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I just read all of it.

Without wanting to sound like a suck up, this is amazing, truly gripping stuff. You are an excellent writer and the fact that you have managed to only increase in quality with each installment is impressive. I love that you've managed to capture the feel of each faction while basically bringing them to their knees. I especially love all the horror elements that you've added that fit into the universe perfectly.

I very much look forward to what else you have to put out. Are we going to be seeing anything with the Echlisiarchy, Krieg or Commoragh?

Heresy! Purge yourself now.

Oh my god! How can the inquisitor be defeated so easily? How can the Blood Angels cope with this kind of threat? Oh, in the original, they were never THAT powerful. A single beast can take down a kill-team? That's just so.... so... just so wrong, yet so right in a way. I love the detail. Nearly made me hurl my dinner back up.

One bit of feedback that jarred pretty badly: The High Lord complaining about being woken up in the middle of the night.

The Imperium is surrounded and under constant attack from aliens, heretics, rebels, daemons - the threats are coming from other dimensions as well as the material realm - also, different worlds will have different diurnal cycles - it is somewhat bizarre for a High Lord to get *any* sleep when he's trying to manage an empire of 1,000,000 worlds with octillions of cizitens, let alone a full eight hours.

I'm not even sure this would work for humorous purposes. An empire of 1,000,000 constantly-embattled worlds would be throwing up emergencies every second, not every week.

Other than that highly depressing, but extremely well-written and very 40K.

 NoPoet wrote:
One bit of feedback that jarred pretty badly: The High Lord complaining about being woken up in the middle of the night.

The Imperium is surrounded and under constant attack from aliens, heretics, rebels, daemons - the threats are coming from other dimensions as well as the material realm - also, different worlds will have different diurnal cycles - it is somewhat bizarre for a High Lord to get *any* sleep when he's trying to manage an empire of 1,000,000 worlds with octillions of cizitens, let alone a full eight hours.

I'm not even sure this would work for humorous purposes. An empire of 1,000,000 constantly-embattled worlds would be throwing up emergencies every second, not every week.

Other than that highly depressing, but extremely well-written and very 40K.

My High-Lords are particularly beaurucratic, highly entitled and live relatively comfortable lives (by 40K standards that is) - they are some of the few who would actually get sleep, they have underlings for everything else...much how like modern governments work

Beautiful, just beautiful.

Just to let you know guys, the next section with the Slamanders is coming, however I'm delaying it till after I've read Deathfire (the new Horus Heresy novel)

I'd like to keep my Salamander's in character and sticking to the lore as possible, so I may rewrite some parts

READ FASTA!!!

*sniff* I just wanna read more...

paint the book red?

and DLS for that matter too!

'Deathfire' finished (off-topic: it's really good) - ready to redo the Salamanders section. I think you guys are going to love it especially those who think the tale thus-far has been too depressing

By this tome and by my word, I know this to be day Two Hundred and sixty seven thousand, four hundred and twenty three of my Pilgrimage. It has been many moons since I have last put quill to parchment and I am shamed by my tardiness. These past months have been ones of relentless events, the thread of time twisting and fraying before the inexorable march of the future. However, the tome beckons and by the words of my Kin, my Father and Him upon Earth I must abide. And despite our hardships I have news of great import.

I think I have found it.

I think I have found the Song of Entropy.

We orbit a desolate sun, a blue orb of cold rage and snuffed life. It is a broken, diseased thing, its former glory utterly diminished. The star would have quietly burned into obscurity, long into the heat death of the known universe, if not for the intervention of the fates. We have named it Ikaros.

We had been at High Warp for a period of three months sidereal, the maddened ocean of souls battering our hull in impotent fury as we ploughed the endless expanse. The last clue to our quarry had been the dying breath of a traitor-kinsman of the auld XIV. We had warred and bled and broke them upon the sands in what my brothers have come to call the shattering of the Grim Scythe. We stood as legion against them, myself and my brother Drakes, and sent them screaming to whatever Hell they have made for themselves. From the cracked and bleeding lips of their Lord Bal’Ashoth we discovered their dark purpose: they had been hunting a mining ship, a mining ship said to be shadowing away an artefact of potency and unrelenting power.

A weapon that they believed could age the stars and wear away at time itself. A weapon that I know by rights belong to myself and my kin.

The grim lord did not finish there, as he smiled his bloody grin before me. After the ranting and raving, the promises of pain and revenge, he lay his cracked head back upon the bloody floor, and as his last poisoned breath wracked his lungs he spoke one last thing.

“He has it…the one my Legion still hunts…the great coward, the only one who ran…he will die Salamander…my Legion will break his back and flense his skin…we will…”

I crushed his skull with my fist and silenced his filth forever, his words heard only by me.

We let loose sails and struck hard into the warp once more, following the bow wake of the mining ship just as drkall hunts the dust trails of the great wyrmeglls of Nocturne. I had stared into the flames every night and seen that our prey was near, and perhaps something I had hidden form my brothers. A greater hope, a dream that I alone still clung to in the vestiges of the dark.

An errant father returned? Dare I to dream?

Then the Warp died.

Understand, that in my long life of war and wonder, I have seen the Warp becalmed like a looking glass. I have seen it rage with more fury than Deathfire itself. But when I say the Warp died, I mean it vanished. We were thrown from it, cast back into the blackness of the void with barely a tremor or shake of violence. It passed like the last breath of the ancient. We were within the fury of the empyrean one moment and then not the next.
Our Navigator, Verata, and our Shipmistress Quo’Ertaa were perplexed and vexed. They could not re-enter the Warp, they could not even see it. From the information they could glean, the warp simply was not there anymore, it had vanished, along with the beckoning glow of the astronomicon. Such lunacy was met with derision from my Brothers, but when Xathen, our revered shaman nodded in assent with the mortals, we were given pause.

The stars said we were still in the Segmentum Solar, several thousand light-years from Auld Terra (and even further from Nocturne) but in and stretch of the higher spiral arm. Little explored and little tended, we found ourselves orbiting the sickly blue star, its fury having died and dwindled long ago. We drift like a mournful pup around a dead parent, adrift and utterly lost and bereft of hope. And yet...

I am called to the bridge. Mistress Quo’Ertaa has summoned myself and my brothers. She has found something, something that gives form to my misty hopes.

She has found a world.

Ooh nice,, they have found somthing interesting, is it the one and only primarch in a box?

That's The Unbound Flame, if The Unremembered Empire is anything to go by.

Agh, not a salamanders expert, thanks for correcting.

With a rumble of rolling gears and oiled metal, the grim portal to the bridge of the Smaragdus yawned open on heavy pistons and cogs, ushering in the hulking form of the ships master. Swathed in curved, etched armour of deepest emerald and clothed under skins of reptilian monsters & the trappings of rank, the imposing figure approached the central throne in quickstep, the marching of his armoured-feet resounding like drumbeats upon the metallic floor. Coming to a pause beside the throne, he nodded his helm to the figure seated there, who returned the gesture with a respectful smile. Both were masters of the ship, an easy alliance strengthened through mutual respect and experience.

Motion and ordered chaos buzzed around them on the dimly-lit bridge, crew men and women going about their business with practiced ease and drilled efficiency. A pair of Astartes in similar shades of green and emerald stood on guard at the corners of the vast room, their visors drinking in the room as the water starved at an oasis. Like their lord, they wore bestial hides and talons upon their armour, signs of a vicious home world and brutal upbringing. But no fear radiated from the mortal crew for these giants of armour and flesh, only quiet trust and shared purpose. The myriad stations and crew faced a dominating screen at the centre of the chamber, like a monolithic leviathan eye, swallowing the wall before them and shining outward into the cold void beyond. A small, dull orb sat beyond, winking in the light of the sickly star it orbited.

All eyes were fixed on that orb.

From the shadowed recesses at the back of the bridge another giant approached the throne, similarly vast but less ostentatiously adorned than his brothers. His armour was instead loose fitting and not completely sealed, a set of heavy and careworn grey fatigues underneath. He word a torque of long talons about his neck and had the look of seasoned hunter. His skin was black as coal, smooth and freshly shaven, and his eyes burned a furious crimson. To the unfamiliar he would appear as a demon, some age-old horror from another time but his easy smile and deep, youthful baritone spoke truths his mien would not. He bowed to the pair before him.

“So, my Lord, my Lady, which would you prefer? A tale of woe or a tale of joy?”

The woman in the throne, though slighter than either the massive armoured forms beside her, radiated authority with a calm and confidence. Her skin too was onyx, slightly lighter than the giant beside her, but her eyes burned just as furiously. She wore her hair severe, closely cropped like a dusting of pale sand on black rock. Although unarmed and seemingly at ease, she commanded immediate respect, even from her vaunted company.

“Let’s not sugar-coat things Erx, what do we have?”

The warrior named Erx, whose honour was to be Head-tracker and Hunter of the Pyre, gestured to the monstrous viewport and the small planetoid in its gaze. His armour whined quietly as polymers and servos mimicked his movement, the quite clinking of his trophy torque tapping like gentle rain. He spoke with experience belying his youthful features, a keen insight within a warrior’s form.

“Woe then it is…Following on from the augers of our blessed Navigator, we are adrift from the warp with no possibility of re-entry. Navis Verata has scanned the known charts of this section of the segmentum and the next viable warp-point is at least six light years distant.”

The Shipmistress sighed and rubbed her temples, her voice weary of news.

“Has Xathen verified this? I do not doubt Verata’s word but to have no translation point for that far a distance is unheard of…”

Erx nodded, his face solemn.

“Aye Mistress, it’s true. Both Xathen and Verata agree. It is as if the Warp is simply not there anymore. And more worryingly, the astronomicon has vanished with it. We cannot see the Emperor’s Light from our current position. It’s almost as if it has been snuffed out.”

Mistress Quo’Ertaa narrowed her eyes, before turning to one of her vox-officers.

“Pass my thanks to Navis Verata and Lord Xathen. Kindly request they continue their scrying”

The officer nodded, fanning his hands across his chest in the sign of an Aquila and went to work at his station, a microphone at his mouth and a keypad at his fingers. Returning her attention to the giants beside her, Quo’Ertaa spoke again.

“And the good news Erx? Please illuminate us, a sliver of hope would sit well in these confusing times”

Erx nodded once more to the yawning display in front of them and stepped forward, resting his not inconsiderable bulk on the iron pulpit around them. His back was covered in a heavy cloak, its pattern dusty and dark. He seemed out of place amongst the technology around him: he would appear more at home on some wild, unknown frontier hunting prey and living from the land.

“The signal…the one we have been chasing. It’s on the planet. Not indigenous to it I think, but it’s there somewhere on the surface. We’ve chased it down.”

Quo’Ertaa’s eyes lit up, the furore of victory in her reach once more. She turned to the Astartes beside her, who until now had been as silent as obsidian and questioned excitedly.

“The mining ship! We’ve found it at last? Blessed be! Lord He’stan, could it be?”

Both Erx and Quo’Ertaa fixed their attention on the silent Astartes, who stood with his great arms folded. He considered for a few moments, his eyes trying to pierce the veil of the world below and reveal its secrets.

Could he finally have done it? Could he be at the end of their hunt?

Father?

With a subtle nod, Vulkan He’stan, named as much for his Father as for his legacy, turned toward the entrance once more, marching with a purpose that suffused the entire ship. When he spoke, it was with the baritone of the deep places of the earth, like a vein of magma cutting through rock.

“Mistress Quo’Ertaa, set course for near-orbit. Erx, assemble the Pyre…we’re heading to the surface. Our destiny awaits!”

I seriously check this thread everyday waiting for updates! More please

The sky thundered by as the dropship tore through the heavens, a keening lament rippling across the emerald hull as the blunt-nosed craft rent the air with speed and mass. Clouds and vapour whipped past it at dizzying speeds, the colossal engines that bore it vomiting heat, smog and sheer thrust as it descended to the planet below. The markings and engravings lining its hull had been dulled black by the fury of atmospheric entry and the glinting reptilian pennants on its side appeared as blackened hellish dragons. It was a squat, ugly craft designed to deliver terror and war to any that fell beneath its shadow. But today, it carried not battle in its grip, but inquiry, its passengers coming to an end of a long and difficult quest. With a blast of fractured air, the ship lurched down in a steep dive, a deep boom of released pressure bellowing in its passing.

Forgefather Vulkan He’stan gripped the iron overhead as the Thunderhawk shuddered in a violent palsy. His enhanced frame and armour allowed him to remain upright and still even amidst the most brutal quakes and firefights, but the jagged descent of the craft was trying even him. The world below raged at the infringement of the Thunderhawk and threw all the fury of the sky at it. If He’stan had been a mortal man, he was certain he would have passed out by now.

He moved down the central gangway, his arms above his helm, gripping the overhead and support loops in a simian gait, approaching the cockpit of the craft. At his sides, his small band were sat, locked into support cradles with heavy belts and pressurised locks, better to belay the shifting shunts of the ship. They were all armed and armoured in brilliant greens and blacks, and each were locked in their own mental preparations for what they would find on the surface. He passed them one by one, a quiet nod of affirmation to each of them.

There was Gilbron and Archimad, sat opposing each other, fully locked into their gleaming warplate. Deep emerald green, like the hide of ancient reptiles coloured their armour, and they each wore scaled pelts across their shoulders and backs. Gilbron went without helm, his obsidian face and crimson eyes locked in deep concentration. Across his neck hung a thick torque lined with shell fragments and sharpened teeth, and the pelt on his shoulder was a deep and shadowed red. In comparison, Archimad wore a blackened helm indented with fine spikes of silver, and the pelt that wrapped around his torso was deep blue. His hands rested on his bolter which sat upon his lap, its form as refined and tended as its owner. He nodded gently as his lord passed by, his red eye lenses betraying no emotion at all.

Next to them sat Toro, the Pyre’s resident tech-marine and oldest member of their small band. A truly ancient individual, the Lords of Nocturne had deemed Toro too old for field service and had attempted to side-line him into the Forges of the Fire World, forever doomed to while away his final days as a tinkerer, teacher and fixer whilst younger men and women ruled the universe. This had not sat well with the notoriously garrulous blacksmith, who argued vehemently (and at length) about this unnecessary ‘honour’. His fate was pulled shockingly and abruptly from his, and the Nocturnian Lords, hands when an Orkish Horde descended upon Nocturne’s sibling systems. All brothers of the flame were called to fight, and it was during this bitter and bloody conflict that the paths of Toro and He’stan crossed and became inseparable. Toro saw his commander’s quest as a last chance for glory and purpose, and Vulkan greatly appreciated his comrade’s technical expertise and his sound (if often wordy) advice. As the commander passed by, Toro was adjusting some minor tweaks to his helms optics and nodded with a wide smile at his commander. His teeth shined white, mirroring the thick beard and hair that hung from his dark face
.
“Always hated these sudden descents lad, can never trust something with wings but no heart to beat them, eh?”

Vulkan smiled to himself and continued onward, the old techmarine chuckling quietly as he passed.

He came upon the huge and monstrous form of Oln next, quietly whispering in a deep baritone. Oln had been a member of the vaunted First Company of the Legion, a veteran among the fireborn, and strode to war in a suit of monstrous Cataprachii armour which he still wore now. His girth was so great that he sat astride an entire bench himself, his armour and reptilian pelts rendering him a demigod of steel and scale. His decision to leave the First Company and to accompany He’stan on his quest would have been a difficult one for any other, but Oln had made without a second thought. Having been blessed with a mien to match that of their ancient Primarch and being a particularly devout adherent to the Promethean Creed, he saw the Forgefather’s burden as his true calling.

Oln was the quiet, stoic backbone to the small Pyre. They had fought several battles together against the hated Hrud, many of which they had been integral to the others survival. After they had cleaned their blades after the final battle did Oln kneel before He’stan and ask to join him upon his long and winding road, with the Lord of the First Company giving his comrade his blessings. He’stan accepted without hesitation. Oln’s viciously clawed gauntlets hung deactivated at his side, and the large warrior whispered prayers under his breath, his eyes closed and head leaning back against the inner hull. His fanged helm sat on the seat beside him, its eyes staring blankly forward. Vulkan chose not to disturb his brother, respecting the larger man’s space and moved on.

Next to the bulkhead leading into the cockpit, past the main holding bay were two of the Forgefather's most trusted companions and the backbone of the Pyre, who sat in fevered discussion over the screaming of the ship. Xathen was clad in curved Green Astartes plate much like his brothers, but around this were wrapped heavy robes of midnight blue and aquamarine, and about his head sat a crystalline, ice-like crown of lithe crystals and circuitry. His black skin seemed sheened in a dusting of hoarfrost, and his eyes shone a pale purple as opposed to the usual crimson of the sons and daughters of Nocturne. He was a Shaman, a Psyker, a warrior-mystic of the Emperor’s Legions. He was also deeply antagonised by his colleague before him.

Gesticulating broadly and with a crooked smile sat Erx, the Pyre’s chief hunter and scout. He had long ago rose to the full rank of Brother and had fought in over two dozen campaigns earning laurels and praise aplenty, but still wore the carapace and cloak of a scout, all battered and careworn. He preferred to be as light as possible, a silent shadow tracking the enemies of the XVIII wherever they should roam. His armour and fatigues were earthy and worn, and a long elegant rifle sat strapped above his head. He was in heated discussion with Xathen, as ever, and they seemed to be in intense disagreement.

Some things never changed.

When they noticed their commander, they turned to face him eager to draw him into the discussion. Xathen spoke first, his voice a deep and cultured baritone.

“Lord He’stan, please talk some sense into our chief scout here…We need to get a lay of the land before we commit any kind of ground action. We should scout out the crash site from the air and then allow orbital scans before we even think about heading in.”

Erx smiled that wicked smile of his, the one that made him seem younger than his many years and nodded to the Librarian.

“My learned colleague is right on a technical level, my Lord, but he has no appreciation for the hunt. Our quarry has gone to ground and we are at the prime moment to tighten the net. Any delay would risk us losing the scent once more”

Xathen and Erx were two of the Forgefather’s closest commanders, and indeed two of his closest friends, but two more different individuals the Forgefather suspected would be difficult to find. They had both been at perpetual loggerheads since joining the long and lonely quest of the Forgefather, the Librarian joining a few short months before the Scout. They were the longest serving members of the Pyre, and He’stan did not know where he would be without them.

Xathen was a man of constant consideration and contemplation, and regularly advised caution on any action. Although not as skilled in the arts of divination as some of his Librarius Brothers, he would often sense a disturbance, a darkening of the fates as he would call it. At these moments, the Pyre would do well to enact caution in their actions.

Indeed, Xathen had saved He’stan and his charges from several grim fates across the years: a potentially fatal ambush by Eldar Pirates on Samael XII which ended in victory for the Salamanders despite the hordes of lithe aliens assailing them, the unseen weakening of the walls of Hive City Drakma by Tyranid Micro-phages spewed from hidden drone-ships in low orbit, and most recently the successful identification of a Chaos Assassin disguised as loyalist Astartes sent by no less than Abaddon the Despoiler himself to slay Vulkan and put an end to his quest. Xathen’s gut feelings were always dependable in Vulkan’s eyes.

However, Erx also held the Forgefather’s ear and he also was rarely wrong, especially on matters of strategy and instinct. He had led the Pyre on the hunt for Lost Relics for several years now, and although they remained as elusive as ever his guidance and keen insight had seen the Pyre victorious on many fronts. He had led them near-blind through the noxious bile-fogs of Troja, fighting off horrific plague-beasts and traitor Astartes every step of the way. He mapped a course through the Spine Fields, a great chain of asteroids and icy rock spanning an entire sector which had led to the deaths of countless ships and souls. He had also rescued his comrades from a brutal, suffocating death on the temple world of Gild VXI, infiltrating the enemy position alone and blowing open the Ancient Temple traps that held his brothers. Erx’s insight and skill was something not to be ignored.

The two differing characters often clashed, and on more than one occasion their dissonance had almost come to blows. He’stan had always intervened, or another one of his Brothers from the Pyre had stepped in to ensure no loss of honour, but he privately worried for his two closest brothers. He could not do without either of them, but knew such close proximity would end in violence one day if left unchecked. He whispered some quiet, calming words to them, attempting to waylay their discontent and marched onward to the cockpit. He would decide the course of action when he could physically see their quarry, not before.

With a hiss of steam and the grinding of motorised cogs and chains the bay door to the cockpit slid open, revealing a broad interior dominated by a wall of sloping armour-glass. White and grey clouds scrambled madly past the hull, and freezing rain water and condensation stained the screens in heavy runnels. In the twin harnesses before him sat the last two members of the Pyre, the Pilot Smogth and his co-pilot Dravell, their hands on the consoles of the juddering Thunderhawk. The consoles before them were alive with buzzing monitors and flickering lights, and their hands ghosting over the controls with practiced ease.

Dravell was armoured in green like his commander, and wore a deep heavy leather hood scalped from the hide of reptilian sand-kraken on Nocturne. He was one of the finest pilots He’stan had ever encountered and when the young Astartes had offered to join the Pyre He’stan had seized the opportunity with both hands. Dravell was the youngest of the Pyre, but had seen much in his short time as a full-fledged brother. In the ship’s cargo claws hung the personal Land Raider of He’stan, the Sol Invictus, and it was Dravell’s job to drive the tank when they made landfall. He traded clipped, static laden reports with the pilot Smogth, who adjusted dials and gripped the control handles with a furious force. His black armour gleamed in the natural light, and stood starkly against the emerald green of his fellows.

Smogth was not a Salamander. He was a brother of the X Legion, The Iron Hands, and had fallen into the service of He’stan quite by accident, although old Oln would say it was providence. He had been part of a defensive delegation sent to the sky-world of Almathea, with a mission of protection and recovery of key members of the Machine Cult stationed there. Almathea was a world of sky cities and vast war zeppelins, and the Mechanicum had an iron grip upon its gaseous resources.

A Tyranid splinter fleet had been winding its way blindly toward the world, and key personnel were to be evacuated and secured for the benefit of the Imperium. The Imperial plan was to deploy a vast air force onto the world to drive the xenos back whilst the Astartes inserted under the covering assault to extradite the planet’s leaders and attack key targets. The closeness of the Mechanicum and the Iron Hands made Smogth and his men the logical choice for such missions.

The plan however fell apart as soon as the Tyranids hit the atmosphere: they came in vast sickening droves, ignoring the ships and fighters of the Imperium and focussing on the populace instead, striking the key personnel with a shocking accuracy. It seemed like the aliens were driven by more than just hunger and instinct. Smogth’s entire squad and his charges were eviscerated by the descending monsters as they boarded one of the world’s many skeletal sky-lifts, leaving Smogth horribly wounded and alone.

He’stan and a company of Salamanders were passing through the system enroute to Dalmia-00 for refit and refuelling after their victory on the Shrine world of Golsch V, and an unexpected translation out of High Warp brought them upon the furious defence of the world. The already battered and tired Salamanders hurled themselves in support of their comrades and punched a hole into the monstrous hordes. Weeks of bitter battle and the deaths of many brothers eventually drove the xenos filth to defeat, and as their leviathan flesh-ships plummeted to the uncaring depths below He’stan and his men found the wounded Smogth, half dead, half mad but still fighting. A mound of xenos corpses surrounded him, many broken by his own fists, and the weary Smogth gratefully passed into unconsciousness as He’stan and his warriors approached.

After weeks spent in an apothecium and a massive refit of artificial organs and limbs, Smogth sought out He’stan and his men. To repay the debt, and to wipe away the dishonour of his perceived failure, Smogth oathed himself to He’stan and his quest, a peculiar request but one that He’stan granted. Smogth had never failed the commander and was an unyielding, sometimes cold but never cruel ingot of iron to strengthen their small band. He’stan rested his gauntlets on the back of their seats for balance and stared into the whipping rain and sky beyond.

“When should be we break through this cloud cover?” he asked, his eyes focussing on the swirling, twisting white beyond.

Smogth checked a screen to his right, a series of wild numbers and symbols running across its length, and answered in a robotic, hoarse voice. His voice box had been one of the things he had sacrificed on Almathea.

“We should break it any second now, He’stan. The atmospheric structure of this world is particularly dense, I’m amazed there’s any sky that doesn’t have cloud. It hates that we are here”

Dravell nodded beside the Iron Hand, his voice softer but still with bass tone common to the Astartes. He gripped a flat lever and pulled it gently in a curve toward himself.

“We’re breaching in 3…2…1…we have cloud break”

The light in the cockpit increased and the furious shaking abated completely, He’stan grateful for the lull in the quaking. The change was immediate and stark, from violence to calm in the blink of an eye. Below them stretched a vast and featureless desert, flat and unchanging like a plain of wooded grain. It went on for a maddening span, unchanging and unyielding.

The sight unnerved the Astartes, all sons of brutal realms of the callous whims of nature. Worlds were not formed planed smooth, the natural order demanded as such. Someone, or something, had flattened this place from horizon to horizon. He’stan felt a cold tremor in his gut, a disquiet in his soul: their quarry was down there, in the white expanse. Was its architect still there also?

Smogth pulled back on the control levers and ceased their descent, the craft lulling into a steady flight above the plains below and the roiling cloud cover above. He turned partly to He’stan as Dravell activated low level radar and detection systems.

“Now we fly straight…this might take a while”


---------------------------------------------------------------------------


Smogth was correct in his summation, with the ship being in the air for over eight hours sidereal. The internal chrons had all shorted and ceased counting, and the radar was maddeningly useless against the flat, featureless expanse. The world seemed to not want to be found or to reveal its secrets to the flying intruders. He’stan had paced through the Thunderhawk many times, conversing with his men and checking his own equipment. The wait was always the worst part in his eyes, the lunatic drudgery between knowledge and action. That is what really drove men to despair. Every time he entered the cockpit, his pilots simply gestured in equal frustration, the thin line of white sky between the gleaming sands and rumbling clouds unchanging before their advance.

On the seventh hour of flight, closing to when the Thunderhawk would need to return to the Smaragdus for refuelling, Dravell noticed something upon the cusp of the horizon: a faint blackened haze at odds with the colours of the world. Smogth immediately set course for the patch of discolour, reporting the potential lead back to He’stan. The ship’s thrusters burned white hot as the heavy craft screamed toward its target swallowing the distance with boundless gluttony, the world below uncaring at its passing.

On the eighth hour, the ship came upon its quarry.

He’stan stood alongside Smogth and Dravell, with both Erx and Xathen at his back. The cramped cockpit felt even smaller with the five Astartes gathered within. Cameras built into the nose of the Thunderhawk relayed images to screens built throughout the gunship, allowing all in the Pyre to witness what the Thunderhawk had found. But He’stan had to see it with his own eyes.

The light in the cockpit dimmed as they approached.

The white expanse of the sand world was broken by a vast, black pyramid. A jutting, solid mass of obsidian rock and metal rose in defiance from the sands, its sides glass-like and flat, perfect in molecular form. It rose easily 30,000 feet from the sands, its bottom octagonal, rising steadily before tapering to a point high above the ground. It shed a monstrous black shadow around it, the shadows seeming to form regardless of the direction of the sun. It was a monster and it filled He’stan with dread. Not fear, Astartes do not trouble themselves with such things, but a genuine disquiet.

A single ping sounded on the radar, not from the pyramid which like the insane world around it obeyed no physical law they could identify, but from a pillar of smoke rising from midway up its colossal form. Erx placed his hand upon his master’s shoulder, and nodded toward the smoke.

“My Lord…is that?”

He’stan nodded grimly.

“It is…the mining ship. Burning on the side of that monstrosity.”

A grim silence fell upon the group, the rumblings engines and whistling wind the only sound to permeate the moment. They approached faster and faster, the monolith eventually filling the entirety of the viewports. The radar pinged softly the closer they approached. He’stan broke the silence, his voice a deep rumble within his helm.

“Smogth…Land next to the smoke. We need to confirm if it is indeed the mining ship. We need to see if there are any survivors…I need to see…”

He’stan turned and marched from the cockpit, his mind as black and hopeless as the pitiless mountain they approached.

Another excellent piece Dark Lord. The only thing I would point out is that you mention the Librarian and the Scout are the final 2 members of the Pyre. Then you say He'stan walks into the cockpit to the last 2 members of the Pyre. Nothing major of course but just a small observation.

Keep up the good work!

TommyBs wrote:
Another excellent piece Dark Lord. The only thing I would point out is that you mention the Librarian and the Scout are the final 2 members of the Pyre. Then you say He'stan walks into the cockpit to the last 2 members of the Pyre. Nothing major of course but just a small observation.

Keep up the good work!

Well spotted, fixed it now thanks man

The Pyre had landed their craft next to the burning wreckage of the mining ship, the vast pneumatic claws of the thunderhawk digging into the flat, glassy hide of the pyramid for purchase. Up close the structure felt less sheer, and although it steadily climbed to a dizzying height, it banked almost gently and the gathered Astartes found they could ascend its surface with little effort. The smooth skin of the pyramid however meant that the Sol Invictus would need to remain behind as its heavy treads would struggle to find any form of purchase. He’stan instead led his men on foot across the black, beetle-like expanse toward the burning remains.

Little had remained of the mining ship, its relative speed and the unyielding monstrousness of the pyramid smashing its component parts to little more than burning detritus. Here and there lay identifiable parts of the overall whole: a stanchion there, a grav-cradle there. But most of it lay doused in smoke and twisted into maniac sculptures of bent and twisted metal. Archimad called his brothers over during their search, gesturing to a solid length of iron thrice the height of a man. It was broad, blackened and slightly bent, but was riveted with a silver plate that had survived the crash. Machine-stamped and engraved in High Gothic, it listed several specifications and technical coding s for the ship that once was, and above it all in flowing, graceful script was the ship’s name:

Palingenesia

They looked to He’stan, as he touched the silvered plate, his touch making it real in his mind. He nodded grimly. This was indeed the craft they sought.

A grim sorrow fell upon the group as they sifted through the wreckage, a wracking realization that their quest had ended in failure. He’stan brooded quietly, his thoughts shadowed and heavy. He cast aside slabs of melted steel and iron with a steadily increasing fury, his anger earning concerned gazes from his comrades. With a bellow of frustration he gripped the remains of a solid bulkhead and heaved it to the side, the bangs almost tinny against the swallowing vastness of the pyramid. He’stan stood, his chest hiking and furious tears stinging his eyes.

Had all this been for nothing?

Was his search to end in ignominy?

Erx approached his Lord softly, concern on his face and placed a gloved hand gently on his shoulder. He leant close to console his master, when something caught his eye. Where the bulkhead had once lain, the ground below smoldered and crisped in a gentle curve, and within the curve the ground darkened almost like a shadow.

Or an entrance.

Erx pushed by his master and heaved at the rubble surrounding the curve, calling for his comrades to help him. Gilbron and Archimad ran to the Chief Scout’s side, and pushed their considerable weight against the bent wreckage, but it took the colossal form of Toro and his terminator armor to shift the heavy load aside. The gathered warriors stared down at what they had revealed.

A perfect circle had been cut into the side of the structure, its span easily twenty feet in diameter and its edges burning and crisping under a cooling heat. The circle was startling in that even the violence of the ship crash had left nary a mark upon the alien structure, and here something had burned into its invincible hide. Whatever had cut this whole had burned with a heat beyond any tool they could wield. It bored a curved tunnel into the darkness of the pyramid, which eventually became lost in shadow.

Something had survived the crash.

Something had dug its way into the monolith.

An excited murmur suffused the group, with all eyes falling onto He’stan and his orders. Xathen took a step forward, his mouth opening to advise caution when He’stan marched forward, drawing his weapons. Before any rebuttal could be voiced He’stan spoke, his helms speakers raising his voice against the maddening size of the pyramid. He said three words, and then marched into the grim darkness.

“We go in!”

The Pyre followed their lord into the yawning hole, not knowing whether he would lead them to the light or into destroying darkness.

The most unnerving trait of the innards of the black pyramid was not its maddening scale and uniformity, nor its mirror smooth and seamless walls crafted in a perfection beyond human hands but by far the faint, emerald light that seemed to suffuse every aspect of its surface. The obsidian walls, bereft of any candle, light or flame radiated a jaundice haze, enough to illuminate the immediate area but not enough to light the myriad tunnels and passes. The walls themselves were solid and unyielding, and no firearm nor blade would pass through them let alone scattered atoms of light. The darkness should have been suffocating and total this far into the mammoth structure, every natural sense screaming that light this far in was an impossibility. But the light hung, like cobwebs floating in soft wind, gripping onto the group and pooling about them like cloying gas.

He’stan paced forward softly at the head of the Pyre, his spear held before him low and ready. A small, blue flame glowed softly at the muzzle of his weapons, ready to explode into a conflagration of killing heat at a thought. Strangely, the light from the flame seemed indistinct and fading, like the sickly light of the inner chambers would not allow any other illumination to exist. The Pyre moved behind him, in a loose but ready pattern, two by two, each with their weapons drawn and scanning. Although the deep, monstrous corridor stretched on for leagues, it was skewered by branch tunnels every few miles, which banked softly and seemed to lead upward toward the summit of the structure. Toto had analysed the strata of the corridors, his readings inconclusive and bizarre. The tunnels were perfectly flat and straight on a molecular level, something which for all intents and purposes should have been impossible. The entranceways were soft and curved, and did not appear cut into the tunnel as opposed to have grown from it. Several wary looks were cast at the unsettling architecture.

The first few openings they had paused to investigate, Erx pulling his camo-cloak tight and stalking into the darkness while his comrades formed a perimeter at the crossing. He would return several minutes later, with reports of the tunnels climbing to the apex of the pyramid but no change or identifiers beyond that. Oln had tried to illuminate the branch tunnels with his suits monstrous spotlights built into the lower gorget of his armour to no avail, the sickening green light swallowed the glaring beams revealing nothing. With one of the tunnels, Xathen had cast out his mind, looking for traces of life or light in the swallowing depths, but his ethereal self would return with nothing but a sickness in his gut and a cold sweat across his back. It wasn’t as though the place was dead, it was more like it had never lived. After the third crossing the Pyre decided simply to march forward on the main concourse ignoring the other tunnels which branched like a great rib cage from a spine. The main path seemed to lead down, toward the central mass of the necropolis and they knew that whatever prize they sought would be further in, deeper in the bowels of the emerald dark.

Down and down they went in pursuit of their quarry, an Ahab to the uncaring whale. Hours stretched on in a day and a day led into two, but still onward they marched. Several of the Pyre had noticed the UI of their helms starting to short, the internal compass and chronometer stopping or vanishing in some instances. Techmarine Toro remarked he had never seen anything as crystalline smooth or atomically aligned as their surroundings, his comrades nodding in assent, only to say the exact same again several hours later. The younger members of the Pyre drew him long stares, wondering if his old mind was leaving him, but Xathen grimaced as he realised it had been said in exactly the same tone and manner, and same cadence, enough to be a duplicate of the same event.

At one point Archimad had joked about earlier in the corridor, at how Gilbron had stumbled on a gentle slope and cursed vehemently, which was most unlike him. Gilbron stared at his brother as if he were mad: that had never happened. When enquiring at his faculties, Archimad was adamant at the event and definitely remembered it happening. He could describe the event in detail, including where the Pyre had been standing, the conversation preceding it and even the angle of the slope as it changed.

An hour later, the great corridor dipped noticeably and Gilbron did indeed stumble and swear, and Xathen’s gut tightened. The Pyre were arranged as Archimad had stated, and the similarities were galling.

Had the marine foreseen this event?

Or worse, had he remembered something that had yet to occur?

Smogth and He’stan noticed the Librarian’s discomfort and both aligned their march with his. Smogth fixed the psyker with his unblinking, augmented eyes and spoke in a grating, mechanical whisper.

“What aisles you Witch-mind? Does this accursed den disquiet you as much as I?”

Xathen nodded, his gaze slowly scanning the darkness.

“Indeed Iron Hand, this place is most disquieting. It’s as if…it’s as if it does not subscribe to the laws of nature.”

He’stan disengaged his helm and lifted it from his head, the autosenses proving useless in the pyramid. He attached it to the magnetic hook on his belt and met Xathen and Smogth with his natural eyes. They burned like pitch in the green haze.

“Could it be the Warp my friend? Could its corrupting touch be at play against our minds?”

Xathen shook his head, his brow furrowed in concern.

“No my lord…if there was a Warp trace here then I would know it. We all would know it. This is something else. Something much worse…”

Smogth snorted, his tone laden with disbelief.

“Worse than the warp? What could be worse than the maddened realm?”

Xathen reach inside his cloak and drew a small, silver coin on a length of leather. It was a small, unassuming thing, glittering brightly in the emerald light. He’stan took it in his hand and studied it. On one face was the marking a dragon, a winged serpent of ancient earth and on the other a symbol of a book. Xathen gestured toward it.

“That is a Coin of Kree. All shaman and Librarians of our order receive one when we come of rank. It’s a small token, a reminder of the legacy we take forward. The Coin is passed from Master to student, and then onward, the coin having many bearers in its long life.”

He’stan passed the coin to Smogth, the small silver disc luminous against the dull metal of the Iron Hand’s armour. He turned it gingerly in his fist, as if some form of witchery lay upon it: the Iron Hands had never been the greatest lovers of the Librarian arts and even being paired with Xathen within the Pyre had not shifted Smogth’s opinion any.

“And why are you showing us this? What can this possibly tell us?”

Xathen nodded to the coin, his tone patient and measured.

“I received that coin from my Master Aldeaa’hulr on the day of his death. He received it from his Master Obvic Strugg, and he from his master Niles of the Burning Plain. There have been seventy-three Masters of this coin in total and even then that was not the beginning of its life. It was found in the ruins of ancient Terra and the Auld Legion brought the coins with them into the stars.”

Smogth still stared in apparent confusion at the coin’s luminous shine and perfect form, but He’stan grasped the Librarian’s meaning immediately.

“This coin is very old” He’stan said, and Xathen nodded, a thin grimace crossing his face. The coin looked silvery and new, as if freshly forged. It did not look millennia-old.

“When this coin was given to me” Xathen said, taking the thin cord from Smogth and holding it up to the light, “it was thick with the rust of ages. Time had taken its lustre and reduced it to oxidised green and red. This is the same coin, but seemingly time has not entered this tomb with us…”

Realisation dawned on Smogth, and the peculiarities of their location suddenly solidifying in the Iron Hand’s mind. Xathen gestured around them with his staff, its totems and fetishes clinking lightly in the still air.

“I do not think Time is our ally here. I think it is being unmade in the most threatening manner I can think of. We have been here before, but have yet to visit this place. This is where the stream of time flows into itself and I fear it will be the end and the beginning of all of us”

This was a very good passage. I really like the way you turn time into a force of terror. Much better than just another physical monster to battle. Very good.

Oooohhhh... I am really digging the horror themes in this reboot.

The great tunnel ran on for several more miles, how many exactly was hard to know, the surroundings were so similar and the faculties of the group of Astartes so disarmed that time seemed irrelevant in the emerald dark. As they marched ever onward, events became stranger and less conjoined, with each of the Pyre suffering their own form of feint madness.

Many suffered memories that they could not have had yet, thoughts of future times and places. Gilbron was so shaken by these ‘memories’ that he opened fire on the dark around them, bolter shells ricocheting wildly off the blackened walls. His comrades wrestled him down, tearing the weapon from his hand before He’stan gripped his arms and shook him firmly, willing the marine back to the present. His eyes swimming back into focus, Gilbron breathlessly recounted the memory of his own death on a world assailed by horrors, the blades of greenskins tearing his limbs and bleeding him onto the ground. It was more than a hallucination, much more. It was a memory of a time yet to come.

Toro and Oln, being the oldest members of the Pyre suffered differently: both seemed to be losing knowledge, losing experience and memories. Twice Oln had forgotten who He’stan and the Pyre were and only a firm command seem to bring his memory to the fore. Toro had almost forgotten his oaths to the Machine Cult, unfamiliar with his armour and its myriad functions. It was almost as if his training and induction had never happened.

Or had yet to happen.

They each suffered separately, each time leaning further and further upon their comrades to bring them from the brink. He’stan gritted his teeth and led them on. He took comfort in the lessons imparted by his Father, for whom he was named, and how he had worked the forge with him and the reassuring tone of his depthless baritone and advice. He smiled at the memory, before the sickening realisation that he had never met his Father, he did not know his voice, he had never even see his face. These were memories of another time, of another He’stan. Causality and relativity were breaking down and not even his identity was his own in the glowing depths.

And then they left the quagmire and stepped into light.

Through a great octagonal arch they marched, and as soon as they left the murk of the dark tunnel then time reasserted itself. They were themselves again, all thoughts and fears from the past hours faded as fog under a spring rain. As the roof rose above them, so too did their hopes once more.

Through the arch rose a great hemisphere of deep grey and obsidian, supported by rib-like pillars of emerald. The chamber was huge, easily the size of the fortress-monastery on Nocturne. But whereas the pyramid had thus far been clothed in shadow and ill light, a great shining light of brilliant silver roared at the apex of the chamber, casting everything into a white, cleansing glow. Around the walls arranged in neat and concise rows were several solid blocky protrusions, rectangular boxes or cases each the height of an Astartes. If one looked hard enough one could almost mistake them for coffins. They ran across the entire circumference of the chamber, and stacked high up, about midway to the roof. Each was black and lined with white and green mineral veins, and on the face of each was inscribed geometric symbols and iconography, which burned a pale emerald in the white light. Several of them, maybe two dozen or so, lacked frontal lids and appeared empty and barren, wires and silvery fluid leaking from their shadows. Someone or something had pushed their way from inside.

It did not take long to locate them. From across the vast expanse rolled the sounds of distant gunfire and the high pitched whine of energy weapons. The Pyre, on instinct, drew weapons and bounded forward into a controlled run, eyes fixed on the middle distance. Their armoured strides swallowed the floor, and soon indistinct figures appeared in the haze beyond. Flashes and explosions of liquid green and flaming orange cast the fighting into stark contrast and amidst the chaos the Pyre saw the combatants.

On one side fought metal revenants, tall angular monstrosities clothed in star-death and aeon-long misery. Skeletal they were, but strong with it, and wielded buzzing weapons of black metal and green crystal. They’re pitiless eyes focussed on their target and with metallic, palsied claws they spat green, flaying death in bitter torrents. They made no sound, their silence all the more intimidating.

Leading them was a monster of gold and bronze, its ageless skull crowned in meteoric filigree and a cape of living metal twisting and billowing around its starved form which hovered obscenely in defiance of physics above its servants heads. It waved a staff of gilt and grief over the heads of its minions, extolling them in a crackling, broken screech. It words were in a long-dead tongue unknown to any living mortal, its words being those that shackled and broke Gods millennia upon millennia ago. He’stan and his men had faced these demons before and his stomach tightened in racially-ingrained spite as he saw them.

Necrons…

Dead Things that Desired a Dead Universe.

Fleshless Horrors from Times Before.

These monsters should have given the Pyre pause, but the Pyre were Astartes. They knew no fear. They charged onward, weapons cracking and spewing into the distant enemy. Some shots found their mark, bolters cracking metal skulls and shattering glassy limbs in a pyrotechnic assault. The machines turned wordlessly, their balefire eyes registering this new threat. They changed formation, and opened ranks to assault this new attacker, and as they parted they revealed who they had been fighting. It was a single opponent.

And this single figure did give the Pyre pause.

Standing amidst the rubble of slaughtered machines and defeated Necrons, a colossal figure swathed in war and drake-scale stood glorious and in victory. In its right hand it wielded an elegant Fire-pike, and ancient flute-like weapon easily the height of an Astartes. Its mouth was ringed with elegant filigree and flame-casters, and it glowed white-hot in fury. In the other hand the huge figure held a glittering hammer of metal and glass, its head heavy and beautifully crafted. The armour of the figure was the deepest emerald, and lined and crafted with golden tracers and designs of drakes and eagles.

Over this hung pelts of ancient reptiles, the skull of one sitting upon the shoulder of the giant, its monstrous tusks enveloping the armour entirely. Its hugeness and monstrousness did not diminish its owner, but served only to accentuate his power.

Most terrible though was the figures face: black as pitch, lined with fury and righteous anger and with eyes burning red as the death of stars. Its teeth gritted and stark against the obsidian skin, the behemoth bellowed in victory and challenge against the milling robotic hordes. It cast its crimson eyes upon the approaching marines and although none had ever set eyes upon the other, the recognition was instant. The moment froze as the giant nodded in recognition, pride and fire in its eyes.

He’stan stumbled and whispered in reverence.

Vulkan Lives…

As soon as the words were formed, the battle cry was taken up by the Pyre. The words gave the moment truth, and the truth was glorious. As one they charged into the deathless automatons, and shouted to the blacked heights of the Pyramid.

Vulkan Lives!

After Trazyn gets this mess cleaned up, there is going to be stern words for Wraith designation MCT-3811 about touching buttons that are clearly labeled DO NOT PUSH UNLESS PHAERON TRAZYN DECIDES TO REORGANIZE HIS MUSEUM

Literal goose bumps. wow

Glad to see necrons taking part in your story, especially being alongside one of my favorite primarchs.

I think that has to be my favorite descriptions of Necrons I've read. Really gets across the timeless horror feeling.

From the Promethean Tome, 19th Epistle, Chapter of Time and Fire

The Lord of Drakes cast his wings into the grim night, and lo his wings of ashen fire brought illumination. On the footprints of his Father he rode, bringing heat and fury to the worlds beyond ours. His wings were so bright, so furious that the past and future bowed before them, covering their eyes before their glory.

But where there is light there is dark, and where there is the healing flame there is the choking shadow. The Lord of Drakes and his kin were beset, a cancer growing upon them and their reality. The sky burned in hateful roiling, and the sons of the Lord of Drakes died upon plains of charcoal and bone. The servants of the eyes beyond painted a black tapestry across the stars, but could not quench the light of the Lord of Drakes.

The eyes beyond coveted the wings of the Lord of Drakes, so glorious and golden were they. The eyes beyond had wings also, but they were twisted, crooked things and they could not ascend the heights of heaven no matter the strength or desire of their conviction. The desired after the golden pinions of flame, their eyes full of malice and thirst.

The Lord of Drakes, being wise in all things, knew that he could not allow his power and responsibility to fall into darkened claws or thoughts. Neither could he cast his own wings down, for they were a part of him, and through him his Father. To unmake them would be to unmake a portion of his own glorious soul.

And so a ploy was hatched, and the Great Lord through heaven and hell to a world of endless glass. This world was ruled by a Dead King, lord of a dead court on behalf of a Dead Empire. The Dead King’s subjects slept in crypts of glass and dust deep beneath the sands and the King roamed the world in a lunatic trail. Cursed to neither sleep nor die, the King found whatever sport his insanity would allow.

The Lord of Drakes came to the Dead King, and asked the monarch for his aid. He beseeched him: “Oh Lord of Death and Sleep, let me bury these wings of Light and Life deep in the firmament of your Dead kingdom, safe from the prying eyes of the foes of us both. An enemy of an enemy is a friend, and a friend to you, no matter how temporarily, I would be for this service. I ask thee humbly and without recourse”

The Dead King looked over the great pinions, but no desire or hunger lit his carrion eyes. Such magic and artistry was paltry to a being that could never leave this plain, and so a thing such as he would never use their might. He stroked his chin and clacked his iron teeth and decreed that he would aid the Lord of Drakes, however in return the Lord of Death stated that the Drake and his offspring could only set foot upon his throne-world when time fed upon itself and the stars swallowed his world. Such a time, in the eyes of Death, would never come. The wings would remain on the Glass World forever.

With a heavy heart, The Lord of Drakes agreed: better he lose his wings for all time than to have them fall into darkness. He cast his wings into the glass sands and turned his back on them, facing the darkness of betrayal and war once more.

Astartes, as is their nature and with the benevolence of their creator, have been designed with near eidetic memories, which meant that their recall was near total and perfect. Many remember everything from when they first rose above the ranks of mortal man, and some can even recall their lives before that time. Most Astartes can recall events with such precision, that to hear one speak of the past is to gaze upon a tapestry of rich information and shocking detail. Many see it as a boon, a small number as a curse, unable to forget any event whether joyous or pained. The reason for this design quirk is to allow an Astartes to remember every aspect of every battle they have ever fought, thus building a wellspring of knowledge and experience that can both keep the warrior himself alive and also be passed onto future generations. However, like their mortal brethren, some events are so harrowing or so overwhelming that it can take their minds weeks, months or even years to process correctly. They are simply left with an impression of the event, a lingering feeling or a dull ache forever ghosting upon their soul. The only recall they can muster is a series of images or feelings, flashing through their mind in a staccato drill, forever unable to grasp the full truth.

The battle against the machines passed much like this for He’stan: in a series of violent flashes and barely glimpsed images, so fast and brutal it was. He remembered the crunch of his weapons upon iron-hard hide, the heat of expelled weapons and unleashed fury, and the sting of the enemy’s blades. He remembered driving his spear through the skull of a gormless, frozen skull which shattered and showered him in small debris and shrapnel. He remembered old Oln gripping a foul necron in his claws and physically pulling the wretched thing in two, a warped, machined death scream shuddering from its mutilated form. The two young Astartes, Gilbron and Archimad, fought side by side, their bolters stuttering in a hellish cavalcade. Gilbron fell to beam of emerald flame, his arm flayed into nothing but stringy bone and his armour scattered into agiateted atoms, and Archimad stood protectively over his fallen brother, his fury heightened at the alien sleight. They fought and they bled and they killed, the speed of the conflict shocking to behold.

And amidst it all was Vulkan, like a nimbus of divine light. Everything about the battle would come to He’stan in fits and spurts, plaguing him for the rest of his life, but witnessing Vulkan in battle for the first time would stay with him forever. The presence of his progenitor had rendered all else unmemorable.

The Primarch was like a typhoon wrought in flesh and steel, his every action and move calculated and overwhelming. His hammer swung in dizzying arcs, sparks and flares left in its screaming assault. Where its head met resistance, it smashed it aside, leaving ruin and destruction in its wake. Xenos Machines clambered at him, striking and firing their necrotic weapons at the Lord of Drakes, but in their folly they were struck down discarded and disintegrated. His eyes were the fury of Deathfire given form, and his utterances were the sounds of primordial worlds forming in the void. At one point the Primarch had raised a hellish, metallic construct from the ground with a solid kick, only to notice a shadowed, assassin machine stalking at He’stan’s back. Calling out “My Son, behind you” Vulkan had thrown his hammer over the Forgefather’s head and struck the metal beast from the air. The sound of the weapon passing overhead had been like a sudden wind, a furious change in pressure through force. He’stan could only stand stunned as the gigantic warrior dashed past, recovered the weapon and used it to cave the skull of another skeletal beast.

And almost as soon as the battle had begun, it was over.

The machines sulked and scurried away into the shadows of the chamber. They slid like vermin into holes and cracks, some slinking back into the tombs that lined the walls. The Astartes fired and hacked until the hated machines were out of range, and then bellowed after the fleeing xenos. They whooped and cheered, emboldened by the presence of their Father. But Vulkan remained stoic and composed, and spoke quietly, silencing his sons immediately.

“This isn’t over my sons” his whispered, like the quiet before the fall, “we have simply gained the attention of the lord of this place”

The Astartes stood alert, their weapons poised and ready as the pressure in the room suddenly changed. The light seemed to diminish and the air itself became unexplainably heavy. Smogth shook his head, rubbing his augmented eyes, his vision warping and blurring. And then He was there. None could say where He came from, or how He had appeared before them. He had simply appeared, towering over them like a monolith of time and despair.

The Dead King had come to see who had intruded upon his domain.

He towered over them, even Vulkan, his hunched, palsied form swathed in torn robes of the deepest black and the oldest grime. He rose, skeletally thin like a vast ancient tree, His limbs held close to His body like a mantis, waiting for prey to slip to close to the killing strike. Underneath the blackened tatters His legs descended, eight in total, like spider legs bladed and sharp. They clacked on the metallic floor, a random rhythm like hale upon glass. His head hung above them, the robes hanging down in a heavy, swallowing hood that only the lower half of His face escaped from. The chin was metallic and smooth, much like any Necron, but the jaw worked in an anxious manner, something lunatic about its constant gnawing. Within the shadow of the hood burned three points of the deepest silver, filled to the brim with age-old madness and despair arranged in a rough triangle. They bored into the primarch like sunspots, blazing and hungry, keen to swallow light and life. A great pair of wings rose majestically from its shoulders, their subtle form wrought from pale glass and metallic armature, and they rose and fell as if in breath, the organic motion all the more horrifying due to the dead nature of their bearer. He looked down upon the Astartes, his depthless gaze focussing on the Primarch, and in a voice that was old when the stars were young and as dust-filled as all the crypts in all the galaxy, spoke.

“So, my young friend…we meet again…”