you use is nothing but fantasy for pitiful mortals, hoping for a mere glimpse of my glory. I think I spoiled them too much on this day. I should try to be more reclusive. And do lighten your mood, my dear prophet, for you are not among the dying nor the dead.”

“Am I not, Ba’zariah?” Mirathir pushed herself up to her knees, sucked in a weary breath. She felt her eyes flutter for the dozenth time. “Am I not mortal? Your blessings shall not take me until I experience death.”

Ba’zariah’s toothy maw split into a curious smile. “Does that frighten you so? Is that what you truly believe your master would desire, Mirathir? That I would have you face your ultimate fear? See you grovel and prostrate yourself for your reward? I have already given you everything you have asked of me. It all depends on what you believe and your decision of what to ultimately do with what I’ve given you. Tell me what it is that ails you.”

“I…” Mirathir arched her brow as she felt a jolt of increasing pressure in her wounds. The burst of feeling was agonizing at first, such was the explosion of internal activity. The pain subsided moments later, her cheeks flushed as blood suddenly returned to her veins. She searched her limbs and realized that the bloody marks that had once existed there were now completely erased. She searched Ba’zariah’s knowing stare for an answer. “How is this possible? Am I no longer mortal? What am I?”

Ba’zariah chuckled to herself coolly. “You are whatever you desire to be, my prophet, for faith and symbols pertaining to it come in many forms. Learn the powers that I have gifted to you. It will take you some time. In the meantime, we must consolidate our strength before marching on the surface. I am curious to judge the progress of your allies. Organize what is left of your following and let us discover what secret paths shall take us to the desired location.”

“Be-zariah,” Mirathir swallowed as she slowly stood, astonished. “The Imperials that were on route to the Bridge of the Leviathan… why have they not shown? With their own power combined with the Eldar of Myriell, they would have easily outmatched us.”

Ba’zariah’s gaze shifted toward the Bridge of the Leviathan. “The humans will not be arriving here, ever. Does that alleviate your concern?”

“It does.” Mirathir nodded. “Though I wonder how you could have managed such a scheme and won this battle simultaneously. Yet it is not my place to pry. I shall organize what is left of my followers.” 

Ba'zariah's smile betrayed an underlying wickedness. "While I was never concerned to begin with, I fear we have not heard the last defying cries of this planet. The time has come for silencing such voices. Let us throw away acts of caution and join the invasion on the surface. We shall be a clamoring horde, brazen in our slaughter and proud in our conquests. Before the first fires of warfare gutter out, Tyrannus shall soon realize that it’s woes are only just beginning.”


----------



## Over Two Meters Tall!

I want to provide my compliments on this engaging series, you've done a wonderful job! On a macro-basis I did get a little lost with the locations. It took a little bit to catch up that the Raven and the forces from Tyel-Jhen were racing (warp-jumping) for a location under the surface of Tyrannus and not somewhere in Commorragh. There are also a couple places where it's not quite clear that The Raven is a corrupted Craftworld Eldar who's just using humans as cannon fodder, since some of the Dark Eldar appear to refer to The Raven as 'Mon-keigh".

Overall, a tremendous scope of the tale and having a Craftworld Eldar follow a non-Pantheon Chaos God(?) is really something... bends the conventional views all to hell  Thank you and I look forward to the continuation!


----------



## Myen'Tal

Thank you for the support, Two Meters Tall, I really appreciate the feedback . Yeah, now that you pointed that out, the Ghost Crypts' origins and locations should have had a bit more clarity in the descriptions I provided for them. I will certainly have to address that, I have to look around and see if I can still edit some of these posts. Last time I checked, you cannot edit them after a certain amount of time has passed. Things may have changed, though. 

What you say about Mirathir is also true, I'll have to a find a suitable alternative, so it is less confusing. 



> non-Pantheon Chaos God(?)


Yep, The Lady of the Tower, Ba'zariah, is a non-pantheon God. The WH40k lore on the immaterium mentions that there are realms beyond the ones belonging to the Great Four. Of course, the Dark Gods are constantly trying to conquer them and add them to their own empires. So, she and a couple other characters either come from one of these realms or serves its purpose in real space.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Tying up some loose ends, last scene before the next chapter.
NOTE: Made a small edit, I realized I kind of avoided explaining Xehia's mission. For clarity, Archon Nihlus is responsible for the opening of the webway portal that the Lady of the Tower emerged through with her forces. I think I explained this on page five or six, it's somewhere on there. 

***​
“You’re late.” Archon Nihlus of the Blinded Blades whirled around in his command chair from atop an obsidian dais. A vicious smile crawled its way onto his wizened features. He slipped a gauntlet through his close cut Mohawk. “Yet given how suicidal the odds became in your mission, I shall let that pass.”

The bridge of the _Hand of Pride_ bustled with activity. Dozens of the ship’s crew scattered around the profoundly dark command center, laboring behind monitor screens and advanced equipment. None of them slacked in their work, not even to spare a glance as the bridge doors slid open to allow Dracon Xehia entry. 

Xehia bowed her head as she cautiously approached the raised dais in the center of the bridge. Several footsteps at her back betrayed the presence of her True Born, whom Nihlus neither acknowledged nor rebuked. “I am honored by your generosity, my Archon.” She squinted into the darkness for more clarity. 

The bleak atmosphere was only broken up by thin emerald lights laced into the metallic walls. They shined in certain walkways of the bridge, but left much of it cloaked in shadows. Whispers from invisible crewmen sent a chill down her spine. It reminded her too much of the Twin Gate Outpost. 

Nihlus beckoned with a crooked finger as he turned around to gaze into the darkness beyond the Hand of Pride. “Come, join me, Dracon. Leave your lapdogs outside.”

Xehia made a cutting gesture, uttered something sharp under her breath, and her retinue retraced their steps back through the bridge entrance. She whipped her cloak around her armor and made to stand beside her commander. 

The Archon tilted his head to peer over his shoulder at her. His pearl white teeth flashed in a more concerned smile. At least, as concerned as an Archon could allow himself to appear in front of others. “You certainly look as if you embraced a Keeper of Secrets.” 

That was not too far from the truth, Xehia thought irritably. Her armor had been rent, pierced, and crunched in over a dozen places. Beneath the equipment, her body was bruised and bloody from top to bottom. And much to her shame, she could not even heal the two scorched gashes that ran along the right side of her face from forehead to ear to chin. Visiting the Heamonculus before the Archon himself would not only have been a grave insult, but she would have shown great weakness. She was True Kin, there was no agony that she could not bear. 

Xehia smirked weakly. “I ‘embraced’ several monstrosities during the combat at the Twin Gates, Dread Archon. With my glaive in hand, none survived.”

Nihlus inclined his head. “I understand that you succeeded in your mission, Xehia, the Demoness is unleashed upon Tyrannus with her legions at her back. And those of Myriell have suffered grievous injury. But it is truly a pity that you did not return with more warriors or skimmers. That battle should have been a decisive blow against our enemies. It was yours to win! Instead you allowed those mewling craftworld fools to take you by surprise and overwhelm you.”

Xehia snapped defensively, her anguish barely in check. “With all due respect, my Archon, I managed the situation better than any other of your commanders. Vannerian would have collapsed the moment that webway portal was breached. Morric doesn’t understand how to defend from multiple fronts effectively, he would have thrown your entire force into the meat grinder. In addition, there is nothing below the Bridge of the Leviathan for kilometers except the abyss. How was I to know that the Craftworld Eldar were beneath us?” 

The Archon dismissed her explanations away with a wave of his hand. “That question proves to be your only saving grace. I too did not foresee Muran’s armies attacking in such a way. And as I mentioned, the mission was a success, if not a phyrric one.” He cleared his throat. “Who is this prophet of the Gods? Who is this brainwashed minion that soundly defeated both you and Muran?”

Xehia looked abashed, her tongue caught in her mouth for a long moment. One predatory glance from her Archon cut it loose. “She is the master of some cult, mon-keigh fanatics that worship another deity in the warp, but not any of the Great Four. They call her the Raven, she is an eldar and a psyker of great ability. I saw the creature that she truly serves, not even Muran and his finest warriors could defeat her together.”

“Interesting.” Nihlus mused. “Her victory is a slight against me, but I must forgive it. We will need every ounce of strength for when we arrive at Commoragh. I suspect my fortress is overrun by some underground kabals.” He cackled softly in the shadows. “When we re-establish our presence, we may revisit the matter.” The Archon snapped his fingers. “Commence our launch! Open the webway!” 

_And so the Ghost Crypts have been our future for two millennia. It became our present for mere hours. And now I thank all of the Dark Muses that it has become a thing of the past. Let this world drown in the flames of chaos. I cannot even bring myself to wonder whose banners will be left standing when dawn breaks on that fateful day when all shall be decided. 

The only place in the galaxy I look forward to now is home. Commorragh, two millennia older. Whatever shall await us there?_


----------



## Myen'Tal

NOTE: I am considering taking down the previous part, I think it maybe missing something. I'll have to consider what else I can do to make it better. In the meantime, there is this.

NOTE: Made some minor edits.

Chapter Nine: From the Lightning and the Tempest, Our Emperor, Deliver us 

The connection was lost on a moment’s notice, so quickly that Helen became startled and jolted upright in her pew, right on her feet. Several surrounding Hospitallers glared at her, their voices slightly strained by irritation. Her cheeks flushed as she glanced around the cathedral and hesitantly retook her seat. Idola and Desma were seated on either side of her. Their voices rang with the purity of angels, easily the holiest among the choir. Jealous stares descended from the higher pulpits like invisible god rays. The Adeptus Sororitas that lingered there purposefully kept their voices silent. 

The bronze double doors that led into the cathedral were famous throughout Helike for the sculpted relief that depicted the ancient battle of Aulis. It was a civil war fought during the Apostasy Conflict, where Planetary Governor and Lord Commander Charon Rigatos and his rebellion was crushed beneath Saint Evanth’s newly formed Adeptus Sororitas and her forces beneath the Mountain of Crete. 

_ Helen could see the battle at the Twin Gate Outpost in her mind’s eye. She witnessed the Dark Eldar unleash doom upon Tyrannus simply to spite their enemies. She saw her master fighting bravely beneath the earth, annihilating anything standing between her and her own master in turn. She observed the arrival of the Craftworlders and their ultimate failure. Yet the carnage did nothing to phase her. Only Nyst’s death could have taken her by surprise and such news had taken her mere moments to decipher before realization dawned upon her. _

The infallible creature had slain herself, dashed against the cliffs of her own demise, as Nyst would no doubt say. But why? Could she not read the future as she said? Or was this a mere piece of a more sinister act? Demons, Helen would never understand them. 

The doors were thrown back suddenly. The fighting beyond the Hospitaller Quarter sharpened a hundred fold in clarity, in such volume that Helen could hear could thunder of artillery and men scream horrifically for their lives. A dozen women dressed in power armor and emerald robes strode through the doors and closed the way behind them. Eleven of them carried heavy looking crates draped in crimson cloth. The twelfth amongst them began barking orders. 

Helen heard Idola curse beneath her breath. “Damn, that’s Sister Tyro.” 

Sister Superior Tyro, by the looks of things. Helen deemed her incredibly young for her rank. Her face held neither creases, ruggedness, nor many scars save two studs where there were laser burns around the edges. She had a full mane of wavy chestnut hair along the top of her head, the rest was shorn off along the sides of her skull. Her large almond colored eyes were a sharp contrast to her cherry red lips that creased into a frown as she beheld the gathering inside the cathedral. 

Tyro chewed on her lip in thought, hesitant to break the tranquility in the atmosphere with harsh words. As she realized that a hundred pair of eyes were locked upon her, she quickly cleared her throat and raised an armored fist into the air. 

“Set the crates down sisters, thank you.” Tyro commanded. She addressed the entire cathedral over the noise of metal crates smashing down onto the alabaster marble floors. “Sisters and Hospiltallers! Gather round and listen carefully to my words! The night shift for our medical facilities is beginning and we need more hands to work, so that our other sisters can rest for the next shifts. Also, our security forces have been stretched thin due to demands that a war requires. We are searching for any volunteers with previous experience in the Adeptus Sororitas or knowledge on how to wield certain weapons.”

Desma raised her voice over the murmuring of voices. “What is the task?” 

Tyro said, “Guard duty in the palace dungeons. Don’t worry about those convicts, there is a full foot of steel between you and them, and you will have Sororitas to back you. Now, do I have volunteers?”

Desma smirked, her eyes whirred as they scanned the crowd. “I should volunteer. Looks like they could use me.” 

Idola grimaced. “I don’t want to be in the medical facilities all night without a friend by my side.”

“Then you should come.” Desma said matter—of—factly. “How many hours have you spent in those medical tents? Those laboratories and hospitals? You should try something new from time to time.”

“Guarding criminals,” Idola snickered. “That’s exactly the kind of experience I need in my life.” 

“I volunteer for the dungeon!” Desma shouted. There were a number that echoed her words. 

“Good luck, Desma.” Idola leaned forward and shook Desma’s hand in front of Helen. “There are soldiers that need my care.” She paused for a moment. “What will do you, Helen?”

_“Helen? Can you hear me? The mission has succeeded, the Ghost Crypts are secure. I repeat, the Ghost Crypts are secure. Everything is up to you now. Do not concern yourself with timing, our master is patient. I am counting on you. Try not to get yourself killed, you’re the only useful apprentice I have left.”_

“Helen?”

“The world is in ruins.” Misty breath expelled from between Helen’s lips, she quickly realized how pale she must have looked and shook off the chill creeping down her spine. “No doubt my home is under siege as well. I have no choice but to seek refuge in the palace. I hear a number of nobles have taken refuge there.”

Desma pressed her knuckles gently against Helen’s check. “Are you alright? You seem ill.” 

“It’s nothing.” Helen inhaled calmly, her cheeks became a rosy red as blood returned to her skin. “I am just cold.” She managed a smile. “I believe those sisters are handing out weapons and ammunition at the door, Desma. You should hurry before you get the worst of them.”

Desma merely nodded before she stood to take her leave. Her hands formed an Aquila. “May the Emperor protect you.”

“May He watch over you as well.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Alright, I was contemplating how I was going to do this chapter over the last couple of days. But I think I have reached a conclusion, let's see where this takes us. Conflict is going to build back up soon :grin:.


There were still hidden routes through Helike past the besieging forces that led into the Governor’s Palace. The Sisters that escorted Desma and the other Hospitallers that had volunteered for guard duty did not seemed surprised. They were veterans of longer sieges and knew the lay of the terrain better than most Hive dwellers. The forces of the arch-enemy pillaged and burned foreign country. For the most part, critical supply routes such as the metro stations went entirely unnoticed. 

Desma seated herself toward the front of the metro—bus, beside Helen, who had not said a word as they sped their way toward the palace. Two dozen Hospitallers were scattered about the train, basking in the sterile white light. The Sororitas that had escorted them from the cathedral of Saint Agnes had split into two groups of six. One for the metro-bus going to the Hospital. The other heading for the dungeon. 

Desma became tense as the metro-bus emerged from a tunnel and into upper Helike. For the first time since the fighting started, she finally realized the full scale of the fighting. The Hive City was already in ruins from the lowest foundations to the higher quarters. Entire districts were nothing more than molten craters, the urban sprawl reduced to ashes by the unrelenting bombardments that rained down from orbit. The skies were filled with dog fighting aircraft and flying demonic creatures. It was a swarm that no Imperial air force on Tyrannus had any chance of stemming. 

There was something that pierced her heart, an emotion that was above fear. It was paralyzing, frightening even. She gasped breathlessly, nothing but this emotion in her eyes. Then it hit her suddenly. A surge of confidence rushed through her veins by memories she recalled from her schola. All of those times she had undergone those chilling purification ceremonies, through the whipping or a trail of knives. She cocked her head unconsciously as she thought of the person she hated most in the world: her first superior. 

_“Desma, always brave Desma. Heroric to the end, aren’t you? I wonder how much your façade will matter when the Emperor truly test you? Will shatter into a thousand pieces like so much glass? Or is the real Desma behind the mirror made of sterner stuff?”
_
She watched a Marauder fighter absorb several direct hits before a winged creature crunched into the cockpit. The pilot was torn from his seat, the fighter nosedived into the chaos below. Desma’s eyes hardened as her fingers tightened around her bolter. 

_“I want to fight.” _

A stern voice caught Desma by surprise. A shadow fell over her. “You there! Are you okay?” Sister Tyro arched a brow, a comforting smirk on her lips, her fingers gently squeezed on Desma’s shoulder. “Try not to look outside… It can really put the fear in those not trained to master their emotion.” 

“No.” Desma shook her head. “Sister Tyro, I want to fight. I was once upon a Sororitas myself.” She showed off her metallic arm. “See these wounds I bare? I earned them all in Itanos. I know I have not seen combat in a long time. But I feel the Emperor’s call. I want to choose how I die, before I no longer have a decision to make.”

“Are you certain?” Tyro rubbed her chin in thought, mildly bewildered by the request. “We do have spare armor sets that belong to our fallen sisters. However, I would not see them dishonored if you had a sudden change in heart on the field of banner.”

Desma leapt up from her seat, she came eye—to—eye with Tyro. Her voice quivered with conviction. “Emperor curse me to the darkest, lowest level of hell in existence should I dishonor your name or the Order of the Emperor’s Grace in such a way.”

Tyro inclined her head in agreement, impressed. “You want to risk your neck for the Emperor? Fine, the Governor’s Palace isn’t far, we’ll find you a set of armor once we arrive. I only do this because we’re low on manpower and I have an inkling that you’re telling the truth about your past with the Sororitas. But you’re still on guard duty for the shift you need you to serve. Then we can talk about you seeing some action, okay?”

Desma betrayed her stoic expression with a wolfish grin and nodded. She perched herself back into her seat beside Helen, who remained lost in her silent contemplation.


----------



## Myen'Tal

The Inner Sanctum was a spherical chamber some length from the entrance that led onto the battlements of the palace. Lyra shirked away into the shadows, her feet pattered as soft as they could along the obsidian stone floor, lined with bronze. The entire chamber was hemmed in by Corinthian columns brought to life by a dozen dancing maidens frozen in sculpture. She could not help but notice them grow increasingly grotesque as her mind perceived the world around her differently. She blinked once and the image was gone. 

Lyra quickly threw her back against the nearest column, leaned out subtly with her bolter level with her right eye. There was the sound of bolters being checked and rechecked. Arva coughed somewhere in the shadows. Yet her trained eyes could spot only lingering darkness in the Inner Sanctum. 

The Thousand Sons made a great noise as they marched in unison toward the Sanctum. The precision of their footfalls made the earth rumble beneath Lyra’s feet. Guttural chanting preceded them, which meant cultists were backing them. At least, she thought, their war machines could not follow the Imperial retreat into the Governor’s fortress. 

Anthanasia whispered sharply into the channels. “Steady, be silent.”

The cultists were the first to burst from the narrow corridor into the chamber. They were a ragged group, dressed in robes that had become tattered after hours of fighting. Suspecting an enemy, they charged into the sanctum with their auto-guns and shotguns blazing, pulverized the beautiful sculpts that decorated each column. The leader among them barked for them to halt after realizing there was nothing in the chamber but shadows. 

The Rubric Marines marched cautiously after their minions, two at a time, shoulder to shoulder. The first among them fanned out across the center of the chamber and made their way quickly toward the darkness at the back of the Sanctum. A loud venting noise broke the silence, one of the Rubric Marines crumpled to dust as its head was pulverized by a melta shot. 

“Attack!” Superior Anthanasia barked over panicked shouts. 

The Inner Sanctum became another tomb as squads Angeliki, Hoplon, and Gorgon unleashed their wrath. 

Gore splattered everywhere, the dancing maidens became a grotesque parody as bolter shells smashed them apart and blood sprayed on them. A cultists flipped backwards from Lyra’s shot to his shoulder. The fragmentation shell detonated and blew his arm apart from the shoulder blade. She scored another hit on the leader of the cultist, planted a shot directly between his ribs that made a crater the size of a four fist before he collapsed. 

The Retributor next to Lyra squeezed the trigger of her heavy bolter and kept it firing as more reinforcements attempted to charge out of the corridor and into the chamber. The rattling of other heavy weapons joined in a deafening thunder that thinned the waves crashing against the Sororitas. Dozens died in the choke point, creating a fleshy wall that kept the cultists at bay. 

The Thousand Sons mobilized with deceptive haste. An inferno shell burst through a Retributor from front to back, detonating her ammunition case with an explosion that sent anyone within fifteen feet of her flying across the chamber. Another had her skull blown to pieces before she could line up a shot. Several overeager sisters from Hoplon were incinerated from the inside out as they leapt from their cover prematurely. 

“Lyra!” Thea called out from her right. “Cover me! I’m re—ah!” A bolt shell burst through the meat of her thigh before ricocheting off the wall and detonating harmlessly. 

“Thea!” Lyra rushed to the next statue, but not before a Thousand Son rounded the corner on Thea’s other side. The Rubric Marine appeared to pause and take both of them into account before placing a bolt round through Thea’s chest. Blood arced across the floor and Thea’s head fell limp in an instant. 

The Thousand Son raised his bolter and unleashed several salvos in Lyra’s direction. She slid beneath the first one and into the open area of the Inner Sanctum before the others could reach her. The Retributor that had been on her left shifted her position and opened fire on the traitor marine. 

Lyra’s power armor was already scorched a weakened in a dozen spots. She could not take a direct hit from a bolter and hope to live. She quickly realized that she had erred as another pair of Thousand Sons, weathering a storm of fire, twisted to cut her down. Her own bolter bucked violently in her hands. One of the traitors had one of their visor slits blown out by a lucky round. 

“Lyra!” Anthanasia unsheathed her power sword and crossed the kill zone as if she were a saint of battle. The sisters of battle shifted their aim and targeted anything that strayed too close to her. A cheer erupted from Gorgon and Hoplon as their own Superiors drew weapons and joined her in the melee. 

Anthanasia slid away from a lightning fast fist, brought her sword down in an arc that left a great gash from pauldron to wrist. Before another Rubric Marine with a staff in hand could throw a bolt into her, she ripped her bolt pistol free and unloaded the clip into the Sorcerer’s chest. The witch absorbed all twelve shots with an eldritch shield, but was interrupted by Sister Evanth. 

Lyra rolled to her feet and reloaded her bolter in time to see the Rubric Marines with the gaping hole in visor crumble to a fusillade of heavy bolter rounds. She searched the chamber and caught Superior Kore of Hoplon levitate into the air and come crashing down with enough force that the stone beneath cracked and crumbled. In the same moment, the Sorcerer expertly parried several of Evanth’s attacks and sent her reeling away with a blow against her helmet. 

Anthanasia ducked beneath the swipe of a combat knife, swiftly countered with an uppercut that severed the wounded hand from marine she had already attacked. She straightened her form and plunged her crackling sword between the eyes of the Rubric Marine. She removed the blade in such a way that half of the Thousand Son’s helm came free. The creature within shrieked, shriveling into dust. 

Alexandra’s voice carried over the channels. “The hell is that noise!?” 

There was a low rumbling that followed the combat, Lyra had barely noticed at first, but now that noise was becoming thunderously loud. The entire Inner Sanctum began to quake violently. Hidden caches of dust fell from the walls and stone cracked and buckled around the walls that lined the corridor the traitors used to gain access to the Sanctum. Lyra realized too late that the cultists trapped on the other side of the wall were screaming for their lives. 

Lyra shouted over the chaos. “Hel-“ 

The wall of corpses that blocked in the corridor exploded outwards along with swathes of metal, stone, and marble. The machine that came through was a horror, the flesh of an Adeptus Astartes fused with the machinery of the Dark Mechanicus. It possessed stumpy limbs bulging with sinew and muscle attached to an armored sarcophagus. A massive helmet adorned with two large horns peered back and forth as it assessed the situation.


----------



## Myen'Tal

_ I believed in the light in the darkness once. That our souls shone in the warp as bright stars that could never be extinguished. It’s ironic, because now I know that they are just that. Emperor guide me, I used to say. Funny, why should I call out to this figure that has never once answered my prayers? Why, after my spirit has suffered so much turmoil and abuse at the hands of others? They say that people like myself shall receive in due time, but I have had my share of visions and blessings, albeit from a far crueler mistress.

These priests, they babble about things they will never come close to understanding. That the Emperor protects. I know that he does. And yet he does nothing. When I realized the path that I had been forced upon was a real, tangible thing, I knew I could no longer bend knee to a corpse perched upon a throne and called a god. After the torture, the suffering, the anguish, the atrocity… I was promised everything. What choice was there but to take it?

Call it blasphemy. Call it the truth. Call it wisdom. 

Fear the mutant. For I am no longer human. These powers that course through my veins are unnatural. It has just enough of that diabolical touch. Fear the Heretic. My wrath burns inside me like an inferno, just waiting to be unleashed. This taint will spread and touch others, this word shall reach a thousand hearts today, and a million more minds elsewhere. There is no stopping fate. 

Fear the alien. Because they made me this way. _

It was an effortless trick, vanishing into the besieged halls of the Governor’s Palace. A glacial chill crept into Helen’s skin the further she slipped into the corridors. Her skin colored to an unusual pallid tone as misty breath expelled from her nostrils. Frost gathered on the fringes of ancient murals that lined the hallways. The chandeliers swayed gently as their myriad of lights winked out one by one. 

Helen began to shed her clothes, ritually removed each item until only an ebony robe remained. The linen cloth was emblazoned with golden ritual markings that matched the only piece of jewelry that remained hanging from her neck. It was an eight pointed star crafted from solid gold. She let her ebony hair fall down until it spilled across her shoulders.

“Now,” She whispered under her breath. “Shall I begin?” 

The corridor became submerged in a permanent darkness, distant voices within ear shot babbled on in puzzlement. She waited until they disappeared, then found a discreet room to hide herself in. She found a comfortable spot in the center of the chamber and sat down. Her legs crossed and the back of her hands came to rest upon her knees. The room glimmered with a flickering teal light as she channeled her psychic abilities. 

_ The Thousand Sons were choking the psychic world with their contempt for the Imperium of man. The minds of their Sorcerers was a powerful fog that shrouded everything in the cold silence of death. Her mind’s eye quickly skirted around their aura, searched further into the vastness of the Governor’s palace. Here, the purity of the Sisters of Battle and blind faith of the Astra Militarum could be felt as if a pounding war drum, a proud and defiant cry that sent those with fear in their hearts scurrying back into the shadows. 

She weaved through them effortlessly, picked up a faint trail of clarity that was nearly lost in the madness. The trail descended deep into the inner workings of the palace, deep enough that vying emotions of the warring factions became distant memories. But there was something else here… covered up by a barrier created from endless agony and suffering. The dungeons of the Imperial Palace. Helen’s heart went out to the poor souls locked away there. Yet she forced herself to ignore their helpless pleas for mercy. 

It was close, somewhere secret, in a place where there was more machine than man. That was where she would find the last web way gate. Now the only trick left was to get there and open it._


----------



## Myen'Tal

The Thousand Sons had breached the Governor’s Palace after fierce fighting on the higher tier battlements. Fighting had broken out in a dozen corridors, but without the support of their war machines, the Thousand Sons found themselves at a disadvantage. The Order of the Emperor’s Grace fought alongside the Astra Militarum and weathered the continued assaults into the palace grounds rather well. Rumor had it that the defense was being led by Canoness Anatolijus in the flesh. Desma could not doubt it, judging from the uplifted spirits of the sisters of squad Nike. 

The descent into the dungeons beneath the palace grounds was equal to a journey into the underworld itself. Resplendent architecture and affluent material wealth changed gradually the further the elevator took them. The glassine doors revealed the world beyond and it was claustrophobically oppressive. Long, narrow corridors stretched endlessly, flanked by walls of grimy, blood streaked steel and metallic doors with small glass windows. Desma noted that each corridor was linked to a number of others that went beyond her vision. 

Desma found herself basking in the sterile light of the elevator, flanked by a dozen bodies. The members of squad Nike held their bolters across their chest, their faces hidden behind heavy helms that gazed forever onward. The other half were volunteers like Desma, Hospiltallers that were given bolters and ammunition belts for their shifts. 

Sister Tyro broke the silent tension in the air. “We’re not expecting any company, but you never know. Be prepared for anything. There will be times where your patrol routes will isolate you. Fear not, for a Sororitas will never be far from your side in case you need them. Remember that you have comm. links. Do you remember how to use them?” The Hospitallers nodded curtly. “Good. Here we are.”

The elevator squealed to a halt, throwing sparks everywhere before the doors as they slid open. Tyro stepped into a dimly lit corridor that reeked of blood and death, powerful enough to seep through the walls and choke Desma’s senses. The rest of the guard detail stepped into the hall, assailed by a choir of desperate screams and moaning. 

One of the Hospiltallers covered her nose. “Him on Terra, what is this place?”

Tyro twisted around, a scathing stare fixed on the young woman. “Don’t be stupid, girl. If you value your life, you would keep your questions to yourself. Some of our worst offenders are contained here, you don’t want to know anything about them. Trust me.”

One of the other members of Nike cleared her throat. “The objective is to keep an eye out for intruders inside the dungeon. Remember that we’re fighting a war, there could be infiltrators attempting to undermine our defenses.” 

“Exactly,” Tyro nodded. “We don’t want any escaped convicts or use of our routes through the palace by hostile forces. Understood? Keep your eyes peeled and your bolter ready. Is everyone prepared?”

Everyone intoned in unison. “Yes, Sister Superior.”

Tyro walked amongst the gathering, laying her hands on the shoulders of those she paired into groups. “Good. Demsa and Aello! Amethyst and Corin! Keleos and Ivy…”


----------



## Myen'Tal

NOTE: Some changes made, Lyra is now back in the game .

The Hellbrute churned the ebony stone floors of the Inner Sanctum in a frantic charge. Unleashed charges from Melta guns lanced through the air, scorched and melted the Dreadnought’s sinewy flesh and metallic carapace in several places. But the machine came on, un—phased by the notion of pain, driven on by a much deeper eternal torment. 

Lyra watched Sister Evanth narrowly escape from the point blank blast of the machine—walker’s Multi—Melta with a desperate roll backwards. The Thousand Sons Sorcerer she had been fending off screamed feebly as the backwash of superheated energy consumed him whole. The Hellbrute charged past her kneeled form in his blind fury, screamed filth and blasphemies as it backhanded her with a deactivated power fist. A Corinthian column crumpled where she slammed back first into the foundation. 

Without Superior Kore, Anthanasia began shouting orders at Squad Gorgon. “Retributors, bring that hulking beast down! Hoplon, suppress any reinforcements coming through the corridor! Angeliki, finish these Thousand Son traitors!”

Another wave of cultists followed the Hellbrute’s trail into the Inner Sanctum. Hoplon answered them with accurate bolter fire that sent them clattering onto the floor in large numbers. Yet without combined support from their other squad mates, a number of heretics advanced through the kill zone and joined the fighting. 

Lyra dived out of the path of the rampaging Hellbrute before it could stomp her into paste. The Dreadnought instead toppled three columns protecting members of the Retributor squad Gorgon. Chunks of stone came raining down atop the machine, shattering into pieces as they pelted its hide. The Multi-Melta flashed again and a Retributor pitched as she was immolated. The massive power fist on the Dreadnought’s arm began to crackle with a storm of electricity. The metallic fingers flexed once before the machine twisted round and slammed an open palm down another sister. 

Lyra rolled to her feet, bolter rattling in her grip as a Thousand Son attempted to find his mark on her. Several shots ricocheted off the Rubric Marine’s stomach as it strafed to the left for cover. She ducked under a haphazard headshot and swung herself into the protection of the nearest column. The spent clip ejected with a hiss and a puff of smoke. She reached into her ammunition belt and quickly reloaded. 

Lyra gasped as the column she hid behind exploded inwards and threw her onto her hands and knees. She looked over her shoulder and saw a sapphire fist retract itself from the impact crater it had created. The Thousand Son came charging around into the open, bolter holstered and no weapon in hand. 

Bolter rounds rocked the Thousand Son back on his heels, forced him backwards several steps. Arva and Cloria came from across the corridor, both distinguished from the others by the emerald initiate robes pulled over their armor. Concentrated fire tore ragged wounds in the Rubric Marine’s carapace and a well—placed shot pulped the traitor’s helmet with a tortured squelch. The Rubric Marine crunched and withered into nothing. 

Lyra picked herself up with the offered aid from both of her sisters. Cloria offered the discarded bolter she had lost in the confusion. The three of them immediately formed a triangular formation as cover became scarcer. Their bolters roared in righteous defiance as the enemy continued their advance. 

Cloria shouted over the chaos. Several cultists in her line of sight combusted violently from where she hosed them down mercilessly. “First the Sorcerer’s Eye and now fighting for our lives in the Governor’s Fortress! Emperor forgive this brave fool for not commending her spirit earlier. How can one ever foresee these invasions?”

Arva bristled with proud laughter. “If the Emperor does not take you to his throne after all of this, Cloria, then truly there isn’t any hope for any of us. We mustn’t give up! My eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor have I entered into the things that Him on Terra has prepared for his faithful. I shall be certain that my reward will be great.”

Now it was Lyra’s turn to chuckle even as auto-gun fire deflected off her armor. Another cultist had his head vaporized into a bloody mist as he rounded the corner. “Inspirational today, isn’t she? I cannot find it in myself to lift my heavy heart. For I mourn for Tyrannus and her people. Especially should we fail, Arva, which is something that I will fight to the last bitter breath to avoid.”

Alexandra’s voice thundered from several meters away. “You three still alive!? Good, stay there and watch our backs! We have a Hellbrute on the loose!”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Anthanasia brought her power sword down in an arc upon the back of the Thousand Son’s helmet. Where she would normally relish in the explosion of blood and gore, she was satisfied with the wheezing noise and crumpling the traitor made as it died into nothing. 

Anthanasia bellowed into the channels. “Nomiki and Alexandra! Fall to my side! To the Hellbrute!”

A cultist threw himself into the Superior’s path. Anthanasia brought her blade overhead to parry a rusty blade. The power sword cleaved through the old steel without effort. She finished the cultist with a downward thrust into the heart. The blade sliced out of the fallen man’s chest and into another a heretic’s gut with a downward cut. She twirled as she pulled the blade free in time to strike a third opponent down by cleaving off his head. 

“Cowards,” Anthanasia hawked and spat. Nomiki and Alexandra fell in beside her. “Nomiki, aim for the rear. Alexandra and I will attempt to distract it. We’ll use krak grenades if we have to. Understood?”

The veterans of Angeliki intoned as one. “Yes, Superior!”

Squad Gorgon was no more by the time Anthanasia had arrived at the back of the Inner Sanctum. The ruined corpses of the Retributors lay scattered across upturned stone and tattered marble. The Hellbrute was preoccupied finishing the last of Gorgon’s members to notice Anthanasia’s silent charge. The Dreadnought had been in the thick of heavy fighting and bore several heavy wounds in its carapace. It was a mess of destroyed wiring and demolished machinery beneath the armored hide. She knew they could take it. 

Nomiki revealed their presence with an opening salvo that narrowly missed an impact wound on the machine—walker’s back. The beam of white—blue energy punched into the muscular flesh and ate greedily. The Dreadnought wheeled around after crushing the last Retributor between its metallic fingers. It hurled the corpse in its grip at the three Sororitas charging towards it. Alexandra was pinned to the ground. 

Anthanasia allowed herself a wicked smile, a krak grenade between her fingers. “Here beast! Come and get me!” 

The Hellbrute stomped forward cautiously and spared Anthanasia a mere half—hearted swipe of its power fist before it shifted its attention to Nomiki. The machine—walker raised the Multi—Melta on its arm, but Nomiki’s peerless aim struck a power cord free. The weapon powered down harmlessly. 

The beast within the machine raged and broke into another thunderous charge. The floors of the Inner Sanctum crunched beneath its metallic feet as it hurled itself at Nomiki. An abrupt explosion rocked the walker’s balance, shredding the left leg and forcing the Hellbrute to pivot into a wall. 

The Inner Sanctum quaked as large swathes of the ceiling collapsed into the center of the chamber. Thousand Sons and cultists alike were crushed in an instant beneath heaps of rubble. The few remaining columns left intact in the Sanctum began to crack and crumble as the weight of the chamber began to crash down all around them. 

Anthanasia’s voice cut through the desperate pleas for aid. “Retreat, sisters! Squad Hoplon and Angeliki, retreat! Further into the palace! Grab the wounded! Hurry!”

Thalia and Syna came into the next corridor moments later, another of Angeliki, Katri, limp in their arms. The survivors of Squad Hoplon followed them, their own wounded being dragged toward safety. Sister Evanth was the last out of the Inner Sanctum as the chamber caved in on itself. When all the dust from the debris had subsided, roars of anguish still cut through all the rubble. 

“Leave it.” Evanth suggested. “Let’s fall back to the next point.”

Anthanasia inclined her head in agreement. She ordered her sisters to move out.


----------



## Myen'Tal

The Defenders of Tyrannus find out how they can win the war .
Also, hope no one minds the shorter posts, don't know why, they've been coming out that way. I've had some spare time now that exams are coming in, so I'm writing some every day, instead of in big chunks when I can. 

NOTE: I've edited some things in the previous two posts. Lyra no longer has her arm pulverized by a Rubric Marine. There is also some added dialogue with the other sisters. 


The sentries outside the chambers of the war council saluted sharply as Inquisitor Arruns approached. With a simple gesture --which must’ve seemed frightening given that his power armor was slick in gore and blood – both guardsmen opened the heavy oaken doors that led into the room. The holographic map displayed on a circular piece of equipment immediately came into sight.

“Inquisitor Ulpius,” Governor Bastien Nikolaou immediately stood from a long table of alabaster marble that could support twelve souls. Arruns quickly counted only four figures of note in the room. “How good of you to join us. The Emperor has blessed your excursion into the infested upper city. I am glad that both you and Canoness Anatolijus have arrived in one piece.”

The commander of the Order of the Emperor’s Grace sat gracefully at the table. She looked up from a plate of cuisine to offer the Inquisitor a look of indebted gratitude. He could not blame her being famished. Fighting demonic invasions long enough could do that to you. Arruns smiled politely and bowed before he took an offered seat beside her. 

“I’m glad to be here, Governor Nikolaou.” He set down the Thunder Hammer he had been carrying pommel side—up. “What is the situation?”

“Shouldn’t you be telling us?” Anatoljus chided, unamused. “Your mission with the eldar? What happened? You promised a solution to the demonic incursions on Tyrannus’ soil. It’s been half a day of constant siege, what is their progress?”

Arruns’ sigh emitted from his grille as a thunderous noise. He unclasped the locks on his helmet and removed it ceremonially. Every gaze in the room searched his dark green eyes and was suddenly aware that there was bad news. 

“There is no progress.” Arruns stated informatively. “Our attempts to secure the Ghost Crypts have failed. I have just received several hails and reports from one my apprentices that accompanied the Eldar into that accursed ruin. There has been some heavy fighting and our forces have become lost somewhere in the crypt. To spare everyone anymore anxiety, I will not relinquish all the details of this operation, Inquisition business and all. Now, I believe we have a siege to win.”

The Canoness calmed herself with a sharp intake of breath. “Emperor be merciful, there just isn’t any end in sight… How can we possibly win this war?”

Arruns smiled that cocky one of his when he knew he was going to present the solution to the impossible problem. “I was hoping that you would ask that very question. We finish what the Eldar could not. This demonic invasion stems from one entity in the warp that is in turn using the Web way to maneuver its forces. 

“The mission of the force sent into the Ghost Crypts was to not only seek out and destroy this entity, but also eradicate the portal the demonic forces are using to stabilize their assault on Tyrannus. I propose that upon receiving reinforcements from the Fortress Monastery of Gythium, we allow this entity into a contained area inside the palace and face it in battle. And while we’re fighting up here, a simultaneous attack can be made on the portal that connects the warp so strongly to this planet.”

“No offense, Inquisitor,” Governor Bastion arched a brow. “But what is a ‘web way gate’?”

Arruns managed a polite smile. “A question for another time, Governor Bastien. Canoness Anatolijus, would you be willing to cooperate on one last battle?”

Anatolijus’ expression was bleak. “Our numbers would not be enough. The demonic tide would overwhelm us.”

The Inquisitor stood from his seat suddenly. “Perhaps that would be true if we stood alone. But these are dark days and the end of times draw near. Our allies will come. Have faith in the High Lord’s decision if you cannot believe in an alien’s word.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

There was a quaking sensation that rocked the prison cell. Philemon did not budge an inch from where she laid on her prison bed. She batted an eyelash as a stream of dust sprinkled onto blood slathered tile floors. She continued to observe the unadorned metallic walls. How each pair of hand cuffs had been lined with blood from where they chaffed their previous captives. Screams were torn from someone’s throat in a nearby cell and was abruptly silenced. 

Canoness Serhilda Unger coughed from a cloud of dust beginning to form in the cell. Philemon continued to remind herself that she was indeed a Canoness of the Order of the Sacred Rose. Dressed in a simple convict’s jumpsuit and without her armor, Serhilda looked a far cry from the powerful figure that she remembered. 

Then again, Philemon likely looked worse. 

Philemon suddenly croaked. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, her gaze fixated on the door. “Guard!” 

A blank expression of a visor appeared through the glassine panel in the doorway a second later. The voice that emitted from the Sororitas was a thunderous note of displeasure. 

“What is it?”

Philemon brushed a hand through her silver hair. “We’re hungry, you haven’t fed us since we’ve been thrown in here.”

The Sororitas’ helm titled slightly in askance. “Sorry about that, but soldiers are our top priority as far as food is concerned. Then civilians. Then prisoners. Once the first rounds make their way into the dungeon, you’ll get your meal.”

Damn you, Philemon thought snidely. She began tapping her foot impatiently. “How is the siege progressing? I was not concerned at first, but there has been a lot of fighting nearby. Are we in any danger of being overran?”

“For your sake,” The Sororitas chuckled, amused. “I would hope not. All the guards would probably be called back to a more defensible location. That would leave you prisoners in here on your own. You would probably starve to death before you could break out. Be lucky I don’t grab the nearest flamer and burn you alive, heretic. I’m itching to be rid of the sight – and stench of you.”

Serhilda watched the guard disappear further into the hallway. “Heretic. I spent my entire life killing everyone I thought matched that profile. It’s funny how a split second decision can alter your life forever. Now I am the hunted – no, I am the prey, caught in the paws of the lion.”

“We must not give up on hope.” Philemon bit her own tongue. She knew how ironic her words were. She could not bring herself to believe in them either. If they were lucky, they would be executed quickly as an example to other Sororitas. 

The hard luck of a traitor. 

***
Sister Arcadia backed away from the isolated cell with a heavy sigh. Of course, she had been given guard duty in one of the worst maintained parts of the palace dungeons. The corridors were doubly spaced, the stainless steel floors smeared with the blood of hundreds of accused traitors. It was more spacious than most other zones, but everything else was quickly going to hell. Half of the cell doors were powered down, the lockdown doors jammed halfway open or fully inoperable. The lighting was busted in three dozen places and flickered rapidly in a score more. This particular block was the only place on the floor that everything still worked to some extent. 

The lighting was still dim, but the light from Arcadia’s flamer glimmered in the darkness as if a bright gem in an underground mine. She marched past another gaggle of servitors and exchanged nods with Sister Dice as she walked across an intersection. She forced herself to ignore the screaming pleas for forgiveness. Forgiveness only through death. That was the way of the Imperium. 

Arcadia continued her patrol through the corridors, back in the direction of the elevator. A half squealing, half grinding noise came within earshot as she approached. Her fingers suddenly latched onto her weapon with renewed vigor. Her gaze shot upward as the elevator slid downward, slowing its descent as it neared its destination. 

Arcadia spoke into her comm. link. “Superior, is there anything being sent to level 51-C? Anything that you haven’t reported?”

A crackle of static. 

Arcadia instinctively threw herself behind the nearest support pillar. “Sister Dice! On me!”

Dice came running moments later, mere moments before the elevator came to a halt with a noise that only tortured steel could make. She had heard Arcadia’s previous inquiry to Sister Superior Inesa. She hid behind the pillar directly across from Arcadia. The first set of lights surrounding the elevator burst with a flashy explosion before darkness swept in and overtook both of the sisters. 

Arcadia blew out a breath and realized that it was misty. Even within her armor, a frightening chill began to settle in her bones and make her limbs shake. Luckily, her equipment was heavy enough to keep her steady. She aimed her flamer toward the shut doors of the elevator. 

Arcadia whispered into the channels. “Dice, don’t give whatever’s in there a chance to breathe. As soon as those doors open, neutralize the target.”

Dice replied skeptically. “What if it’s one of our own?”

Arcadia shrugged with a fearless boast of laugher. “Trust me. That’s definitely not a human in there.” She sucked in a breath. “Alright, ready? Those doors are opening in five… four… three… two…”

“Kill the bastards!” Arcadia bellowed the moment the doors slid apart. 

Dice proved quicker with her trigger finger. Her bolter rattled in her grip and combusted three shadowy figures as they rushed out screaming into the dungeon. Blood arced in every direction. The corpses crashed down the stairs just beyond the elevator doors. Once they stopped, they did not rise again. 

Arcadia squeezed the trigger on her flamer as more darkened figures spilled out into the open. As the flames caught on military fatigues and regular clothing, she became horrified as she saw figures that should have been human emit entirely alien screams. Their eyes were blood filled pits, their veins thickened and blue on their skin. The possessed charged through the wall of flames, regardless of their own flesh, and came at the Sororitas. 

Dice dropped her bolter, ripped her chainsword free and carved a diagonal cut through the first possessed to reach her. The blow was powerful enough to crunch through the sternum and sever the beating heart beneath. The dead guardsman collapsed at her feet. She shifted onto her right foot, twirled past a leaping terror and brought her blade down on the zombie’s spine. The monomolecular teeth easily ate through the vertebrae and flesh beneath. 

Arcadia unleashed her flamer’s breath point blank into a clutch of possessed as they charged into her, already wreathed from the waist down in flames. The sheer force behind the rushing flames pushed them back, easily melting the nearest foes until there were only charred skeletons left to collapse onto the floor. Mutilated, but not deterred, the surviving two came at her. 

Arcadia had studied much about these demon controlled vessels. They were primitive and their knowledge of weapons was little to nothing. But the inhuman strength that the demons within these flesh vessels was so immense that they hardly needed anything more than their bare hands. 

Arcadia dropped the flamer and pulled out her bolt pistol, which she quickly cracked against the skull of the nearest possess that a hand on her arm. The skull partly caved and the creature began to sag. A bolt round to the skull ended it quickly. As the corpse dropped to the floor, she wheeled around on the last zombie and unloaded her entire clip. Ragged wounds were punched into the maddened guardsman’s flesh. It was dead by the fifth round, but it was the end of a fight and Arcadia had an underlying anger still within her. 

Silence descended upon the cell block, interrupted only by Arcadia’s and Dice’s ragged breathing. A lone clapping noise joined them from the elevator._ “Bravo! Encore! Truly impressive! I haven’t seen such a display of skill since, well, a very long time ago.”_

Dice rolled across the floor and picked up her bolter in one hand. “Come out with your hands above your head! Do that and maybe I won’t blow you apart with a well-placed grenade charge.”

“As you wish,” Helen emerged into the darkness, nearly invisible as the lighting within the cell block continued to fail. 

Arcadia would have spat in disgust, but quickly remembered the helmet over her head. She whispered into her comm. link. “Dice, be careful, she’s a witch!”

“Cover me,” Dice replied in a murmur. “I’ll move in to dispatch her.”

Helen’s voice began to fill the very air, though Arcadia could tell she wasn’t talking at all._ “You always were a friend, in spite of everything you had done to me. How could I ever learn to hate that charming personality? That subtle lethality? I believed you to be the architect of my suffering, that I lost all in the world on your whim, your base desire. But now that I walk this haunted path, I can see right through you and into the web that has been spun around all of us. 

When I read my destiny through the skeins, through all of these fragile threads, I realized that I would never be rid of you. And you would never be rid of me. None of the pawns could outmaneuver the other. We are all just permanent pieces being moved on a chess board. That’s why I learned to forgive you. I hope you can learn to forgive me as well. 

Can you?” _

“Dice.” Arcadia whispered scathingly. “Dice, neutralize the target.”

Dice straightened herself suddenly. Her bones popped repeatedly as she stretched, muffled by her power armor. The bolter in her hands came away from the elevator so fast that it slipped from her hands. With heavy hands, her trembling fingers latched themselves onto her helmet and ripped it away. Long flowing locks of chestnut hair came flowing down as she inhaled loudly. 

Arcadia observed Dice’s wicked grin. “One should never trust a demon to ever forgive or forget. But I particularly admired the part about the permanent chess pieces. You truly made your point there. Of course, dear Helen, you can always count on me as a friend. But we should not simply stand on ceremony, I am eager to see your task completed.” Dice shot a glare in Arcadia’s direction with blood filled eyes. “Shall we finish this one?”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Sister Tyro came marching around a corner and into the main corridor of the level 51—E. She quickly pushed through the throng of gathered sisters and Hospitallers, called out names as her hands touched upon shoulders. “Aello, Amethesyt, and Keleos!” She grimaced in thought, her gaze searched the crowd, then finally fell upon Desma. “Desma, you too! If I called your name, form up on me!” She whirled around on one foot to address the rest of Squad Nike and their volunteers. “Everyone else, remain on guard here. Keep your bolters ready and your eyes peeled for trouble. Should anything happen to us, Sister Aura will know what to do.”

Amethyst piped up the moment they reached the empty elevator shaft, away from the others. “So is it true then? Something happened to Squad Helios?”

The elevator came down with a squeal of tortured mechanisms and a shower of sparks. Tyro raised a hand to halt everyone’s chatter as the elevator grinded to a halt before the raised steps of level 51—E. The rest of the team ripped their bolters from their holsters, following their Superior’s example as she trained them on the heavy glassine doors. They slid open with a chilling shriek. 

“Nothing.” Desma broke the silent tension. “That’s a good sign, right?”

“Right.” Tyro turned and confirmed Amethyst’s inquiry with a grim nod. “Their comms went silent half an hour ago. There are also reports of distant gunfire, but no one is completely certain. Helios was given the most remote location in the prisons to patrol. Such reports could have easily been imagined or mistaken for something else.” She sighed loudly. “I’ve received orders to investigate.”

Keleos removed her helm, intentionally revealing the skepticism written clearly on her features. “An entire squad goes silent and they want less than half a squad to investigate?”

Tyro irritably made a cutting gesture, bringing the conversation to a premature conclusion. “Shove the complaints somewhere else, Keleos, not up my ass. So here’s the plan: we use the elevator to enter level 51—C. We hail squad Helios personally. If we cannot succeed in making contact, then we’ll take a look around the place. If we so happen to run into anything large and scary, then we retreat back to elevator and hold our positions and hail for reinforcements. Understood?”

Keleos appeared more affirmed. “Fine. Let’s grind some heretic ass beneath our blades.”

Amethyst smirked faintly. “You know that I am with you in this life and the next, Tyro. I am honored to be a part of this excursion. You shall not find me wanting.”

Aello sniffed, unsatisfied. “Today is a more glorious day to die than most others. So that is something to look forward to, at least. I will embrace the light of Terra should I fall.”

Desma nodded, slammed a fist against her chest in salute. “Emperor preserve us.”

“Sister Desma,” Tyro beckoned her to approach. “This could be a dangerous mission. You’ll need some armor as you requested. We’ll stop by the waypoint armories and resupply before our arrival at level 51—C. 

“I’m sorry,” Desma’s mechanical eyes clicked strangely. “Waypoint armory?”

Aello shrugged. “The Governor’s Palace is a vast structural maze. Instead of pooling all of our munitions and equipment in one storage facility, we have several hundred locations where supplies can be drawn up at any moment. Useful when you’re trying to outgun an entire invasion.”

“Good.” Desma said. This reunion is long overdue. 

***​
The Servitors wordlessly buzzed to each other as they went about their work. Occasionally, the Tech—Adept would bark an order at them in machine code and goad them to work faster. Lyra stood with her limbs spread out as the machines detached each piece of her power armor with reverent care. It seemed to matter little to them that the sacred ceramite was rent, breached, and scorched all over. The lobotomized machines hauled each piece away as if it were a forgotten relic rediscovered. They continued the process until Lyra was stripped down to only her initiate robes. 

Squad Angeliki and Hoplon were scattered about the waypoint armory: a vast corridor that was sealed away from the rest of the palace by two sets of massive vault security doors. Case upon case of weapons and ammunition were laid out beneath lines of support beams. In other places, the Tech—Priests set about private chambers were they repaired and exchanged power armor. Beneath the flattened ceiling, the surviving Adeptus Sororitas exchanged their battered armor for fresh creations, replenished their ammunition, and swapped weapons. 

The scent of metallic oils pervaded Lyra’s senses and threatened to overwhelm her. The Tech—Adept in command of the gaggle of Servitors whined in its machine code, it’s whip coils slithered through the air with a vented hissing noise. With a beckoning of it’s needle—like metal fingers, another unscathed set of power armor was brought behind the screen Lyra hid behind. 

Superior Anthanasia followed the Servitors in. Her helm was cradled in her hand. “Hold a moment.” Her gaze inspectfully swept over Lyra’s form one, twice, three times and eventually settled upon the burned out hole in her robes near her right lung. “You’re tough, Savakis, I have to give you that. I am glad for it.”

“Thank you, Superior.” Lyra cusped her hands behind her back. “It’s a personal goal of mine, living up to Angeliki’s legend. There are some grizzled veterans on this squad.”

Anthanasia nodded thoughtfully. “In that case, you also have much room for improvement. If memory serves me right, I can no longer count on my hands how many times you have brushed death. You should be learning from Alexandra, Nomiki, and myself. Try spending more time with us off of the battlefield. You never know what you might learn.” The Sister Superior snapped her fingers at the Tech—Adept. “Resume.” She exited the small screening. 

Lyra gazed on, mildly puzzled, as the Servitors went back to their work. 

***​
“Little Arva.” Nomiki did not sound either pleased or dissatisfied by Arva’s presence by the ammunition crate she lingered by. She leaned her back against a support beam and sat on the oiled metal floor. Her pale cheeks were dry, but her eyes were misty. “How can I help you?”

“Blessed are the dead who die in the Emperor from now on.” Arva recited as she sat down beside her, her body tired and exhausted. “They will rest from their labor, for their deeds will follow them.” She glanced at Nomiki with an empathetic smile. “Such words could never be truer for a devout like Thea. We lost quite a few over the day, but I will feel her loss most keenly. May she find peace by the Emperor’s side.”

“Yes,” Nomiki breathed hesitantly. “She was a good friend, one of my greatest confidants. The squad won’t be the same without her, but that is the way of war, is it not? It is up to new bloods like you to fill the void of the lost predecessors. It will be the same case when I inevitably die in this terrible war. But I think I am ready to depart by now. I can accept that fate.”

“Arva!” Alexandra strode through the press of bodies, a wide grin on her lips. “Finally blooded! Can’t call yourself a true veteran until you’ve bagged yourself a traitor Astartes!” Her voice dropped into a whisper. “In truth, I think you’ve earned the right to shed those initiate robes altogether. Everything has just been happening so fast that Anthanasia can hardly make anything official.” Her tongue caught in her throat as she caught Nomiki’s downcast stare. “Come now, Nomiki, honor Thea with your vengeance, not your grief! You know she would never want that!”

Arva hissed more vehemently than she wanted to. “Would you give her a moment? Everyone’s exhausted from fighting, can’t you see that?”

“True,” Alexandra snapped. “But considering it’s the only thing keeping this world alive, you better get used to the idea of more.” She scoffed gently. “I didn’t mean to dampen your spirits. I hope a moment is all you’ll need. After all, a moment of laxity spawns a lifetime of heresy.” 

Arva watched Alexandra’s back as it shrunk away. “Everyone says that she’ll take over the squad when Anthanasia dies or retires.”

Nomiki managed a dejected smile. “Alexandra deserves the rank. She is the best of us, the greatest veteran that Angeliki has boasted in some years. The other Superiors see great potential in her. I doubt that anyone could take the promotion away from her, unless the worst happened. And the Sororitas must never betray each other, or all bonds of kinship become shattered and we fall prey to our enemies.”

Arva contemplated on Nomiki’s words for long moments, then finally clapped a hand on her friend’s pauldron. “I am truly sorry for Thea.”

“Alexandra was right.” Nomiki replied with no small amount of scorn. “My heart only cries out for vengeance now. I will see the traitors burn for this.”

_***​_
Members of Hoplon and Angeliki craned their heads toward the rear vault door as the oversized locks detached with the loud grind of working mechanisms. The massive door gave way just enough that a small team of Sororitas squeezed through the opening and into the waypoint armory. The robes pulled over their armor were a luminous silver, but aside from that, Anthanasia did not recognize them. 

“Hail.” One of them called to her as the team approached. Judging from her gait and hardened features, Anthanasia judged her the squad’s Superior. “Apologies, I did not know any other squads would be here.” 

Anthanasia raised a hand in greeting even as she walked over to the mysterious sister. “Sudden change in circumstances. Anyway, there’s plenty of supplies to go around, if that’s what you’re after. I am Sister Superior Anthanasia of Squad Angeliki. That is Sister Evanth of Squad Hoplon. We were fighting several floors above before we blew out the corridor we fought in, preventing it from being overrun. I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

The unnamed Superior looked abashed. “I am Superior Tyro of Squad Nike. We have the unfortunate pleasure of dungeon duty, though a siege is raging right above our heads. I’m bringing a small team in to resupply before we investigate some disturbances in nearby cell blocks.”

Sister Evanth warily strode over and joined the conversation, her hands folded under her chest. “Disturbances? Anything particularly troubling?”

Tyro bit her lip in thought, certainly wondering whether she should divulge her secrets. She was wise for deciding to trust them. “We lost contact with Squad Helios, their comms have gone completely silent. I have been ordered to investigate.”

Evanth snorted haughtily. “The loss of contact with an entire squad and you’re going with so few? _You’re_ just as likely to go silent.”

Tyro shrugged her shoulders. “Orders are orders. I cannot completely abandon my post in the dungeons either. These are my best soldiers. If anyone can do this task, it is them.”

“Even so,” Anthanasia interjected. “That’s still too few. We were on our way to the next combat zone now that ours has been secured. However, allow me a moment to contact my superiors and see if I can give you aid. You seem like an honorable person, Sister Tyro, I would hate for you to die stupidly.”

Tyro nodded, her lips were taut, but her eyes sighed with relief. “That would be prudent.”

_Meanwhile…_

Desma approached one of the massive cases that housed several sets of power armor. A Tech—Priest lingered over the case, watching with beady luminescent crimson eyes with a great staff in hand. Strange machine coils slithered in and out of his robes, each holding some tool or device that she could not guess the purpose of. A small throng of machine slaves, Servitors, gathered around him from a respectful distance. 

“Tech—Priest.” Desma called warily. The machine priest whirled around on its whip—like coils instead of legs and tilted its head in askance. She felt as if a deity gazed down upon her, pondering the fate of a mere mortal. “I require a suit of armor.”

The Tech—Priest said nothing, but gestured with its staff toward a small screen in the corner of the corridor. Desma curtly nodded and strode across the hallway, when she rounded the screen, she recoiled before she could collide into the wall of ceramite that came rushing toward her. 

“Oh!” Desma exclaimed. “Forgive me… Sister Lyra? Is that you?” 

“Sister Desma?” Lyra was in the process of throwing on her helmet when she looked up and exchanged stares with Desma. She blinked several times before she lifted the heavy faceplate from her head. “That is you isn’t it? I can never mistake those eyes for anyone else’s. Or the sound that your arm and leg makes. What are you doing here?”

Desma’s eyes whirred excitedly. “I volunteered to join Squad Nike in order to bolster their ranks. We’re on dungeon duty for now, but Tyro says we’ll eventually see some fighting.”

Lyra could not hold back a look of fierce pride. “I knew you could not be held back from battle for long, once it came calling. I’m proud of you for facing your fear. Who knows, maybe we’ll stand side by side soon?”

A smirk cut across Desma’s face. “I would excited by the idea.” Her face turned grim from sizing Lyra up. “You have definitely seen better, gentler days. No offense.”

“Half of day of constant, brutal fighting.” Lyra said. “Barely any rest until now. We’ve been running purely on adrenaline. You must be here to garb yourself in armor. You know how to move up through the ranks quickly, at least. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Of course.” Desma inclined her head. 

Anthanasia’s voice cut through the tranquil quiet with its boastful boom. “Squad Angeliki, Hoplon, and Nike, gather around! There is work to be done in the Emperor’s name!”


----------



## Myen'Tal

_ “Superior Cressida – anyone from Squad Helios, you are due to report in, break your silence immediately. This is Sister Superior Tyro of Squad Nike, I repeat, if there are any of Squad Helios who can hear me, break your silence immediately! Is there anyone out there?”_

The claustrophobic corridors of the prison block level 51—C were cloaked in absolute darkness when the elevator arrived. The shadows meant little to Squad Nike, however, as Desma peered into the world through the night vision provided by her helmet. As the doors slid aside, she noticed the lack of noise that was common in other parts of the prison blocks. Whatever she had been led to believe before, this was definitely a bad omen. 

Tyro gestured with her hands for Aello and Keleos to shore up the flanks. Desma and Amethyst were given the task of guarding the rear. The Sister Superior held a bolter in one hand and an inferno pistol in the other as she slowly climbed down the stairs, as silent as the grave. Desma followed her team members onto the dungeon level 51—C. She climbed down the stairs hesitantly, uncertain that her power armor would give her away with a sonorous noise. She was greeted by an unfamiliar noise instead, a wet, crunchy sound from where she planted her next footfall. 

Desma grimaced, retracted her foot, and gazed down upon the lifeless corpse she had stepped on. Her footfall had crushed the spine and left a bloody mess of internal organs. The corpse looked ill, possessing thick black veins, bloody eyes, and pallid grey skin. She felt her stomach flip and averted her gaze. 

“Possessed.” Tyro spat. “That is definitely not a good sign. Squad Helios was attacked.”

“Superior.” Keleos gestured further down the corridor with her meltagun. “There are more fallen. They bear signs of significant damage. The Sisters here put up a fight.”

Desma studied the hallway’s fresh wounds and blood slathers. “If that is the case, then why not hail for reinforcements?”	

“Everyone,” Tyro hissed. “Lower your voices. Colloquia nostra audire hostis credo. Mutatio ad omnes Gothici.” (I believe the enemy is listening to our communications. Everyone change to gothic).

“Hmph.” Amethyst grunted. “Ut faceret sensu. Caesis sociis singillatim tractantur.” (That would make sense. Our allies were manipulated and slain one by one.)

“Contubernium Angeliki, Hoplon,” Tyro called into the channel. “Incipiunt natales tuos.” (Begin your descent).

Anthanasia’s voice came back over the channel, her voice encrypted in High Gothic. “Intelligi, Tyro.” (Understood, Tyro).

Tyro gestured for her team to move out. “Quaere circum fiat scriptor. Non recedunt longius attollo.” (Let’s take a look around. Do not stray too far from the elevator).

The world became a fraction brighter as the elevator ascended in a storm of sparks. As it disappeared, Squad Nike fanned out for several meters to investigate the disappearance of Squad Helios further. 

“Cellas omnibus aperuit carcerem.” (The prison cells are all opened.) Desma quickly realized. “Qui oppugnabat Helios possederunt per dimittendis.” (Whoever assaulted Helios possessed means of releasing them).

Tyro swept her bolter across one of the cells before retracing her steps back into the corridor. She looked at Desma and merely shook her head with a shrug of her shoulder. There was no one inside the prison cells to speak of. At least, not anymore. 

The elevator came squealing back down onto the dungeon level and disgorged Squad Angeliki. Their members fanned out silently as their Superior strode through the hallway filled with tattered corpses to join Tyro by the prison cells. Desma and the rest of Nike fell back until they and Angeliki formed an interlocked phalanx of bolters and melta—guns. At Athanasia and Tyro’s behest, they moved as one unit, a mobile wall of ceramite. 

Anthanasia whispered into her comm. link. “Cut the High Gothic chatter. Squad Helios is slain, that is very apparent now. But our objective cannot be to pursue an enemy through the shadows in a place that can go on for Emperor knows how long.”

“There are enemies nearby, I can smell it.” Tyro sniffed the air to emphasize her point. “I think they have tapped into our communications. Also this place isn’t as large as it seems. A few branching halls, but that’s about it. When Hoplon arrives, we can sweep through it in several minutes.”

A voice abruptly cut through the dark, thick with despair and weakness. “Thank the Emperor!” 

A Sorotias limped out of the shadows, her armor rent and scarred in a hundred places. The most noticeable were three gaping wounds in her gut. Desma quickly determined the damage came from heavy weapons. What else could have made them? The Sister’s helmet was missing, her face criss—crossing scars from the narrow grazes of a wicked blade. As the phalanx raised their weapons as one, she collapsed to her knees. Sister Tyro quickly rushed to her side and swept her up in her arms.

“Su—Su—Superior,” The injured Sister sputtered. “I am sister Arcadia. I—the enemy have the Canoness and the Ambassador! I could not protect them by myself. I know where they are headed!” Arcadia was incredibly weak. Even from here, Desma could see her life slipping away. 

Anthanasia approached and kneeled over her. She cast a blank look at Tyro. “Who is she talking about?”

“The Ambassador of the Order of the Emperor’s Grace, she had been declared a traitor and a heretic recently. She betrayed the Imperium. So did Canoness Serhilda, who was apparently colluding with her. The news is still fresh and hasn’t reached many ears because of the war. Technically, they still possess a great amount of authority on palace grounds.”

Anthanasia’s voice surged in urgency. “Arcadia, where are they headed with these prisoners?” 

“Armories…” Arcadia wheezed. “They’ve placed special forces between them and you. I don’t recognize their colors or emblems.”

Anthanasia nodded knowingly. “I have a feeling I’ve seen them before. I need to get in contact with Canoness Anatolijus.”


----------



## Beaviz81

I haved skimmed through it. Its high-quality. So nice doing Myen'Tal.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Thanks, Beavis, good to see you back on the forums :victory:. Your opinion is always welcome.


----------



## Myen'Tal

_Helike burned in the flames of its own eternal hell brought to life. The sheer damage that had been caused by half a day of constant siege was unprecedented. The city was in ruins, its population in shambles, laid low by the cold machinations of the Thousand Sons and the blind genocide of the demonic invasion. It would seem as if the entire foundation of Helike would crumble away into dust and the entire city would implode upon itself at any moment. For carnage and destruction on such a scale, it seemed impossible let alone sustainable. 

Yet even in the darkness, the Fortress Monastery of Gythium shone as if a golden pearl, as if the Throne of Terra was locked away deep within its hallowed halls. The Monastery of the Order of the Emperor’s Grace was unscathed entirely despite the desperate fighting. A hundred gigantic orbital cannons tracked back and forth across the skies, unleashing payloads of violent energies that were stable enough to penetrate the atmosphere and tear traitor battleships apart in space. 

The last metro—buses capable of reaching Gythium from the besieged Governor’s Palace slid from their stations. Little did the traitors know, that at the Canoness’ behest, three thousand sisters of battle kept as reserves boarded the metro—trains before they headed back down into the war torn landscape that was the capital of Tyrannus. Each of them knew their mission: there would be no aid given to the frontlines, but traitors to hunt in the very depths of the palace. According to their Canoness, this could the deciding battle. 

For the Imperium and Tyrannus, they would fight to the last breath against any horror. They would begrudgedly sacrifice their souls to any Dark God to stave off their ultimate victory. Just as the Emperor’s angels of death, they would know no fear. _


~***~​

The armories of the Adeptus Mechanicus was a vast and dimly lit complex that reeked of oils, fluids, and furnaces. The countless robed machine—humans that labored reverently in the pale light lay scattered about their stockpiles of weapons, armor, and massive mechanical machine arms that blindly went about moving crates and mechanisms. The forges blazed on, their ear—splitting roars the only break in the uneasy silence that descended upon this place. 

Helen had forgotten how effective her hands of possession had become, so simple in execution that they worked as if multiple wraiths haunting the elite of the Imperial Guard. One by one, they would quickly succumb to the mental invasion that destroyed their minds. The trick was in using the forgotten souls of cultists that had sacrificed themselves for this very purpose. An untamed demon would simply froth and attempt to maim and kill without direction. 

“Foolish little creatures...” Nyst hissed beneath her breath, her tongue slithered quietly over her teeth. The corpse of the Sororitas she possessed was strong enough to hold the Tech—Adept that she inspected off of his feet, strangled by his throat. “You think all of those little mechanisms and steel make you immortal? Interesting.” With her other hand, the demon placed it over the Adept’s mouth and twisted his neck with a sickening crunch and whine of jammed servos. She let the corpse drop at her feet. 

“Nyst,” Helen called somberly. “There is work still to be done. You can toy with your prey later.” Her emerald eyes scanned the labyrinth of machinery and supply crates. “Can you sense the Web—Way gate?”

“Of course,” Nyst snapped her fingers and her jaw testily. The sound of several hundred boots thundering in unison echoed across the armories as Helen’s army of possessed formed up. “I shall reveal the way.” She gestured with a jerk of her head that Helen and her army should follow. 

They marched away from the elevator, descended further into the horrifying realms of the Omnissiah. Helen fixed her gaze on the transfusions of flesh and machine – things that had once been purely human – and shuddered. Who could deserve such a fate? The Imperium was known for its cruelty to its own as much as its pure hatred of anything different than itself. She could not help but feel gladdened at tearing down such a formidable fortress world, such a prime example of xenophobia and oppression. She would not stop until this world was nothing but ash, filled with the lost souls of the vanquished. 

“Down here,” Nyst cautiously approached a massive elevator shaft, easily capable of taking a small army down into the furthest recesses of the palace. Helen had no doubt that was its exact purpose. “I would leave a good number of your men behind to guard the area.”

“Take us down.” Helen reached into their minds with a psychic wave to relay her orders. Half of her soldiers snapped a salute and quickly fanned out across the armories. The other half marched toward the open doors of the elevator shaft. One of the soldiers approached the elevator’s console and punched in the necessary codes. The doors began to close with a mighty groan. Everything became drowned in silence as darkness swallowed them whole. 

“Can you sense the Imperials?” Nyst did not have to be visible for Helen to imagine the wicked grin on her face. “You know they are coming for us.”

“I can sense them.” Helen assured. Yet she revealed something else that was nagging at her self—consciousness, something she was far more uncertain about. “Will Ba’zariah triumph against them? Shall we live?”

Nyst answered with a light hearted chuckle. “Why, I do not know, dear Helen. I could not even predict my own death, in the end of things.”

“Can you really see the future?” Helen demanded gently. “Or are you just really good at foreseeing things play out?”

“An interesting question you pose.” Nyst nodded in the dark. “But as you said before, we are all only playthings of the Gods. Pawns. I can only feed on so many scraps from my master’s table like a dog before I get sick and realize I still have some dignity.”

Now it was Helen’s turn to laugh. “So you choose not to read the future? You are so unlike humankind, Nyst. It really boggles the mind.” She paused to reconsider Nyst’s words. “Does Ba’zariah dislike you?”

“Oh, yes,” Nyst hissed, her thoughts preoccupied with the past. “For centuries now. She once feared me as a rival. That I was powerful enough to supplant her and take her throne in the Forlorn City. Damn, I used to be so good back then.”

Helen hesitated, but felt her curiosity overwhelm her. “Were you that powerful?”

A floodlight suddenly blared into life as the elevator slid smoothly to a halt. The backwash of sterile light painted the entire lift in a blinding white glow. Helen saw Nyst wink mischievously as the heavy metal slab doors began to pull themselves aside. 

The Greater Demon teased. “Perhaps I still may have that power. But enough about that, we have arrived.” She swept her arms out in a grand gesture. 

The chamber was empty, void of anything except a cold steel vault. A frozen chill crept through Helen, she peered through the low lying fog that came up to her knees and planted a step forward. Brilliant blue floodlights were arrayed along the flattened ceiling that painted everything in a harsh sapphire aura. The vault stretched on for what appeared to be kilometers in every direction. Enough room for an army to fight, Helen surmised. And at the end of the vault stood an alien artifact that dated back before the Dark Age of Technology itself. The Web Way Gate was already beginning to crackle and swirl with unknown energies at their approach. As Helen neared, she could hear whispers from beyond the dimensions.

_“The ancient have perished before the storm.”

“Humanity wails and writhes in the flames of its own demise.”

“The time has come to sit upon my throne and claim this world.”

“The Forlorn City shall come to Tyrannus.”
_
“Indeed, my master.” Mirathir replied as she materialized through the portal. Helen immediately saw that she had changed. She was still her former self, but she was dressed in flowing, splendorous silver robes with a golden trim. Emblazoned across her chest was the symbol of a great palace built atop a lonely mountain: The forlorn city. Her raven hair had become longer, and fell to the back of her knees. She immediately flicked her gaze back and forth to Nyst and Helen. She allowed herself a small sigh of relief. “It is good to see both of you in good health. You have both done well to come this far. Now, shall we complete the ritual and organize our forces before the Imperials are at our doorstep?”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The Metro—Station​
Cannoness Anatolijus shouldered her way through the masses of her comrades. The last of the metro—buses had just finished their arrival and were already slipping off toward the Fortress Monastary of Gythium. The numbers had been painstakingly counted: four thousand, six hundred and eighty—one Sisters of Battle crammed themselves inside the claustrophobic metro—station beneath the Governor’s Palace. They were all grunts, foot infantry: Celestians, Dominions, Seraphim, Repentia, and, of course, the Sororitas. Beyond the metro—station, Helike Hive continued to burn in the madness of the Dark Gods’ invasion. 

“Sisters!” Anatolijus leaped into the doorway of a raised metro—bus so that everyone could gaze upon her. “The very wind of the apocalypse has arrived on our world! Can you see the demonic tide beyond these walls!? It is only a matter of time before we all perish beneath a flood of ravening claws! Our souls shall never see the emperor’s side or the Golden Throne! We will forever be at the mercy of the Dark Gods! This is the fate of Tyrannus!” 

Anatolijus broke her stoic façade with a broad grin. “These thoughts I know have occurred to many of you! Do not be ashamed! There is only so much hatred and destruction a world can take before defeatism begins to set in! For those of you who doubt that this war can be won, that our world can be saved, I say to you – listen now!”

Already, she saw gazes from hundreds of young women that looked to her without hope. But something sparked behind their gazes at her words. 

“There is only one hope for our proud world now! The mighty may have fallen this day, but we are yet defeated! The life is not yet choked from our lungs! Defiance and hatred still burns in our hearts! 

“Sisters, the commander of this Demonic invasion has finally deigned to show itself! Even as we speak, it musters its forces for a final assault that will tear through the palace’s defenses! This demon and the portals that it has mastered is the source that is bringing demonic stability to Tyrannus! If we but have the courage to face our ultimate fear, the strength to cleave through all of our greatest nightmares, and the faith to guide us through the horror of it all, we can still prevail!”

Some of the Sororitas were cheering now, bellowed their approval as they lifted their bolters into the air. Many were praising their Canoness by name, as if calling out for a saint to heal them. The chant took up slowly at first, a cautious rhythm that picked up speed as Anatolijus continued. 

“Sisters! I won’t lie to you! For many of us, this will be our final fight! I ask you to pick your bolters, your chainswords one last time and follow your commander into eternal glory!”

The Order of the Emperor’s Grace thundered. “Remissionem Per Ignem, Veniam Per Mortem!” (Absolution Through Fire, Forgiveness Through Death!)

~***~​
The combat in the armories was short and brutal. The Sisters of Battle stormed into the corridors of the Machine God with incantations on their lips, praises for the Emperor on their lips. Lyra quickly leapt over a mound of dead Tech Adepts and allowed her bolter to scream in her grip. Two possessed exploded from where her shots connected: two in the chest of one and another through the other’s right eye socket. Arva had already claimed three kills by the time she had exited the elevator. 

The remnants of Squad Angeliki spread out amongst the ruins of the Mechanicum’s facilities. On their flanks were Squads Hoplon and Nike. Between Sister Evanth, Tyro, and Anthanasia, the three Superiors felt confident enough to assault the armories alone until reinforcements arrived. 

Hell gun fire rippled through the shadows from a hundred places and lit the dark as if a fireworks display. Here and there, a sister fell, but their wounds were not mortal. They were picked back up by their comrades and back into the fight. Bolters roared in return. Machinery detonated in fiery displays, often claiming the lives of heretics in their violent explosions. Lyra kept her finger on the trigger even as flaming bodies were flailing past her. 

Alexandra drew her chainsword and carved a bloody gash through a zombie that charged her down. “Remissionem Per Ignem, traitor!”

Tyro joined her and smashed her elbow into the face of the nearest heretic. As her foe reeled away from the blow, she un—holstered her bolt pistol and place a shot between its eyes. Her chainsword danced from opponent to opponent as Nike charged ahead. Her blade severed a limb here, rent through the guts there. Ever so often, she unleashed her bolt pistol to gain distance. 

Desma absorbed shot after shot, her bionic arms and legs only took superficial damage. Which was why she kept them shielding her main body. For every two shots into her, she unleashed three into the traitors and often claimed as many kills. She was surprised. After all of this time, her skills had yet to rust. But then again, perhaps the bionics enhanced them. 

“Watch out!” Nomiki unleashed the wrath of her multi—melta toward a ragtag fortification. “Heavy bolter!”

The machine gun rattled incessantly, caught the sisters off guard with its abrupt appearance. Keleos did not have time to scream as her midriff burst into pieces. She clattered to the ground, unmoving. The Sororitas scattered before the heavy weapon and slid into cover. 

Lyra dived into a pile of corpses. 

“Throwing frag!” One of Hoplon’s sisters cried out as she pulled the pin and tossed it halfway across the chamber. The blast was on point and detonated with a rain of blood and gore. 

Tyro barked over the sound of battle. “Cut the last of them down!”

For a moment, the bolter fire raised to such volume that the armory became a crescendo of weapon discharges and inhuman screams. Lyra joined her surviving sisters and unleashed her fury upon the helpless remains of the enemy. She felt little pity for them and no remorse. 

Rebuke the heretic.

The sounds of battle eventually faded. Silence descended upon the armories. The area had been secured. The remaining sisters of the three squads fanned out and began to search every crevice of the Mechanicum’s lair. 

One of Nike’s sisters called through the channels. “Superiors! We’ve found something!”

Lyra followed Anthanasia, Tyro, and Evanth to a massive lift at the end of the chamber. 

“Well, well,” Anthanasia started. “How much you willing to bet that our little sorceress is down here?”

Tyro nodded. “With a demon army at her back.”

Evanth had the last word. “Then we have done all that we can on our own. Let us wait for the Canoness’ reinforcements.”


----------



## Beaviz81

Now the Sisters of Battle sounds like Sisters of Battle. I love that.


----------



## Myen'Tal

> Now the Sisters of Battle sounds like Sisters of Battle. I love that.


Yeah, that inspiring speech really got them riled up :grin:.

Got a little inspired yesterday to continue writing, who knows, maybe I'll press to the ending!

Thanks for the comment, as always:victory:.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Inquisitor Arruns hefted his thunder hammer over his shoulder as the lift slowly rose upward. “We never really considered ourselves friends, have we, Canoness?”

“Of course not,” Anatolijus kept her hands clasped around the hilt of her power sword, which she kept pointed toward the floor. “An Inquisitor that willingly alliances with alien scum is a threat to all humanity.” She paused to consider her words. “Perhaps you are not as large a threat as I had once deemed you.”

Arruns bristled with thunderous laughter. “I suppose that is the closest you’ll ever come to an apology. However, I just wanted you to know that I am proud to stand beside you and your order. No matter what fate befalls us in the end.”

Anatolijus jerked her head toward the massive pair of Grey Knights that flanked the Inquisitor on either side. “Can these oafs say the same? They are the only forces you brought with you?”

The Inquisitor lifted his pauldrons in a mighty shrug. “Someone must defend the palace from the Thousand Sons. Besides, I think you have brought more than enough of your own friends.” He gestured toward the dense mass of power armor, emerald and sky blue robes that stood in formation behind the two of them. The sisters of battle were arrayed in their squads, organized by their lavish standards, and encouraged by the songs of their faith as they awaited the final battle. Even at a glance, Arruns could easily count three thousand among them. 

Arruns suddenly sobered. “How many will the lift take?”

“About half of our number.” The Canoness muttered calculatingly to herself. “I’ll lead the first group into the depths below. You be certain to arrive with the next wave. Whoever created this lift expected that an army may need to contained here. It was good foresight that they had.” The doors to the lift began to split apart with a wailing groan. “It is time.” She lifted her chainsword overhead. “Battle Group One! March!”

~***~​
Mirathir abruptly stood from the diagram of the eight pointed star etched along the mist filled chamber. She turned on her heel, the web way portal, swirled with violent energies, at her back. Her gaze locked onto the lift being lowered into the chamber. “We have guests.”

“About time.” Nyst popped something in her neck as she stood from her knees. “I was beginning to get bored. This is where all the threads become untangled. If only poor Theodora were here to see this.”

Helen and the Greater Demon moved to stand by their master. Despite their ritual, they were the only souls in the entire chamber. In an act of patience, all of them folded their arms across their chest. Their faces held smug smirks, their features hardened in a challenge. 

Mirathir hummed sadly with laughter. “Theodora has reaped her eternal reward. She may have been foolish and blind, but she was faithful until the end.” The doors to the lift began to pry themselves open. “Here they come. Loyalist scum.”

The Adeptus Sororitas marched into the sapphire mist with all the pomp and splendor of those who believed themselves true heroes. Even in the dimly lit chamber, their armor glinted as if beneath the harsh gaze of the sun. Their glamorous standards billowed in a false wind as they moved swiftly toward the webway portal. Mirathir could not deny that she was somewhat in awe. After all, this army appeared to arrive out of some fairy tale world of knights and dragons. She also noted their numbers: far more than anything she had predicted. 

Mirathir sneered in disgust. “Nothing can ever be simple, can it?” She snapped her fingers at her subordinates. “Helen! Nyst! Come, we must meet their commanders.”

Helen chuckled, her face skeptical. “What makes you think they want to talk to us?”

The Raven Prophet quirked a smile. “Trust me.”

Certainly enough, as Mirathir and her entourage crossed the mist wreathed chamber, those at the fore of the Witch Hunters commanded their forces to halt. Uncertainty brewed within their leader at first, as if deciding whether to purge first and ask questions later. Yet as Mirathir predicted, curiosity had gotten the better of her. One figure clasped in glorious armor and a flowing golden and silver cloak began to cross over to meet them. Behind her, a small escort of bodyguards followed from a respectful distance. 

“What do we have here?” The Canoness asked in her authoritative voice. “Two witches and a possessed vessel? And one of you an eldar of all things. I should have known your kind are not to be trusted.” Her gaze swept over each of them with an attentiveness and scrutiny that would put a servitor to shame. “You would honestly have me believe that you three are the architects of Tyrannus’ demise?” She hawked and spat. 

Mirathir smiled knowingly. “I would not ask you to believe in anything. Your kind are as blind as the deep abyss and more stubborn than bulls. There is little hope that you could achieve enlightenment in our new world. Your entire planet is aflame and here we are, having penetrated the deepest defenses of your Governor’s Palace and you still think us nothing more than vagrants? How foolish you mon—keigh can truly be, really!”

“What was that?” Anatolijus hissed. “Did you just call me a monkey!? Hah, I came here expecting a battle worthy of legend! What a disappointment! Your heads will have to suffice instead! Where are your demon allies now? Are they frightened by the righteous wrath of my armies? Bring them here and face me!”

“As you wish.” Mirathir uttered darkly. 

A keen demonic wail echoed from the web—way portal. Something unlike anything that Anatoljus had ever heard before. This was something far beyond mortal comprehension, that flowed like a rushing river and darker than regular demon spawn. A sapphire skinned demoness emerged from the web—way on two hooves, impossibly slender, but built with a musculature and physiology that outrivaled any mortal race. The giantess reeked of cruel majesty and possessed features of something… nobler than average demon kind. The right side of her chest, waist, and left leg were cloaked in a white garment, inlaid with gold, inset with emeralds and sapphires. A long column of raven hair covered her left breast, which was penetrated by a pair of long and curved horns that jutted from her forehead. Held flat by her side were demonic blades in her three lithe arms. The fourth held a great spell tome that crackled with eldritch power. 

Ba’zariah poised herself in a challenging stance behind her three apprentices, but said nothing as she looked out over the Sororitas army. One by one, demonic entities slunk away from the portal’s energies and into reality. They were twisted, centaur—like creatures of scaly emerald skin and diamond hard claws. Their upper bodies were humanoid in shape, morphed into the alluring forms of women such as the sirens from the ancient legends. One became a dozen. A dozen became a hundred. Their numbers continued to swell until a small army stood against the Sororitas. 

Mirathir smirked confidently. “See you on the field, Canoness.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Anatolijus ripped her power weapon from its scabbard. She spared a glance to her retinue. “Celestians! Take their lives! For the Imperium of Mankind and Tyrannus! Attack!”

The chamber became filled with golden bolts of energy as multi—meltas unleashed their payloads by the hundred. Heavy bolters clattered alongside them as did numerous bolters into one massive crescendo as the Order of the Emperor’s Grace formed into a moving phalanx into the teeth of the enemy. The demonic horde writhed from the sudden, point blank assault, but broke ranks nearly all at once into one momentous stampede. Though into such overwhelming firepower, dozens collapsed in their charges, torn apart by the fusillade. 

The Lady of the Tower howled a diabolical command and lifted her mighty tome into the air. Eldritch lightning arced from her person and across the dense pockets of Sororitas, blossoming in a storm of blood and gore wherever they struck. The backlash sent dozens of others flying into their comrades. The storm of Greater Demons pressed their advantage as the phalanx already began to crack in a dozen places. As they collided into the thick of the Sisters of Battle – some throwing themselves blindly onto their guns – they vomited streams of warp flame that immolated both armor and flesh that remained in their path. 

“You’re mine!” Anatoljus declared as the demonic horde rushed past her and retinue. She broke into a charge, her power sword pulled tightly across her chest. “Die, coward!”

Mirathir shouted in frustration. “Nyst, Helen, get back! Deal with the others!” She slipped around the Canoness’ rapid coup—de—grace and faced her back. “You even turn down the last few minutes of your pitiful life!? So be it, Canoness! Hah!” 

White hot flames sprayed from the Raven Prophet’s finger tips in a rushing geyser that would immolate a fully armored Astartes. Anatolijus skidded to a halt and fell onto one knee, her arm brought up to shield her face and chest. Mirathir hissed in surprise as the flames danced off the glimmering blue aura of energy that encompassed her. She quickly followed the attack with a bolt of eldritch lightning, but the refractor field absorbed every psychic blast she could hurl. 

The Canoness sprang forward and shouldered Mirathir onto the metallic floor of the chamber. Her power sword flashed as quick as lightning, but Mirathir focused her inner mind and vanished through reality for a split second. She reappeared with a thunder clap directly behind Anatolijus, who was already in the process of whirling around, bolt pistol in hand. Mirathir uttered a slew of diabolic and created a shield of her own. A flood of runes encircled her and reflected any steel ejected in her direction. 

Anatolijus roared in fury. “I knew the eldar were nothing but pawns! When the demonic invasion is crushed and our planet rebuilt, I swear there shall be a reckoning! You are nothing but playthings of the Dark Gods! The Deities you worship are broken and tortured in their twisted realms! I should have never suffered an alliance with those witches to pass—“ An abrupt and overwhelming force smashed into her flank. 

Nyst growled inhumanly through her vessel as she picked herself up to stand over the floored Canoness. “I would focus on your own survival if I were you.”

The Greater Demon grunted, more in surprise than pain as Anatolijus gripped her firmly by the shoulders and smashed her forehead into her nose. The cartilage crunched satisfyingly, blood poured from the wound and over the canoness’ face. She followed up with a decisive punch to the jaw that threw Nyst off of her completely. Yet the demon firmly had the Canoness in her grip. Anatolijus went rolling away with her. 

“Die quickly!” Nyst answered with a powerful kick that sent Anatolijus flying several feet into the air. She landed scant feet away with a heavy thump and a loud moan. By the time she recovered herself and was back on her feet, her bodyguards charged her down.

Nyst parried the first chainsword with her gauntlet and countered with a hard knee into the other Celestian’s flank as she attempted a charging blow. The force of the attack sent the Celestian stumbling in the wrong direction. Still grinding a monomolecular blade against her gauntlet, the Greater Demon snatched the staggered Sororitas’ chainsword by the spinning blade, plunged it through the neck of her comrade in a spray of gore. She finished the last opponent with a savage elbow brought down upon the faceplate until it caved inward. 

“Ah!” Helen keeled over, three chainswords thrust through her midriff, and a bolt pistol round placed between her eyes. 

“Damn it, Nyst!” Mirathir roared. “I told you to deal with the bodyguards!”

“I am!” Nyst howled irritably. “Do you want me to annihilate the rest of this rabble why I’m at it?”

“It would be a good start!” Mirathir quipped as Anatolijus came at her again. Average psychic energy would not penetrate her refractor field. She would have to try something different… the hands of possession. Blood began to seep from Mirathir’s finger tips as she weaved them in complex patterns. The Canoness was nearly upon her when she suddenly raised her hands and channeled her psychic might into Anatolijus’ mind. “It did not have to end this way, Canoness! You could have served or at least died with dignity!”

Anatolijus howled as her mind fell victim to an invasion. She collapsed onto one knee, held in place by an irresistible force that simply could not be denied. The whisperings of a vile creation began to eek its way into her thoughts, began to listen to her heart beat, her emotions. 

The Canoness’ eyes glazed over with a golden aura. A sudden resurgence of psychic might coursed through her veins. She felt the purity of the Emperor’s presence touch her mind. Such was its power that the invading demon cried out in fear as it was obliterated. The Raven Prohpet’s spell became shattered with an explosion that threw her backward seven feet. 

“Mirathir!” Nyst leapt between Mirathir and the Canoness, but earned nothing more than a sword stroke that cleaved through her chest. The Greater Demon actually heard herself cry out in real, physical pain, so much so that she fled into the chaotic melee. 

Anatolijus turned back to Mirathir, who still writhed on the floor. “Suffer not the witch to live.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

NOTE: I do realize that I have forgotten about Taryi, my honest mistake, she had been mentioned far earlier than this scene. But I'll have to make due . Hope you guys enjoy this one! The final fight comes to a conclusion! There will also be an epilogue that will tie up any loose ends. Not sure if that's going to be the next scene or not, we'll see.

The battle beneath the Governor’s Palace quickly devolved into a vicious and bloody close quarters conflict. Greater Demons flailed and crushed bodies beneath their bulk, spewing warp flames at any that drew near. Chainswords carved into their flanks, disemboweling or shattering against gnarled skin as bolters and multi—meltas were unleashed point blank. Demonic scum was torn asunder as quickly as sisters fell beneath the tide of tooth and fang. 

Anthanasia whirled around a crushing foot, her power sword flashing in an arc that cleaved through the Greater Demon’s exposed leg. The demon shrieked as it collapsed in a heap, but the Sister Superior quickly ended its suffering with a coup—de—grace. Another demon clambered over the corpse, revealed its toothy maw in a wolfish grin as it made to trample Anthanasia underfoot. 

Lyra, Alexandra, and Arva were suddenly by her side a moment later. They combined the fire from their bolters into the demon’s exposed skull until it shattered into a million pieces. The corpse crumpled atop its fallen comrade, twitched a hundred times. 

Bazariah waded into the thick of battle as a whirlwind of blades and eldritch lightning. The Sword that Claimed Souls flashed from foe to foe, cleaved through power armor and drank deep upon the spirits that dwelled beneath the fleshy shells. The Sword of Cinders lopped away heads and turned their corpses to nothing more than ashes upon the wind. The Sword of Flames stabbed through the masses and sent them scattering before an eruption of demonic flames. 

Anthanasia watched on in horror as the Demoness created a storm of bloodletting wherever she tread. Brave sisters with battle cries on their lips continued to throw themselves from the chaos of battle at the feet of the creature in hopes that they could slay it. Bazariah stamped her foes into a bloody paste and immolated others with her warp—fire breathing maw. In mere moments of entering the conflict, three scores of mangled and butchered corpses lay scattered at her feet. 

Anthanasia shouted into her comm. link. “Tyro! Evanth! We have to stop that creature! No matter the cost! Angeliki, rally to me!”

Tyro materialized by her side. Her bolter barked in her grip and blew apart a greater demon’s sternum. “Squad Nike is with you!”

Evanth was also beside her. “Lead the way, Anthanasia!”

An entirely unfamiliar voice joined them as their squads assembled. Even in the heat of battle, Anthanasia noted its grace and elegance. “I’m coming with you!” 

An eldar clasped in elegant armor and vibrant robes around her waist, leggings, and chest plate stood before them. She was incredibly tall and inhumanly slender, possessive of long and curly auburn hair and emerald eyes. In her hands was a great double—bladed polearm that she anxiously tossed from hand to hand. 

Taryi slammed her helmet on. “I am eager to avenge my kin. Do not think that you can convince me otherwise, mon—keigh.”

Anthanasia blinked. “I recognize you… you are one of those aliens that the Inquisitor hired?”

“Less questions,” Inquisitor Arruns thundered from behind his helmet. He brought his Thunder Hammer down upon a head of a wounded foe lying in its own entrails. “More bloodshed. Reinforcements are here! Let us press an attack!”

“Yes, Inquisitor!” Anthanasia raised her power sword overhead. “To the Demoness!”

Bazariah retraced her footsteps from the thickest of the fighting, her body poised in a defensive stance as she recognized that she was being targeted. Her flawless stoic façade began to crack into a knowing grin as the Adeptus Sororitas came forward to challenge her. Her soulless gaze swept over her challengers, peered into the darkest recesses of their souls, and laughed at what she saw. The Demoness levitated her eldritch tome above her head, raised her three blades in a brazen show of strength, and shrieked a war cry that would have lesser mortals begging for mercy. 

Anthanasia glared back into those eyes the color of the abyss and smiled grimly back at death. She broke into a final charge. “Remissionem Per Ignem!”

Squads Angeliki, Nike, and Hoplon thundered in unison. “Veniam Per Mortem!” 

Bolter shells detonated harmlessly against the shimmering sapphire aura that cloaked the Demon Queen. Nomiki unleashed her multi—melta and cursed as the super—heated energies merely dissipated as if so many embers snuffed by a cold breeze. There was no chance that the Demoness could be defeated by firepower. She had them completely outmatched with her sorcerous knowledge. 

Anthanasia was suddenly eclipsed by the shadow of the eldar girl as she sprang across the field of dead with a nimbleness no mere human could match. The Inquisitor shouted a wordless cry behind her, flanked by two Grey Knights that crushed through the open distance between them and their immortal foe. Tyro and Evanth were suddenly by her side, power fields crackling on their blades as they raised them high overhead. 

The Demoness was deceptively quick. She struck faster than a rearing serpent, her fangs far longer and potently toxic to the touch. The Sword that Claimed Souls flashed from the demon’s midriff as she gracefully twirled aside from Taryi’s lightning charge and thrust. The Howling Banshee shifted her strength into her legs and propelled herself forward in a seven-foot flip over the sweep of the cursed blade. The Blade of Flames chopped downward toward the pesky eldar, but Taryi parried the attack by bringing her Executioner up rear—end first mere inches from her face. 

Bazariah abruptly side—stepped away from the eldar as the Inquisitor rushed into her flank with a blast of psychic energy. The blast was pure electricity contained in a sapphire energy that slammed into the Demoness now that the Inquisitor was past her ranged defenses. The warp blast ripped into the meat of the demon’s left thigh and immolated the flesh there to the bone. Arruns quickly followed his attack with a three—sixty—degree spin, his hammer whirled around in a storm of electricity. 

The Sword of Cinders slammed the hammer aside. Bazariah answered with a savage knee into Arruns ceramite gut, whirled around him and slammed both of her elbows into Arruns’ exposed neck joint in rapid succession. Even Anthanasia winced as she heard the vertebrae in Arruns’ neck shatter beneath the twin blows. Yet that was not enough to please the Lady of the Tower. The Demoness quickly gripped the Inquisitor’s helmet in her free hand, her fingers crunched through the visor slits until blood poured and Arruns was screaming in agony. Then she removed his head with one grotesque and vicious tug of her arm. The Thunder Hammer clattered to the ground in the same moment his corpse fell to its knees. Being encased in powered armor, it remained in that position for the rest of the conflict. 

“Sister Superior!” One of the Grey Knights snapped Anthanasia from her reverie. “Press her from her left flank!”

Anthanasia ducked beneath a flurry of purposefully slow and steady strikes of the three demon forged blades. Each attack became slightly faster than the last as the Demoness shifted her attention away from the Grey Knights and upon the Sisters of Battle. Anthanasia’s blade parried the Sword that Claimed Souls repeatedly as she danced to gain a better advantage. Tyro and Evanth were locked in a similar situation, their efforts focused on one of Bazariah’s three blades to keep themselves from meeting death too soon. 

The sisters of the three Superiors charged in behind them, their chainswords roaring and bolt pistols bucking violently in their hands as they came on. Bazariah taunted them with a playful laugh as she kicked Evanth aside, shoulder charged Tyro into the ground and promptly crushed her beneath her mighty hooves. Amethyst managed to weave beneath the Sword that Claimed Souls, but was taken by surprise by the Demon’s warp flame that spewed from her maw. She shrieked to an inhuman pitch as she incinerated in a matter of seconds, her charred and ruined form crumbled into ashes as it smashed into the floor of the chamber. 

Two Sisters from Hoplon pressed the Lady of the Tower’s flank where she only had one sword. The Demoness’ gesture must have been an unconscious mistake, because she attempted to strike out with the arm that held the Inquisitor’s head and not her blade. One of the sisters bravely rose up and managed to hack the hand off cleanly from the wrist. The other sister sacrificed herself valiantly, pulled the pin on her last krak grenade and threw herself into the Demonic entity. Her efforts were in vain, however, Bazariah noticed and eliminated her target with extreme prejudice. The Sword of Cinders stabbed through the Sororitas’ gut and vaporized her into ash. With a mocking battle cry, the Demoness kicked the grenade into the midst of the Sororitas attempting to slay her. 

The grenade detonated with a deafening crack. Two members of Angeliki had been blown apart on impact. Another member from Nike, Aello, squealed and whimpered about her missing leg. No members of Hoplon had been caught in the blast. When Athanasia came too, she was lying on the ground. All of her sisters laid beside her.

Bazariah cackled maniacally at the demoralized group of defenders that had pledged to destroy her and save their realm from damnation. Surrounded by foes, she thrust her three blades into the floor of the chamber and called down her mighty tome. Even without the brushing of fingers, the pages magically turned to their desired location. She began to utter her next diabolical spell. Eldritch lightning began to leap from the pages and swords and into the Demoness’ open palms. Anthanasia knew she had finally met her match as the demon poised herself to destroy all of them. 

The Demoness cast her spell. The resultant explosion happened so suddenly that the only thing Anthanasia could comprehend was blinding light, incomprehensibly power. The thunder clap was sonorous enough that she could hear nothing else for long minutes. Not even Bazariah’s keening wail as her spell backfired and immolated her. When the unbearable light cleared, the Demoness still stood, but her entire body smoldered with burning cracks and charred flesh. Her face was a bloody mess, something Anthanasia had never seen in her worse nightmares. 

Bazariah collapsed onto one knee. The gesture itself seemed to cripple the demonic horde, their bodies shifted into hazy apparitions as their stability began to falter. She managed a sputtering wheeze through her scorched teeth. _“What is this!? Betrayal?”_ She attempted to lift her blades, but her muscles spasmed and contorted for her efforts. The Demoness grimaced as she tried to combat the shock. 

A solemn and familiar voice answered her master. Bazariah managed a glance over her shoulder to find Nyst standing in front of the web way portal. Mirathir was slung over her shoulder. _“It is betrayal of the best kind. Eternal and everlasting. When you are banished back into the Forlorn realm, there shall be a new order. And there is no place for you, dear Bazariah.”_ The Greater Demon suddenly showed the Demoness her back and marched through the web way gate. “Sleep well, Tyrannus, your nightmare is over.” As she vanished into the ether betwixt realities, the web way began to thrum intensely as its light imploded. The ancient gate once again became dormant and judging by the frustrated cries of demonic entities, the other gate inside the Ghost Crypts had also become useless. 

Jubilant cries of victory and triumph resounded across the chamber from the thousands of Sororitas that remained. Young women fell upon their knees and raised their hands to the glamorous standards of the Order of the Emperor’s Grace. Many cried tears of joy at their victory. Anthanasia knew that the day had not been won because of their sacrifice and that it all should have been in vain. But praise the Emperor, she was glad to be alive and breathing.


----------



## Myen'Tal

*The New Word (Completed!)*

Epilogue:​
_Tyrannus should have been a world fated to die by traitor’s hands. A forged pact between the Thousand Sons and legions beyond the mortal plane had all but ensured its demise. From the lowest tiers of the Hive City of Helike, the demonic tide arose, butchering all in their path until they reached the vaunted heights of the Governor’s Palace. In the Imperium’s last desperate hour, their alliance with the psyckers known as the eldar became shattered upon subterranean battlefields choked with the alien dead. Tyrannus should have been vanquished by the demonic sword, the unholy plague, and a resurgence of unfaith. For the eldar had abandoned them… the Ghost Crypts were lost. 

Without the demonic horde supporting their planetary assault on Tyrannus, the Thousand Sons found that the tables had turned on them. The Imperials were able to regain contact with the other hive cities and coordination efforts to counter—attack were executed to a great degree of success. Eventually, the traitors quickly vanished from the planet altogether. They teleported in mass back onto their space—faring vessels and entered the warp without a trace. 

In a strange twist of fate, it was not mortal courage that whisked the planet from the brink of damnation, but one ancient demon’s ambition and patient scheming. Bazariah met an untimely end in the depths of the Governor’s Palace. Her body was quickly broken and her spirit sealed away by the remaining Grey Knights that had once served Inquisitor Arruns. The demon’s essence was strong enough still for its corpse to remain in the mortal world. The Demoness’ ruined head was severed from her body and taken as an immortal trophy to be hung in the hallowed halls of Gythium. 

Canoness Anatolijus had survived the final battle in the Mechanicus’ lair, but for her, ultimate victory proved ever fleeting. In the days following the siege’s aftermath, the commander of the Order of the Emperor’s Grace was mysteriously assassinated in the depths of Gythium Monastery. She was discovered lying in her bed peacefully, but with her eyes rolled into the back of her head. The Mechanicus agents that performed the autopsy reported that her brain had suffered tremendous damage, but could find no trace or substance that had caused it. 

With Anatolijus dead, the Sister Superiors of the Order gathered for several weeks and eventually elected Sister Superior Anthanasia Soukis as the new Canoness. The new commander’s first concern was discovering the location of the heretics Philemon and Serhilda, whose trail had vanished during the final battle at the Governor’s Palace. After months of searching, eventually the hunt was called off.

Lyra was no longer the deer—eyed initiate she once was when the war began. As predicted by most of Angeliki, Sister Alexandra was promoted to be the squad’s next Sister Superior. Yet fate had different plans in mind for Lyra Savakis. Sworn to protect Lyra as if she were her own flesh and blood, Canoness Anthanasia promoted her and Arva into the ranks of the Celestians – her own personal bodyguard no less. Nomiki was also asked to join her commander’s protectors, but refused, claiming that Alexandra would need help in commanding her own squad. 

Concerned about the defeat at the Ghost Crypts, Taryi decided to embark upon a sole expedition into the underground labyrinth to find her lost friends. What she discovered was a graveyard filled with half decayed bodies of eldar warriors. Yet in seven days’ times, rumors around the undercity were that a military force had emerged from the subterranean depths, half—starved and shocked by the destruction they came into. When discovered and questioned by the Sororitas, it was discovered that there were no aliens among the survivors. Not even Taryi. 

The Dark Eldar could have posed a great threat for Tyrannus. Anthanasia knew this and was grateful that they vanished along with the demonic tide. With the Ghost Crypts now void of souls, the new Canoness commanded a much larger taskforce into the crypts with one goal in mind: razing it to the ground. In the years that followed, much of the undercity district became unstable and collapsed in on itself. Countless millions died, but Anathanasia deemed their sacrifices necessary. 

The eldar of Craftworld Myriell mourned their losses, but were awed by the welcome they received from their cousins in Teyl—Jhen. Without a home, the Myriellites were allowed to integrate into society upon the exodite world and further bolstered the craftworld’s War Host. Though Myriell had lost much, Teyl—Jhen had only lost one soul in the war for Tyrannus: Iraa. As Aryriel reunited with his cousin Lriean and his friends, they discovered that their craftworld was preparing for a new war. 

Armadas from the young Tau Empire were amassing at the planetary outpost of Kuo’no: their only stronghold in the Hellas Sector. Maiden worlds quickly fell under siege across the sector. Yet the Seer Council of Teyl—Jhen were patient and searched the skeins for a battlefield where their foes could be decisively defeated. 

Tyrannus could no longer be called upon for support ever since the alliance was broken into tatters. Yet the planet of Conorag… they may yet still honor the agreement between the eldar. 

Tarmathon IV was only the beginning for the conquests of the Raven Prophet. The war for Tyrannus had spread her message across the stars of the Hellas Sector and now entire planets were beginning to raise up and cast off the yoke of the Imperium. Though victories had been won against the cult time and time again, the fate of the Hellas Sector never looked so uncertain as it did now. Yet with Bazariah dead and banished for a thousand years, the prophecy would eventually lose momentum.

Perhaps the beginnings… of an another word. _


----
That's it people, The New Word is finished!!! I want to thank everyone who commented and/or kept coming back to read this. I tried to wrap up every loose end I could think of. Nearly seven thousand views, I did not dream it would get this much attention. Whether they'll be _A Second Word_ or not, I really do not know. I'm not sure if I have it in me. This story carried on far longer than I intended it to, but I thought I'd keep the option open, just in case I decided to. 

Once again, thanks to everyone, especially Dark Angel and Unx, who continue to help inspire me . 

Also, people may have been wondering what happened to Lriean. Well, he is just a bad character so I made him disappear into the Ghost Crypts . I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to make a character with hardly any skills. When I introduced Aryriel back into the story, he just kind of took over. I really enjoyed writing for our Striking Scorpion, especially his combat scenes.

Some of you may wonder why the final combat scene did not take place from Lyra's perspective. Well, I simply didn't think our main Sororitas character was skillful enough with a sword to really challenge the Lady of the Tower. I imagined that she would more than likely have gotten in the way than do any good. After all, Bazariah shredded through a small Court of the Young King by herself . So I decided to give Anthanasia some more screen time, because wielding a blade in battle is like second nature to her. She could at least prove a challenge to Bazariah and manage to stay alive long enough for some miracle to occur. Might have been a mistake, if you think so, don't hesitate to let me know :wink:.


----------

