Sat in the inner sanctum of his ship, sanguinius was alone. He wanted to be alone, for the news he had just received shocked him to his core.
The blood angels legion were approaching the Signis Cluster, a number of planets infested by vicious beings. the fleet were currently in orbit, waiting for his word.
But what he had just heard was far more important.
His dearest brother, the Warmaster Horus along with Mortarion,Angron, Fulgrim, had been shown as traitors to the Emperor and the Imperium. They had killed hundreds of their own men, and millions of innocents on a planet called Istavann 3. They had decried the Emperor, renouncing their oaths and claimed that the Emperor was planning to abandon the Imperium in a quest for Godhood, despite the Emperor always trying to get rid of religion. Perturabo, Konrad Kurze, Lorgar and Alpharius had also joined them; they who were sent to destroy the traitors at Isstavan 5 had instead massacred the Salamanders, Iron Hands and Raven Guard. Fully half of the Legions had turned. The only person deemed traitor who wasn’t with them was Magnus and the Thousand sons who had seemingly disappeared.

He kneeled on the floor of his darkened sanctum, head down, wings drooped.
How could this happen? Could he have done something? Was it his fault? certainly he was one of the closest to Horus, or rather was. The Imperium they had all helped build was now in chaos, with petty politicians and warlords throwing themselves under horus for personal gain.

He was riven with doubt and anger for hours.
He should have seen something, done something... it was his fault, and the imperium would burn. There would be no peace.

He could only feel anger, at himself, at Horus, at that slimy cur Erebus, who had been dripping poison in Horus' ear for a long time and at the Emperor. His father was the most powerful psychic being in the galaxy, a being of godlike vision and scope, he SHOULD have known something... He... i...
Sanguinius threw his head back, his arms out wide, fists balled, wings flared, and with all the hatred, anger and power he had let a roar akin to a primal god, a roar that would have made Angron run like a whelp. as he roared his hate to the darkness, both within him and around him, a vision filtered up through the red mist, an malevolent eye burning the surface of terra, then a bloody angel broken by a red-eyed wolf.
The visions stopped. His roar stopped. as the red mists parted he realised what was going to happen. Horus was to attack terra, and he would die.

He went over to the comm-station on the wall
"Azkellon?"
“Yes my lord?"
"Tell the legion to prepare arms. And take no quarter. We kill everything on that dammed planet."

As I examined the xeno speciemens bone marrow concentrates, I realized that in that moment in time, that I DOCTOR FREDRICK VON STEINER AM THE ONE!!!!

OMG he's examining dah Specimen SHOOT HER! SHOOOOOOOT HER!!!!!

NO YOU CANNOT SHOOT ME YOU CANNOT DEFEAT THE DOCTOR OF VON STEINERS!!!!!

Kill him

BANG BANG BANG

haha MERE human bullets cannot hurt me

He's right we need LOVE

NO NOT LOVE

yes LOVEEEEE

ARRGhhhhh ARggh!!!! Your kisses hurt! arghh

kis kis kisss lovey

NOOOoOo



Fatality.

thats dah truth

Cyril quietly approached the desk, his face completely blank of emotion. He was short but muscular man with smooth black hair, in comparison to the bald figure before him. Sitting at the desk was Colonel Levistus Karmoz, a tall aging man with a thin stature more scars on his face than you could count on one hand. “Come in,” he beckoned. “Please, make yourself at home.”

Sitting down, Cyril asked, “I thought you were still in action.”

“I’m retired now,” he replied. Karmoz reached for a bottle of whiskey and poured a glass. “Want one?”

“I’m good. Also, I didn’t think Guardsmen could retire.”

The aging man smiled sheepishly. “We can’t. Technically I’m on ‘garrison duty’ with the 2nd Company of the Agares 12th. When you’re a Colonel you get to pick which conflicts you serve in.”

“Very clever,” said Cyril as Karmoz took a drink. “Do you remember a conflict eleven years ago against a Xenos race known as the Tarsrin? You were a Captain back then I believe.”

“My memory isn’t as good as it used to be. I guess I’ve taken too many knocks to the head during my tour of duty. I apologize, but I don’t remember.” Karmoz gulped down the remainder of the glass and poured himself a new one.

“Perhaps this will help,” Cyril replied. He unbuttoned his jacket and removed a dog tag. It stated SERGEANT GABRIEL CYRIL-2ND COMPANY-AGARES 12TH. “Eleven years ago you ordered us to begin shelling a large hive city, claiming it was home to race of Xenos known as the Tarsrin.” Reaching into a jacket pocket, Cyril drew a knife. “The Tarsrin didn't fire back. They were completely unarmed. Those that survived surrendered to us without a fight. I wanted to ask you about it, why we killed this peaceful race, and I caught you viewing a pict they transmitted. It was the only thing they had done about the shelling of the city. I asked you what that pict was and you told me it was a Declaration of War. Considering how they responded to the bombardment, I knew you were lying but I just ignored it. I can't stand the guilt anymore, Colonel. I know they're Xenos, but Emperor help me, I can't stand it. I want the truth.”

Karmoz grabbed a hotshot laspistol from the drawer and swung it in Sergeant’s direction. Cyril caught it with his left hand and flung it across the room while swinging down with his knife. Amazingly the aging Colonel leapt out of his seat and dodged it. He reverted to a fighting pose, both arms tensed and fists readied. Cyril smiled. “I had been a hoping for a fight. In fact, I was worried you had gotten soft.”

“Anything but,” snarled Karmoz. He punched left, aiming for the Sergeant’s shoulder. In response Cyril swung into the attack with his knife. Karmoz’s left arm immediately drew back and Cyril realized too late it had been a feint. The Colonel’s right fist slugged him directly in the nose. It crumpled under the sheer force of the attack, cartilage snapping and blood vessels bursting. Cyril reared back, dazed for the savage blow and saw Karmoz continuing off of the momentum from it. A second punch slammed into his chest, cracking ribs. A deft kick to the groin left him crying out in pain.

The Colonel grabbed for the knife, but even in his pain wracked state Cyril refused to let go. As Karmoz grabbed at the hilt with both hands, Cyril struck. He clumsily punched Karmoz’s eye socket and knocked him back. While Karmoz fell, Cyril slashed wildly with a knife. He nicked the Colonel’s forehead and shoulder but failed to land a killing blow. Cyril realized his face was soaked in blood from his nose and paused to rub some off.

This millisecond of hesitation was all that the veteran Colonel needed. He grabbed the wrist of Cyril’s knife arm with both hands and pulled in opposite directions as hard as he could. There was a wet crunching sound and he ripped back. The knife fell to the floor with a clanging noise, along with the Sergeant’s hand. His wrist was now a bloody stump with the sharp remnants of a bone sticking out, the white a contrast to the blood red.

Disregarding all pain and sanity, Cyril lunged forward and stabbed, the bone piercing Karmoz’s gut. Karmoz howled in pain as Cyril yanked the stump out along with clumps of viscera. He stabbed again and again, using the bone as a makeshift weapon. Karmoz fell to his knees, his shirt soaked with blood. Cyril grabbed the Colonel’s hair and held his head up while putting the bone against his throat. “What was the pict? I want the truth you bastard.”

“It was a piece of art,” weakly replied the Colonel, barely able to speak with his pierced lung and other injuries. “The incomprehensible Xenos viewed it as their greatest accomplishment; the crowning achievement of their society. They wanted to make sure that even if they died it wouldn't be destroyed.”

"They were innocent!" shouted Cyril.

"So were a lot of things."

Cyril slit the man’s throat and watched him howl and gag as he bled out.

Zeke trudged through the animal trail paying particular attention not to leave his silhouette on the hilltop, staying just below the crest. His training with the imperium guiding him instinctively with swift and stealthy steps to get downwind of the valley before moving closer. All the signs where there, Zeke just couldn’t process it without terror gripping his bowels, Orks. He knew the stink, he knew the smells of their fuel and the smell of burned flesh that always accompanied the green skins.

His endurance and instincts were second to none except for the Astartes themselves and that thought still rankled with him. The man’s mind began to wonder back to his days as an aspirant as he made the descent in to the valley. Of five hundred aspirants he was the last one standing. His body had betrayed him and rejected the implants marking his dream of being a space marine impotent. Instead of despairing he bided his time and joined the Legion with the imperial guardsmen. He served as scout sniper, and then as squad leader before the shrapnel in his eye and bolter through his spine rendered him unfit for combat duty. The legion patched him up as best as their apothecaries could and then deposited him on this frozen rock to “ensure security” of those pacified and given the imperial truth.

For fifteen years he roamed the frozen wastes and rolling dunes of soft packed snow to do his duty, though he knew it was all for naught, the legion does not leave enemies behind, their extermination of the green skins was absolute. But, today, his instincts said he was wrong. All the signs pointed to a war band, though he had yet to see one himself, there could be no other explanation. Zeke padded around one of the white blue dunes and into the glares of light refracting off of the ice when the first one rose out of the snow bank.

Zeke died quietly, his crimson blood flowing onto the blue ice and white snow to create a rivulet of pink and purple melt. Death took him with the absolute knowledge that the imperium had not left one green skin alive on this rock, the truth was, these orks were blue…"

Flyrith swept his critical hazel eyes over the landscape before him. He noted the tracks of the indigenous fauna that sat fresh in the mud; the intoxicating scents of carnivorous plants as they lay in wait as nature’s own streetwalkers, their vivid colours melted together into the scenery, camouflaging both predator and prey alike behind a leafy veil. Calls of nameless birds rang through the canopies above, an indecipherable code of tweets and chirrups and squawks. The Long Rifle clamped in Flyrith’s hands felt out of place in such a place of natural splendour.

Glancing left, Aelyssa was barely noticeable amongst her den of branches, blending in almost completely save for a stray lock of shimmering auburn hair resting on her cloak. As if she’d read Flyrith’s mind, a small gloved hand appeared and swept it back inside her hood. Flyrith sighed, luckily for her they were the predators this time, and there would be plenty more chances if the prey were to be alerted to their presence.

Glewing sat perched upon the thick brown roots of a stalwart tree a little further behind Aelyssa, ruddy and murky tones of brown and grey adorned his cloak and rendered him next to invisible against the fungus-ridden bark. Flyrith watched a small bird, its feathers a striking red trimmed with rich tones of blue, sweep down from the sky and land upon Glewing’s shoulder, yet the noble pathfinder made no movement. Had Flyrith not known where to look, he didn’t doubt that he’d probably not see the wizened sentinel until they returned home.

Shifting his gaze to the right, Flyrith spied Lliel shifting noiselessly from her vantage point, her forest green cloak barely swung from the practised movements, and coupled with using rocks lodged in the mud as stepping stones, offered her the most stealth possible whilst on the move; she’d be unseen on the move, and be nigh untraceable afterwards.

Finally, Flyrith glanced up to where Neiar stood, or should have been standing. Narrowing his eyes, Flyrith tried again to pinpoint the position of the young pathfinder, but to no avail. He flicked his head back to Glewing, meeting his ageless gaze and recognising the mirrored look of concern abundant upon his aged and rugged face. The bird that had landed on his shoulder was now hopping around near Aelyssa, and took flight as the ranger turned back to Glewing. A faint flapping of wings alerted Flyrith to the bird’s descent upon his position, and he extended a gloved finger for it to perch upon, which it took eagerly. It cocked its petite head to the right, studying Flyrith’s inquisitive face, from his stark blue eyes to his wrinkled nose, and then hopped down, tweeting as it jumped a few steps towards Glewing. Flyrith smiled and started up to meet him, leaving the bird to alert the other rangers.

Every now and then he stopped to assess his surroundings, as he’d been taught, before continuing up to Glewing’s post, where Aelyssa already stood muttering in hushed tones to the pathfinder,

“Neiar is dead.” Flyrith nearly slipped as Glewing calmly confirmed his worst fears.

“How do you know?” Flyrith asked as he regained his balance before the pathfinder.

“I watched it.” Glewing replied, gazing out over Flyrith’s shoulder, no doubt to observe Lliel’s ascent.

Flyrith was lost for words. He’d been taught that he’d be on his own in some cases, the path of the outcast was a lonely one after all, but in a group mission, everyone looked out for each other; the Eldar, a dying race, must preserve every life possible; it made no sense for Glewing to throw Neiar’s away.

“Glewing, I must ask… why?” Aelyssa once again read Flyrith’s mind, asking before he could.

Glewing strode off his root and pulled Lliel up onto the wooded plateau, “You will see in due time.” He motioned for them to follow, and led them behind the tree to a gap between two roots. Filling the gap was the body of Neiar, his once vibrant green eyes now held the misty grey colour of death, and his skin was blued and lifeless. A foul smell hung in the air, and then his cloak shifted. Glewing pulled his knife from its sheath, “Be ready.”

Flyrith was unquestioning, the tone of Glewing’s voice was warning enough. He tugged his knife free and watched the writhing cloak until it once more went still. Suddenly, a razor sharp claw burst free from Neiar’s chest, with others following from inside his cloak and around his body. His head split open to reveal the unmistakable carapace of a Tyranid ripper. Neiar’s body had been carrying the parasites. The predator had now become the prey.

Quick as lightning, Glewing struck out with his knife and skewered the ripper, which uttered a shrill death cry that heralded the emergence of its siblings. One by one they burst from the ground, and each in turn was slain by the trained strikes of the rangers until the final ripper was wriggling and squirming in its death throes.

Lliel hissed and clutched her ankle, kicking away the half-dead ripper that managed to nip the skin. Glewing caught her in the corner of his eye,

“It didn’t draw blood.” Lliel answered his questioning gaze, and he nodded.

“We are running out of time, we must warn Craftworld Dras’Scur, this is now our main objective.” Glewing stated.

“What about the shape-changers? The Ymgarls? And the Lictor? We must avenge the deaths of Jaese, Opheil and Dannok and the hands of these creatures.” Flyrith started.

Glewing lifted his finger to stop Flyrith, “Vengeance is not a reason to act. Dras’Scur is endangered and the continuation of the Eldar race must be our ultimate goal.”

Flyrith searched for a reason to object, “Surely Farseer Erix, or Tariya, could forsee this, maybe they don’t even need our help, and our time could have been spent on ridding the galaxy of those which even the Hive Mind dares not deal with?”

“We cannot rely on psychic interpretations of the future, not with the shadow in the warp so prevalent; nothing can be trusted to be untainted by the Tyranid menace.” Glewing sighed, “At least trust in my judgement.”

“I trust you, Glewing.” Flyrith relented, “But against my inner feeling.”

Glewing placed a hand on Flyrith’s shoulder, “Our instincts cannot always be trusted, sometimes we must rely on logic alone, and right now, it’s logical to reach Dras’Scur.”

Flyrith shrugged off Glewing’s grip, “The logical path is not always the right one, but I will follow you, at least as far as the Webway Gate.” He slipped the strap of his long rifle over his head, and positioned the gun across his back, “I cannot guarantee that I will be hear when you return.”

“If we make it in the first place.” Aelyssa interjected, “Flyrith is right about the scout beasts, although not for the right reason; if we allow them to live, then we risk the Craftworld by dying before our task is complete.”

Glewing contemplated the ranger’s words, “It is a risk we will have to take, and we cannot waste any time; we have to reach the Craftworld.”

“Then you risk it without me.” Aelyssa stated. Flyrith’s eyes widened in shock at her words, yet Glewing appeared unaffected, almost expecting the reply, “I will cover your back, but only if it means that I have a chance to slay our hunters.”

Lliel shook her head violently, “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Flyrith found himself asking. He didn’t mean to say it, but it came out anyway.

“I mean that we need to work together, we are not enemies in this, stop treating us as such.” Lliel rebuked.

“I am not treating you as an enemy, I am just defending Aelyssa!” Flyrith shouted.

Lliel was taken aback by the outburst, but it was Aelyssa who took her place, “Why? Do you presume that I cannot defend myself verbally, Flyrith?”

Flyrith stared into her light cyan eyes as they bore angrily into his, “I just thought-” He started, but Aelyssa interrupted.

“Thought what? That I would run off and cry if you didn’t leap in to save me?” The rage flashed in her eyes, and then extinguished as her body relaxed, the tension flowing out of her muscles, “I’m sorry, Flyrith, I didn’t mean…” She looked into his eyes again then turned away and walked into the overgrown jungle behind where Glewing stood, silently observing the argument.

Flyrith made to chase after her, but stopped himself mid-step and simply stood in deep thought, “I will go with you to Dras’Scur, Glewing. I apologise for my earlier actions, meditation has gotten harder of late, and my emotions are growing stronger with each passing day.” He finally said, “I fear that She Who Thirsts shall soon claim my soul if I do not return to the more disciplined paths.”

Glewing’s lips stretched into a thin smile, “Apology accepted, Flyrith.” He pulled the ranger into an almost fatherly embrace, “The path of the outcast is a hard one, but remember that Autarch Belissi once walked the same road that we now tread, and is stronger for it.
“Your emotional control, however, we must work on. You saw what can happen in the form of Aelyssa’s attack, it took all of her self-control to stop her from slaying you where you stood; be grateful that it was a lash from her tongue and not from her blade.”

“A tongue can be just as sharp, can cut just as deep, and can be just as deadly as any blade.” Flyrith said as the embrace ended, “Your own words, I believe.”

Glewing averted his eyes momentarily, “We must get moving.” He motioned to a bored-looking Lliel and led Flyrith and her into the jungle in search of the Webway Portal.

Darkness approached the group unnoticed as they walked warily beneath the thick canopy. No light was visible through the layers of leaves as they formed a completely opaque wall of shadowy green. Flyrith had noted the lack of ambient sound, and was all the more tense for it. Each movement in the corner of his eye elicited a hardened stare down the barrel of his long rifle. Everything was suspect.

Glewing mumbled something, inaudible through Flyrith’s concentration, “What?” He asked the pathfinder.

“It’s not important.” Glewing replied.

“Everything is important in its own way.” Flyrith said, “You cannot dictate the importance of something based upon how you alone feel.”

Glewing chewed over his next words, “Feelings play a larger part in the grand scheme of things than most realise,” He paused for a moment, “It must’ve been hard for you.”

“What must’ve been hard?” Flyrith enquired.

“Aelyssa, letting her go to her death.” Glewing replied, “It must’ve been a hard decision not to follow her.”

Flyrith stopped and stared at Glewing, “What makes you say that?”

“Flyrith, we’ve seen the way you act around her.” Lliel added, “She’s never wrong if you can help it.”

Flyrith snorted, “I agree with her because she’s right most of the time,” He pulled his hood down and ran a gloved hand through his mane of black hair, “It doesn’t matter now anyway, she’s gone.” He pulled the hood back over his head and started off again.

“Flyrith, we just want to help.” Glewing said.

“Then you can help by not speaking of her again.” Flyrith spat back.

“You can’t let your emotions hold you to ransom!” Glewing shouted, “The only way you can keep yourself in check is by acceptance.”

“I have nothing to accept.” Flyrith replied in a venomous tone, “Just drop it.”

“Flyrith.” Glewing started.

“I said, drop it.” Flyrith warned.

The journey through the jungle was made all the worse by the argument. Flyrith mulled over Glewing’s words like a fine wine, appraising them before spitting them back out. He had nothing to accept.

“Cold?” He asked the shivering redhead.

“No.” She lied.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Flyrith stated, handing the ranger a second cloak from the supply bag.

“I’m not lying.” She said, ignoring the offering, “What makes you think I was?”

“I’m a good judge of character.” Flyrith replied, “That and you’re shivering like a furless Gyrinx.”

The redhead snorted, “I should be offended.”

“Are you?” Flyrith enquired.

She thought for a moment, “No.” She reached out and took the cloak from Flyrith, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He replied, “Just don’t freeze, I can do without having to drag you and the dark kin back to Glewing.” She laughed softly and pulled the cloak tight around her shoulders, where Flyrith pinned one side with a firm hand, “Get some rest, it’s my watch.”

A scream broke his daydream and he spun around on his heels, staring at where Lliel stood moments ago. She was now writhing on the floor, her face naught but a pained expression. Silvery strands of hair stuck to her sweating forehead, and her eyelids were clamped tightly over the vibrant blue eyes beneath. Her mouth hung open, her screams of pain filling the air. Glewing knelt beside her and pulled her boots off, exhaling sharply at the sight of a deep and bloody gash that oozed clear, thick liquid,

“Stupid girl.” Glewing muttered, “Stupid, stupid girl.” He stared at Flyrith, who was stood motionless as he watched.

“It hurts!” She shouted. Blood wept from the gash down her arm, her free hand vainly trying to keep the wound closed.

“I know.” Flyrith replied calmly, pulling at her free hand, “But I need to wash it, you can’t close it yourself.”

“No!” She bellowed, resisting his touch until her was forced to wrench her hand free, “I need to keep it closed!”

Flyrith said nothing, but took her free hand and held it tightly in one of his own, whilst he unscrewed the top of his canteen with his teeth and poured the water down her arm. He felt her hand tense and her nails dig into his flesh as she cried out. He dropped the canteen picked up a sophisticated injector, squirting a gel substance into the wound. Her hand drew blood from his, and then her grip started to loosen. The blood flow eased until the gel had sealed the wound completely.

He let go of her hand and started to carefully dress her arm with bandages, ignoring the blood that seeped onto them from the scratches on his hand.

“The anaesthetic should work until we reach camp, where Lliel can treat it properly, the gel will hold it until then if you’re careful enough.” Flyrith said, staring up at the redhead. All he saw in the flushed face were her burnished gold eyes as they shone from the tears that welled up in front of them.

He reached up and wiped them away with his thumb, watching the ranger’s mouth spread into a slight smile of appreciation. His heart fluttered at the gesture, which he shakily returned, before getting back to dressing her wound.

“Flyrith! The gel! Wake up, boy!” Glewing’s roars snapped Flyrith out of his thoughts. He scrabbled around his belt and plucked the gel injector from it, throwing it to Glewing, who expertly caught the grip in his palm and brought it around to bear on Lliel’s wound.

The silver-haired ranger was biting down hard on a thick chunk of wraithbone wrapped in leather, her pained shouts muffled by the presence of the object, but still audible; they chilled Flyrith to the bone as fragments of his memory returned to him.

Glewing whispered something into Lliel’s ear and stood up, his back to Flyrith, “What happened?”

Flyrith stared down at his feet, ashamed and unable to convey it into suitable words, “I... I don’t know.”

“See that it doesn’t happen again.” Glewing said in a flat tone, “I need you to stay with Lliel whilst I scout for a suitable shelter, night will soon be upon us, and the hunters in the dark with it. Stay out of your head until I return.”

He was gone before Flyrith could even object. Lliel lay peacefully on the leafy floor, the pain and anguish of moments ago banished by the anaesthetic gel; Flyrith walked up to the ranger and knelt beside her, grimacing at the sight of the ripper wound on her ankle, “I’m sorry I acted slowly.”

Lliel flicked her eyes momentarily in his direction, and then returned to staring off into the distance. She spat the wraithbone bit out and wet her lips, her eyes still trained on nothingness, “I understand that you’re angry, but I didn’t mean it… The path of the outcast is ravaging my mind… I don’t know how long I can resist it.”

Lliel remained unmoving, save for her blinking eyes, and so Flyrith gave up trying to apologise. He simply sat beside her and waited, inspecting all corners of their surroundings for any sign of movement. He hoped a Tyranid would amble into the clearing, so he might have something to take his anger out on. He hoped Glewing would return so that his mind might rest. He hoped Aelyssa would appear, so that he might embrace her one last time, and tell her,

“Ymgarl.” Lliel muttered.

Flyrith followed her gaze and swept his eyes over a thick net of leaves and stalks, almost missing a sharp, bone-coloured talon that rested upon the vegetation. It was quickly withdrawn, but both sides knew that they had been detected. Flyrith had no sooner levelled his long rifle than the Genestealer sprang out of the undergrowth on powerful hind legs. Flyrith fired off a shot and caught it in its right shoulder, sending it sprawling back across the ground.

He levelled his rifle again, watching as the Ymgarl gene displayed its lethality; the shot had only knocked the Tyranid from the air, but no more; in the split second before the shot impacted, the soft alien tissue had hardened into a thick carapace. Flyrith swore and fired off a shot at the dazed Tyranid’s eyes, cursing again as the Genestealer rolled just clear and darted back into the jungle.

Flyrith appraised his surroundings, watching for any sign of life, and catching the slight glimpse of a yellowed eye. He fired at it, but was too slow, as the creature leapt above the shot and hit the ground in the clearing. Flyrith dropped his rifle and drew a thin blade from its sheath at his hip, readying it just in time to deflect a blow from a large curved blade, as the Genestealer’s clawed hand fused together. He kicked out at the Tyranid, striking its side but doing no visible damage.

He was outmatched by the alien. It had speed and adaptability on its side, something that Flyrith had no hope of matching in the quantities that the Tyranid displayed. Driving forward, he hoped to draw the Genestealer into a reckless attack, but watched it sidestep the lunge and pounce for the finishing blow.

It was too late, the Orks were aware of his presence, and he would soon be drowned in greenskins. Cries of ‘WAAAGH!’ erupted from all sides of the ramshackle encampment and the ground shook with the heavy thuds of the Ork warband. The seemed to be coming from every direction, the scrap metal shelters serving only to echo the sound and keep Flyrith guessing. He started to double back the way he came, but was forced to roll under one of the buildings to avoid running into a group of axe-wielding greenskins; as agile as he was, he was no match for that many choppas raining down upon him.

He emerged on the other side of the building and started off again, his light steps carrying him noiselessly forward, but he soon found himself reaching more and more dead ends in the maze of scrap until he stumbled upon a group of shootas. They stared at him for a second, before loosing a violent war cry and firing their shootas in his general direction. By sheer luck, the vast majority of shots missed, the Orks simply enjoying the sound of guns firing and slugs ricocheting off buildings; the few shots that did hit failed to penetrate Flyrith’s armour as he ducked and rolled towards the crazed mob, drawing his blade and swinging into the mass of green.

Howls of pain joined the shouts of war and the roars of gunfire, as Orks fell to Flyrith’s blade, or were filled with holes as the shootas were levelled at where Flyrith had stood seconds before he swept into the next strike. A few of the Orks dropped their shootas and readied menacing, rusted blades or axes, whilst others simply wielded their shootas as makeshift clubs. But they were too slow and unorganised to catch the ranger and he flowed through them like a phantom, delivering death to all in his way.

Until a giant claw removed his final victim. The Nob held the Ork boy in a vice-grip, and slowly cleaved it in two as it tried to wriggle free,

“Wurfless grot lovers, I is gunna show you all ‘ow ta fight!” The nob bellowed as more Orks gathered around, pounding their axes on the ground around the Nob and Flyrith, “You pointy ears fink ‘ureselfs is fighty, eh? I gots meself me own pointy ears!” The Nob tugged a rope necklace out from under his armour, which consisted mainly of old Human cooking utensils held together by grey bundles of tape. On the rope were lines of pointed grot ears, the green skin still visible beneath the blood that had obviously fooled many, many Orks in the past, “I is gunna pound yer skull inta dust!”

The Nob swept his claw around, and Flyrith rolled clear, leapt up and lunged, dragging his blade deep into the Ork’s clawed arm. The greenskin howled in pain, and started thrashing about, “Yer sneaky git! Get back ere so’s I can stomp yer!”

With a swift movement, Flyrith ducked a high swing from the claw and swept his blade across the hamstrings of the Ork, bringing it toppling to the floor where it lay growling, “There yer are!” Flyrith drove his blade into its skull, and the Ork went limp, its fanged mouth hanging open and baring yellowed fangs.

“Ee’z dead!” One of the Orks stated, “Yer know what ‘at means!” The Orks fell silent, deep in thought, “Whoever kills da pointy ‘ead is da new boss yer bunch o’ grots!”

Flyrith’s insides tensed, he’d at least go down fighting. The Ork that initiated the challenge raised its choppa, and opened its mouth, ready to emit another war cry, when a large hole appeared noiselessly in its head. It fingered the bleeding hole as it tried to work out what had happened, before giving up and slumping to the floor. More Orks fell to the silent attacks, dropping like flies and adding inquisitive war cries to the confusion. A hand gripped around Flyrith’s arm and dragged him away, the Orks none the wiser as they fired shots in all directions, hoping to kill off the deadly ghosts attacking them.

He turned away from the hysteria, coming face to face with Aelyssa, “You’re a fool, Flyrith, what did you hope to achieve by taking this task on alone?” She said, scolding him as if he were a child

“I hoped to achieve the death of a tyrant, and the death of an Ork incursion in this sector. The scanners showed no life here.” Flyrith replied.

“They had a Wierdboy, his powers were essentially cloaking this encampment, and such is why they have managed to grow in number.” Aelyssa said. She threw her arms around Flyrith’s neck and pulled him into a tight hug, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Flyrith was taken aback, but smiled and returned the embrace, “Aren’t I always?”

“Flyrith, Are you okay?” Flyrith stirred and prised his heavy eyelids open. His head felt like a lead weight, and pain wracked his side, a sign at least that there were no open wounds to worry about, else it’d have been anaesthetised. The first thing he saw was a pair of glimmering golden eyes staring down at him from behind a cascading wall of auburn hair. He smiled weakly at Aelyssa, who fleetingly returned the gesture, “You’ve been out of it for a while, the impact from the Ymgarl knocked you cold.”

“Glewing,” Flyrith mumbled, “Lliel; okay?”

Glewing’s face appeared beside Aelyssa’s, but didn’t harbour the smile Flyrith was expecting, “I’m fine, but Lliel… She passed not an hour ago. There was nothing we could’ve done.”

“Oh.” Flyrith managed as he pulled himself up.

“Don’t strain yourself.” Aelyssa warned, “You took a body slam from a Genestealer remember, it’s not something easily shaken off.” Flyrith ignored the warning, and his pain, everything was focussed on the growing hatred for the Tyranids. They had now claimed two Eldar, and two close friends, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Aren’t I always?” Flyrith replied. Aelyssa smiled wider as she remembered the phrase, “What happened?”

Aelyssa turned briefly to Glewing, who gave her a slight nod to continue, “I heard Lliel’s shouting; I had been tailing you most of the way, keeping the Ymgarls disinterested, but I couldn’t ignore it. By the time I got there, you were duelling with an Ymgarl, and it almost had you, I did what anyone would and tried to shoot its head off. Lucky for you it had spent its last energy reserves on those blades it formed, else we’d have only had an angry Genestealer on our hands.

“Glewing returned as I was kneeling beside Lliel, she was barely conscious, but he’d found somewhere – here – to rest in. Unfortunately…” Aelyssa trailed off, “I must go now. Glewing says the gate is not far from here… Goodbye, Flyrith.”

Flyrith watched mournfully as Aelyssa turned to Glewing and exchanged farewells. He hadn’t noticed the cave they were taking refuge in until then, nor the makeshift fire that threw light to the walls and bathed Aelyssa and Glewing in fiery tones of red and orange. Glewing’s hood kept defended his face from the flickering light, but Aelyssa’s features were perfectly defined by the warm glow. She stood tall in the firestorm of light, like a sentinel of flame. It had taken him until now to realise how he longed to stand beside her, linked by blazing passion,

“I’m going with you.” He muttered, the words catching in his throat.

“Don’t be a fool, you need to reach Dras’Scur, and Glewing knows the quickest route. I’ll be following you, but I can’t be sure that I’ll survive. The Tyranid menace is growing restless.” Aelyssa replied, “We shall see what happens on the other side.”

“Why not travel with us?” Flyrith argued, “It makes no sense to stay back, especially if we are in as much danger as you describe.”

“I… I have my reasons, and it is for those reasons that I do not wish to return to the Craftworld.” Aelyssa held a finger up to stop Flyrith objecting, “Maybe one day I will come back, but that day is not today, nor is it in the foreseeable future. I walk my own path now.” Something shimmered in the corner of her eye as she pulled her hood up and over her head.

Flyrith was stunned as he watched her leave, watched her walk out of his life forever. No. It could not end like this, “We must be going, Flyrith, if we are to make anything of Aelyssa’s sacrifice. You may visit the site of Lliel’s ashes if you wish.” Glewing stated plainly.

“And her spirit stone?” Flyrith asked.

“She gifted it to me for insertion into the Infinity Circuit when we reach the Craftworld.” Glewing replied, leaving nothing more for Flyrith to object to. Reluctantly, and painfully, he gathered his belongings and followed the pathfinder out of the cave.

She is in trouble.

Flyrith couldn’t shake the thought. It had been eating at him for an hour. But still he silently followed Glewing. The path soon changed from a sea of dead leaves to dark, aged wraithbone. The gate was close. Then he snapped. He turned off the trail and ran, pounding through the jungle and leaping over roots and tangled plants. Nothing else mattered.

He burst into a clearing, drew his blade, and his emotions took hold. His logical mind could only watch the Lictor lazily knock Aelyssa’s blade out of her hands and move to impale her upon a deadly, mantis-like talon. He felt his arms raise, and the shattering blow he dealt the startled Tyranid. Again he cut into the Lictor’s chitinous hide, and again, his rage fueling the rampant arcs he created as the tip of his blade danced along the Lictor’s body, cutting from limb to limb with brutal efficiency.

The Lictor finally caught the blade in a tight grip with one of its claws, bringing Flyrith’s assault to an end, but it lacked the power to carry out his execution. Alien blood flowed from every crevice and dripped from the sword in its claw, and defeated, its grip loosened, the wild flailing of the remnants of its feeder tendrils ceased, and the Galaxy was free of one more Tyranid assassin.

Flyrith drove his sword into the skull of the alien with such ferocity that the blade shattered, but he cared not as he stumbled over to the bloodied form of Aelyssa. She was covered in cuts, and a large gash had almost flayed her arm from shoulder to elbow, but she didn’t scream or cry out. Instead she gripped Flyrith’s hand tightly as he applied gel to the wounds, but didn’t let go,

“Flyrith…” She spoke. Flyrith brushed the ranger’s auburn hair behind her ears and laid a delicate, loving kiss upon her lips.

“You wanted to know why I defended you; I can give no better of an answer than that.
“Truth is… I love you.”

“I fear that we may not live to enjoy this.” Aelyssa whispered.

“Fear not.” Came a voice from the shadows behind them, “For Craftworld Dras’Scur has come to deliver death unto those wish it upon us. By our silent blades and our soundless cannons, we shall reap the lives of those whom wish us harm.
“Fear not the enemy; for it is they who shall dread the very shadows in which they lurk; they do not know the true meaning of fear, for they do not know us.”

The drop ship careens to the planet
Captain Lazarus turns to his men looks at them side to side. His face young, but his heart is old from the constant war and horror he has seen. It has made him wise. 3 vertical scars from past a Genestealer claw cover the left side of his face. War is all he knows, it is first nature. Before combat he breathes slowly. A Space Marine he is calmest in combat. For combat is his life, killing is his art.
LAZARUS
“My Brothers...we march together, now we will fight together, and now we will die together”
His men are young. For most this will be their first live mission. Many of them will perish at the hands of the Eldar stationed on the planet. A fierce adversary to any Marine
“Now with me brothers...(all Marines chant)I am steel, I am doom, I march for Maccrage and I shall know no fear!
“And may are enemies be rittled with it!”
The drop pod slows then collides with the planets surface. It’s broad doors drop. Dust fills the air, all is silent. The marines begin to slowly lumber out of the pod weapons raised. They can barely see the marines infront of them. Lazrus turns to the marine next to him.
“Spread out form a Line-”
The marines head explodes from a burst of fire.
“Scorpions!”
The marines begin to open up. Trying to pick off targets out of the fading dust cloud. Lazarus looks around frantically. A scorpion appears out of the dust and cuts one of his marines down then locks eyes with lazarus.
“Come now! Meet your doom scorpion!”
Lazarus raises his thunder hammer and charges the Eldar Warrior. The scorpion lashes out, but Lazarus has planned for this. He dodges the strike and hammers down the Scorpion with ease.
“Hold the line! Dont retreat only forward!”
The Marines fight off the attack, but four marines lay slain in the sand.

He waited. Seconds passed, each magnified to feel as though minutes were passing. The rooms gloom felt oppressive. Banks of cogitators rumbled and muttered, lights flickering off and on. Xavier stared at them, trying to discern a pattern, a sequence, a visual perfection. The lights winked at him.
Standing behind him, shrouded in the gloom, was a woman, dressed in a dark bustle dress, which reinforced the perfection of her shape and beauty. Xavier looked over his shoulder at Belle and flashed her a perfect smile.

Absolute perfection was, to Xaviers mind, absolute truth. Falsehoods and half-truths took root in imperfection, digging deep amidst the cracks and scars, burrowing into the weaknesses of humanity. The blemishes and faults of the Imperium, of its stagnant and unwieldy beliefs, were rife with falsehoods and fabrication, deception and deceit and it disgusted Xavier. To see imperfection around him was galling and only emphasised his beliefs. Humanity needed perfection to lead it, not a rotting corpse sat upon a throne, but a paragon, beau idéal as Belle would have put it, and Slaanesh, in the heretics eyes, was the key to delivering humanity from its inadequate deficiencies, the flaws and faults that stifled it.

Eventually the viscreen flickered into life. He did not waste time, immediately punching his message into the machine, each movement of his hands, his fingers, was perfect, not a single mistake was made.

Belle watched her master at work, her perfectly shaped eyes stared out from her angelic features. Each of his movements made her heart beat wildly, her mind savouring the graceful, elegant movements. Everything Xavier did was, to her, of the utmost perfection. The way he dressed suited his impeccable physique. Whenever he spoke to her it felt like the soft sultry touch of a lover. When he touched her her skin felt charged with static. When he kissed her... her eyes closed and she smiled a smile as perfect as her masters, the beautiful, heart-melting smile of an angel.

Xavier stepped away from the viscreen, raised his arms above his head and stared up at the ceiling. “Truth will out!” he declared.

“Emperor damn you!” The voice was almost drowned out by the burst of fire from the stub automatic, the hail of bullets shattering the viscreen.

In a single, fluid, and ultimately divine, movement Xavier had leapt backwards, wrapped an arm around the waist of his minion and hauled both her and himself into the safety of a bank of cogitators. With his back against the machinery, Xavier laughed and clapped his hands.

“Oh Inquisitor, Inquisitor. Such timing, striding in to save the day. Did you learn to be punctual from one of the fictional works that must litter your path, where the hero dashes into the room to destroy the heretic and save the pure innocents from the clutches of the evil do-er?” Belle giggled next to him.

“Quiet heretic. I declare thee hereticus, traitor and blasphemer-”

“Yes, yes enough of the semantics, in your eyes I'm a traitor and heretic etcetera. Well I'm very sorry to say Inquisitor but you have been wrong footed this time. I'm sorry that you've had a wasted journey and what must have been a most fraught investigation, but it's all for naught. Your lamentably poor timing allowed me to dispatch my message, sending it forth, fluttering across the sky with invisible wings.” Xavier rose from behind the cogitators and brushed dust from the skirts of his coat. He stepped out from behind the machines.

“Enough of your meaningless bile! What was this message? Confess and tell me before I destroy you in His name.” The stub automatic followed Xaviers movements and, even from a distance, Xavier could see it was held in steady hands.

“The message? Well, my dear fellow, what that message has done, or rather, will do, is freed this planet from your filthy Imperium, your imperfect, flawed, disgusting, floundering Imperium. The people of this planet have a new master, one who embraces the need for perfection and beauty.” Xavier straightened his already perfect posture and spread his hands. “What I did, dear sir, is to send a message to every unit of this planets P-D-F, and the Governors Guard, of course, not to mention the barracks where this planets latest tithe is being trained. Within the next, I would say, thirty standard minutes, the Governor will be dead, the members of the Ecclesiarchy will be fleeing for their lives and, well, the citizens of this planet will awake to a world without the oppression of your precious Imperium, to a glorious future which they will embrace openly. Months of work, which passed by your notice, coming to fruition.”

A hail of bullets from the stub weapon persuaded Xavier to duck back behind the cogitators. Carefully he drew an old plasma pistol but did not charge it. “Inquisitor, might I suggest you flee for if you stay the truth shall be revealed to you in its unmitigated glory.”

The answer the Inquisitor gave forced Xavier to duck lower, as the stub rounds tore through the machinery, splinters and shards of metal shearing off as the heavy bullets smashed holes in the cogitators. Beside him Belle moaned while Xavier charge the plasma pistol. A faint blue glow settled upon his perfect features, reflecting off his perfectly grey eyes. When the gunfire paused his voice sang out.

“Don't say I didn't warn you Inquisitor!”

The Inquisitor screamed and clutched at the blade which had been thrust through his back, bursting through his armour and out of his ribcage. Flesh hissed and cauterized as the energy field that surrounded the power weapon fused the skin and tissue. Slowly, drawing out the Inquisitors pain, the corrupted Astartes of the Alpha Legion withdrew the power sword from the man's body, the field that surrounded the blade rippling like blue fire.

Xavier stood over the Inquisitor, hands and plasma pistol clutched behind his back. He smiled at the Inquisitor and his voice felt like a soothing salve.
“It is a hard thing to tell the truth to a man who has laboured his whole life to believe nothing but lies. You blind and mislead innocent people, you tell them to fear everything and they hate you for it. Your blind hatred, falsehoods and wicked lies, loathing for that which you refuse to learn of or understand, has lead to this planets liberation and freedom from your disgusting Imperium. All because of you and your kind. That is the truth.”

The truth will set you free.

That was what ran through the mind of Lorika Lucora as she stood before her hated foe, the woman she scorned, the being she had created. Her hands were empty, weapons scattered to the snowy wastes. Tears filled her eyes as she looked into the eyes of the young woman in front of her, clad in the heavy white furs of her people.

“I’m…I…” Lorika said lamely. It was too late, wasn’t it? Too late to say she was sorry, too late to rationalize her actions. Almost two centuries had passed since the catastrophe. Two centuries since Lorika had ruined the young woman’s life.

“It’s too late,” confirmed her rival. She raised a hand, and several sharp, bone-white protrusions emerged from her fingertips. Lorika cringed and fell backwards into the icy-cold snow, the permanent weather effect of the entire planet. She looked up to see the woman bring her arm back for a strike, and closed her eyes, not wanting to see the killing blow coming.

It was too late to apologize. Too late to tell the truth. Too late…

1.

In actuality, Lorika’s story begins two centuries previously. A young soldier who had finally seen the end of the great Neran Civil War, Lorika had managed to get into a high-class university. After struggling through classes, she was invited to join a prestigious project…one that would change the history of the neran race forever.

“Is it always this cold?!” She shouted over the howling winds. She was clad in a heavy blue overcoat, a lighter blue symbol stenciled over the breast to indicate she was a member of the project.

“Cold?” Azalian, the similarly dressed man beside her, asked with a laugh. “This is summer. It’ll really be cold in a few months."

“Great,” Lorika groaned. “At least tell me this place is heated!”

“Of course! Come on, a storm’s coming, let’s get inside!” Azalian shouted back. Lorika grimaced and pulled her fur-lined hood tight as she followed the man through the snowstorm.

They were standing outside a massive complex of dark iron and gray stone, brilliantly interwoven into a mountainside. The entire area was covered in a thick layer of white powder, as permanent as the mountain itself. The world was Avalon Five, fifth and last in the system. An ice-covered planet with permanent low temperatures, it had been long-abandoned by all civilized life in the galaxy.

Lorika hurried to follow her companion into the complex. They trudged through the snow, walking away from the now-departing spacecraft that had brought them here. The walk itself was only a few minutes at most, but to the young neran woman, it felt like hours in the sub-zero winds.

Azalian waved an arm as they approached the massive set of iron double-doors, and a soft blue light encompassed his gloved hand. With a quiet rumble of steel on stone, the doors slowly slid apart from each other, leaving an opening for them to walk into the base. With another wave, the doors closed, leaving them in a small antechamber inside the complex.

Lorika breathed a sigh of relief as the air temperature rose dramatically. She removed her coat and, following the example of her companion, set it on the ground in front of her. With no visible means of locomotion, the two jackets rose into the air, floated gently towards the wall, and vanished into the stone.

Beneath her coat, Lorika was wearing a long-sleeved tunic, emerald in color, that reached down to her thighs. Beneath that, she wore a pair of loose-fitting forest green pants that were tucked into a set of thick leather boots. Azalian, on the other hand, was clad in a cerulean colored shirt with short sleeves, with dark brown pants and similar leather boots.

“Well, we’re here,” he said with a smile. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

The humble part was true, at least. The stonework walls were basically unadorned, save for several floating orbs of what seemed to be pure fire. She presumed they were the source of the complex’s heating, as well as its light source. The anteroom they stood in had only two doors – the huge set of iron doors leading to the frozen wastelands, and a modest set of wooden doors that led into the interior of the base.

“Does the project really have to be way out here?” she asked, running a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair. “There have got to be dozens of worlds better than this to run experimental research. Why not put it on Alernia or something?”

“The project requires a certain amount of…ah…privacy,” he said mysteriously. “I told you on the flight over that this is world-changing research, did I not?”

Lorika grunted. “Yeah, but you didn’t tell me anything about it. So what’s going on here?”

“Come with me,” he said simply. He waved his hand, blue light surrounding it once again, and the wooden door opened. Lorika followed him, and he led her through what seemed like a maze of corridors, with occasional doors leading to yet-unknown rooms and what she assumed were laboratories.

They walked for several long minutes, making idle conversation as they did so. Despite Lorika’s persistence, however, her companion refused to actually tell her what she wanted to know. They finally arrived at their destination some time later, ending up in a small room that was empty but for a single man-sized tube of glass, hovering gently in midair. Within it was a man, dressed in heavy white furs and sleeping soundly.

“Before I move on, how old do you think this man looks?” Azalian asked. “I want your opinion.”

“Hmm.” Lorika said, examining the man from all angles. The room was dark, but the tank itself seemed to glow with an unearthly light from within. He appeared to be relatively young, for a neran. His face bore no wrinkles, his hair was a rich, dark brown color, and if she was perfectly honest, he was fairly good-looking.

“Off-hand, I’d say…fifties, perhaps?” She said.

“Fifty, yes. Plus seven hundred.” Azalian said.

Lorika scoffed. “Uh-huh. And I’ve got three acres of swampland to sell you on Dartelas. Come on, really. How old?”
“I’m not kidding. This man is over seven hundred years old.”

“Alright. How?” Lorika crossed her arms.

“This man is the center of our research. We want to find out how, exactly, he has lived to be over seven hundred years old. We want to see if we can harness that power. In short…we here at the Eternity Project are seeking immortality.”

2.
Days passed, then weeks, then months and years. After so long, they were still no closer to unlocking the secret of the seemingly immortal man’s power.

Lorika sat in one of the onsite laboratories, a room filled with various artifacts for scientific research. She sat at a wooden desk with a small device made of gold set with several lenses. The lens was focused on a magically-positioned sample of the immortal man’s skin, and she was slowly but surely copying down the various patterns in the genetic strain, noting how it differed from other strands that she had looked at previously.

“Argh!” She yelled in frustration. She shoved the artifact away, making it teeter dangerously on the side of the desk. Next to nothing was different in the sample compared to the others. A few minor things were present, but nothing out of the ordinary. She let out a sigh and stood up. A brief walk would help her clear her mind – she’d gotten frustrated innumerable times in the past few years, so she’d quickly found ways to relieve stress in the huge complex.

She stepped outside and wandered down the corridor. Though she had thought it a maze at first, her numerous years spent walking the hallways had given her a near-perfect mental map of the area. After a few minutes of wandering, she found herself in a place she had never been before – odd, considering her habit of walking and mapping out the area whenever the lack of progress frustrated her.

She stood in front of a plain, wooden door. It had no adornment on it, nothing personal to indicate the quarters of another researcher, no nameplate to tell that it was an office of somebody, not even a symbol that told what kind of room it led to – a restroom, another laboratory, or, gods forbid, an exit to the outside.

Her curiosity eventually got the better of her and she opened the door. What she saw shocked her to her very soul.
It was a massive room, with an open door leading to the outside. She could see numerous men and women directing the traffic into the base. She shook slightly when she realized what the traffic was.

It was people.

Men and women, all of the same tribal garb as the so-called immortal man, were being transported into the base, all locked up in hovering cages of multi-colored energy. The room itself had cages stacked high, and she could see some of the higher-up captives cowering in fear from the height.

“What in the name of the gods…” She breathed.

“We’re losing heat here! Get them in, quick!” She glanced to her right and saw the man who had helped her into the project, directing the various people who were bringing the cages in.

“Azalian? What’s going on?”

“Who’s the- oh, damn it,” he cursed. “Keep it moving. I’ll take care of this.” He hurried over to her, surreptitiously keeping one hand behind his back as he did so. “Lorika, what are you doing in here?”

“I should ask you the same thing. What are you doing with these people? Why are you capturing them?” Lorika demanded.
“Look, this is the only way our research can move forward. Despite what you may have seen, we have been making progress, albeit slow progress. These tribals are almost entirely direct descendents of the immortal man, but none of them possess his lifespan. We think that the answer may lie in their dormant genetic code.”

“I don’t care if it is the answer! They’re innocents! They-”

“It’s for the greater good. We may be sacrificing one race, but we are making our own infinitely stronger. With a completed serum, we can live forever. Our people can truly become eternal.”

“This is evil. I don’t care if it’s good for the Alliance, it’s evil. I-”

“I can’t let you tell anyone about this,” Azalian said darkly, “This is vital to our project’s success. If you won’t hold your tongue about this, I’ll have to remove you.” He brought his hand out from behind his back. In his cupped hand, he held a glowing orb of fire. With a second’s thought, he could throw it forward, incinerating Lorika’s body in an instant.

“You…”

“I’m sorry,” Azalian said softly. “I don’t want to do it. I’d rather you willingly join us in our efforts, but you’ve seen what I’ll do to make sure this project gets off the ground. Even as talented as you are, I won’t hesitate.”

Lorika thought it over. She might be able to dodge the blast and take him down. Maybe. But even if she did, then what? She had no means of leaving the planet. The project was purposely self-sufficient. Transports going to and from the world were rare. Plus, there was the matter of the dozen guards in the room, all clearly armed with the neran warbow of her people. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll keep quiet. But this is dark, dark research. I’ll help you for now, since I can’t fight you. I promise you, though, that I will bring you down.”

“I don’t doubt that you’ll try. But I do doubt that you’ll succeed. The truth hurts…but in the end, it will be this truth that brings us into a new age.”

3.
It was several months later that the fated day came. The day of the catastrophe. The day when Lorika would finally achieve her immortality. Her bittersweet immortality that would result in two centuries of life in the wastelands.

The day began with yet another test on a tribal woman. Lorika was in the so-called “hot seat,” taking the duty of watching over the test subject from close up. Since she was the only one in the room, she also had the important job of enacting the experiment itself, injecting her with the actual serum.

The room was fairly small in size. A number of instruments sat on a table nearby, mostly syringes filled with various chemicals in case of accidents. The test subject lay face-up on an operating table, her modesty preserved with little more than white cloth undergarments. Given recent incidents, she was also bound tightly with leather cuffs around her wrists and ankles to prevent escape if she suddenly awoke. She was asleep, having been sedated for the experiment.

“Alright, Lorika. We’re recording. Begin the experiment,” a voice said from nearby. There was no one actually in the room, but a small sphere hovering on the wall could project sounds between the experiment room and a smaller, safer observation room elsewhere in the facility. It also projected visuals, so Lorika made sure not to obstruct its view as she went through the motions.

“This is Lorika Lucora, executing Eternity Experiment number twenty-seven.” She said out loud, barely suppressing a sigh. Though she had agreed to stay on the project and help out, she still hated the idea that they were killing an entire race of people for the sake of the project. But what could she do? Her superiors were too strong, too all-knowing. And there was no way to leave the planet.
“Patient is anaesthetized and sleeping calmly.” She began. “Injecting serum twenty-seven into the subject.”

She picked up the serum sample and located a vein on the subject’s arm, injecting it in slowly. As soon as the serum was in her bloodstream, Lorika stepped back to watch the results.

“Serum injected. Awaiting results,” she said shakily. This part was never easy. The past twenty-six times, the patient had died, but not before having his or her body horribly mutated by the serum. In one case, the researcher in charge of the experiment had died when the patient woke up, went wild, and attacked the scientist.

The effects were gradual. At first, the subject twitched and squirmed on the table, obviously uncomfortable. After a moment, she began to writhe in pain as the serum worked its way into her body. Lorika watched on sadly as the subject’s muscles began to spasm and shift beneath her skin. It was a different effect than the previous experiments, but it was obviously another mutation happening. The patient would experience extreme pain, potentially breaking the sleeping agent and waking up.

“Patient seems to be reacting adversely to the drug. Almost certainly another failed mutation – request permission to terminate?”
“Negative, Lorika. Watch her closely.”

Lorika opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Even if the subject was in pain, Azalian was right – if this wasn’t just another mutation, she could lose all their progress in a single blow. Such a blow would be disastrous to the remaining tribal race on the planet.

The subject continued to struggle for several seconds when the mutation occurred in full. Bonelike protrusions shot out of her knuckles, giving her eerie white claws. Her muscles expanded and grew, and she was in obvious pain as she thrashed against her bonds, trying to escape.

Lorika pushed herself back against the wall in horror. “Azalian…she’s mutated fully. We have to terminate.”

“Alright. She’s clearly another fail- wait!”

Lorika gasped in surprise as the subject began to calm down. The violent movements died down slowly, but surely, as the subject’s body stabilized. Lorika stood there in stunned silence for several moments until she was sure the mutation had truly stopped.

“She’s…she’s…alive?”

“Confirm diagnosis, Lorika. Is she breathing?” Azalian said.

Lorika slowly stepped up to the subject. With shaking hands, she lifted the patient’s hand, pressing two fingers to her wrist to check her pulse. Careful not to cut herself on the sharp claws, she felt for a heartbeat.

It was faint, but it was there. Could it be they had finally succeeded? Did they finally find a working serum?

“Con…confirmed,” she said breathlessly. “Patient is…alive and well. Heartbeat is slow, but steady. It appears that she’ll make it. Further testing is required to determine the full effects of the serum, but…initial results seem to say that it was a success.”

She heard applause and cheering coming from the other room. She wanted to join in, but the intensity of the mutation had shaken her to her core. She waited a few scant moments before continuing onwards, desperate to end the experiment quickly.

“S-some further testing will be required to determine the actual validity of the serum, but it appears to have worked.” She said out loud, strengthening herself as she did so. She stepped up to the subject once more and began checking her vital signs. The tribal woman was sweating profusely, and her pulse was racing, but was otherwise normal.

It was while she was turned away, preparing the other samples of the serum for transport that it happened.

Lorika heard a crash from behind her as the tribal woman awoke, snapped her bonds free, and leapt off the table. The researcher quickly backed into a corner, reaching for the hilt attached to her belt, but it was already too late. The subject let out a fierce snarl and, seeing Lorika go for her weapon, leapt across the room in a single, powerful bound.

Lorika let out a scream as the woman landed on her, sending her sprawling to the ground. The subject raised her newly clawed hands and prepared to strike when alarm bells began ringing throughout the entire complex.

“Emergency! Subject escape! Emergency!” came a voice from overhead. She knew it was reverberating throughout the entire facility – it had happened once before during another near-success.

The woman growled and jumped off of Lorika, clearing the entire room in a single leap. Lorika was stunned. None of the other tribal people could do such a thing – why had the mutation been so intense? The previous ones had generally been superficial, or at the very most, made them tougher.

“Lorika! Are you alright!?” came Azalian’s voice over the sphere in the wall. “Lorika!”

“I’m f-fine,” she said weakly, getting to her feet. Her entire body was sore from when the woman had landed on her, but she was quick to mentally shut the pain out – a side-effect of her past experience as a soldier.

“Lorika! Listen to me!” Azalian said. “The subject is on a rampage. We’re trying to stop her, but she’s shrugging off all of our weaponry.”

“Wha-what?” Lorika asked, shocked. “How is that possible?”

“Never mind that. We’re abandoning the base. The self-destruct has been activated. In a few minutes, the entire base is going to collapse. I need you to gather the samples and get to the cargo bay – we set up emergency shuttles in case we needed to leave quickly. Do you need any help?”

“I’m fine. Just surprised.” Lorika said.

“Alright. I have to leave now – remember, meet me at the cargo bay. We’ll wait as long as we can, but this subject is going to bring the whole place down if we don’t –”

“She’s coming through! She’s coming through!” Another voice cut in. Lorika heard explosions from beyond the sphere, and then all sound stopped.

She wasted no time. She quickly grabbed the vials of serum and made her way towards the door. But just as she reached the doorway, an explosion was detonated nearby – probably the careless shot of a guard trying to halt the subject’s escape. Though she only heard the explosion, she felt its effects when it caused the ceiling to fall.

She let out another scream of pain as the stonework collapsed on top of her. Her body had reacted before she did, leaping towards the hallway in hopes of escape, but it hadn’t been fast enough. She was pushed to the ground as several hundred pounds of rock, mortar and dust fell on her legs.

She heard a sickening crack, followed by an intense spike of pain throughout her entire body. Her legs were unresponsive – and judging by the crack, at least one was broken. Stars flooded her vision, and she nearly fainted from the sudden pain. But she fought through it and managed to focus on what was happening.

She gasped a breath and looked over her shoulder. She was pinned from the thigh down. The ceiling inside the lab had indeed collapsed, and she was trapped. She directed her will at the rocks on her legs, trying to bark (or at least whisper) out a spell, but the pain was too much. Her magic wouldn’t come to her. And without her magic, she couldn’t use her weapons to blow apart the rocks, either. She had no hope of lifting the rocks by herself, injured as she was, and everyone was making their way to the cargo bay to escape the base.

It all seemed hopeless, and she was struck with despair as she struggled weakly. Then her gaze fell on the serum. She hesitated for a moment, but then grabbed the syringe full of serum and turned it on her wrist. She had no idea what would happen, but anything was better than dying, pinned under a collapsed ceiling.

Her hands were shaking, but she managed to push it into her vein, press down the plunger on the syringe, and inject herself with the serum.

Her body was on fire. Every inch of her body burned as the serum worked its way through her system. She let out a scream of pain and writhed on the ground. She could feel her body in flames, and nearly blacked out. But she hung on for several torturous seconds while her body’s entire physiology was rewritten.

As with the subject, her muscles expanded within her body, rapidly increasing her strength. Gritting her teeth through the pain, she watched as the mutations took hold, and saw with some alarm that her body’s color and texture began to alter, apparently matching the ground beneath her. After several more agonizing seconds, however, it eventually returned to its original hue.

A full minute passed before the pain died down. Lorika breathed heavily, still prickling from the serum. In spite of the immense pain, she found that the weight from the collapsed ceiling had gone down – in fact, it felt more like a great deal of pressure than anything else. She clenched her jaw and bent forward, using her newfound strength to lift the rocks, one at a time, from her legs. Though it was hard at first, and extremely awkward to do so from a sitting position, she eventually managed to get enough of the weight off in order to gently pull herself out.

She winced slightly as she extracted herself from the room, her legs suddenly receiving a rush of blood as her circulation resumed. She gently bent them at the knee, finding the wounds healed completely – the serum had either given her greatly enhanced natural healing, or just made her wounds close in the intensity of the mutation. Either way, her bones had knitted, and she was able to shakily get to her feet and set off down the hall.

She hadn’t made it five steps before she heard the first explosion detonate. It was in a distant part of the base, far off behind her, but it was there. Azalian had begun the self-destruct sequence, and the base was beginning to collapse itself to destroy any evidence of a neran presence on the world.

Lorika let out a curse and shot off down the hall, moving rapidly with her newly strengthened legs. Seconds seemed to stretch into hours as the explosions came rapidly, detonating across the complex. She chanced a glance behind her and saw that the hallway was beginning to cave in – and if she was caught up in the falling ceiling, she wouldn’t get a second chance to save herself.

She took a quick turn, using her mental map of the facility to find her way out. It was too late to get to the cargo bay. She could only hope that they would wait and search for her once the base was destroyed.

With seconds to spare, Lorika finally made it to the front entrance of the base. No time for subtlety. She thought to herself, drawing her bow in a smooth, fluid motion. Though the bow had no string, she placed her fingers where the drawstring would have sat and pulled back, channeling her natural magic powers into the weapon. A silvery, glowing cord appeared, stringing the bow, and a translucent red arrow came into existence on the weapon. She loosed the arrow and raised an arm to shield herself.

The arrow flew straight and true, impacting on the iron door of the stronghold. Her skills were somewhat rusty, but she still knew how to take down a gate with style. When the arrow hit the door, it fired a directed explosion inwards, creating a massive hole as it fired iron shrapnel out into the wilderness.

Lorika dived through as the ceiling of the entryway fell, making it through with a few scrapes and scratches, but otherwise unharmed. She landed with slight thud, her impact barely cushioned by the snow, and she was treated to a sudden and dramatic decrease in temperature.

She was battered, beaten and bruised, and now freezing. She shivered as she pulled herself up, wishing that she had thought to grab her coat on the way out. It was too late for such things now, however, as she stared back at the once-proud complex, carved into the mountain itself.

The entire base was gone. It had been methodically collapsed, its foundations destroyed by magical blasts, and the parts of the building outside the mountain had tumbled to the ground. The interior caverns and corridors had been similarly destroyed, and within days, the once-proud testament to neran magic would be covered in snow, forever lost to the winds of time.

She shook slightly at the sight. Had she been just a few seconds slower, she would have been crushed under tons of rock. She’d been lucky. She didn’t dwell on that fact for long, however – she had to get to the escape vehicle.

Knowing that she would never find it in the rapidly worsening snow storm, she summoned her magical energy once again, raised her bow into the air, and fired off a glowing red arrow. As it reached its peak in the air, it exploded in a shower of brilliant orange and red sparks, raining down on her in a fiery blaze. When the sparks reached the ground, they melted the snow around her in a wide radius, broadcasting her position for miles around. She followed up by conjuring several brilliant red balls of flame to orbit her body in a slow circle, helping to both give her position away and keep her warm.

Several long, slow minutes passed. Nothing happened – the ship never showed. She sat down and rested for another few minutes before going through the ritual again, attempting to tell her rescuers where she was.

A chill went down her spine as she realized that her help wasn’t coming. Were they searching the planet’s surface for her? Were they already off-planet? Or worse – dead in the explosion? She set off another flare, but after a solid thirty minutes passed, she came to the conclusion that they weren’t coming for her.

She shivered, and not because of the cold weather. She had never felt so alone before. She was stranded on an unknown world covered in ice and snow. She had nobody to turn to. Nobody to help her. Scratch that – nobody but a homicidal tribal woman who wanted her dead.

Lorika gritted her teeth. Surely someone would come and investigate. Surely they made it off-world, and were just going for help. It might be a few days, maybe a few weeks, a month on the outside. But someone would come. She let off another signal, then slowly stalked off into the wilderness. If she was to face this trial, she would not back down. She would survive.

4.

Survival was hard, at first. The presence of such a large number of self-sustaining nera meant that animal life in the area was, at least in the beginning, virtually nonexistent. She had spent the better part of her first few days surviving on little more than small game while she traversed the continent in search of heartier prey.

For two hundred years, she wandered the wastelands, hoping to find some semblance of neran life – perhaps some other secretive project built on the icy world, or an abandoned outpost from when the planet was first scouted. Some means to contact her people, some way to escape her frigid prison.

They never came for her. Two centuries passed, and the original members of the Eternity Project were surely long-dead. But Lorika never died. Her body aged not a day after she injected herself with the serum. She was immortal – and in the cold wastelands of Avalon Five, weary and alone, with no one but a single enemy for company.

“I’m sorry,” she said, eyes closed, waiting for death. “I…I deserve this. It’s all my fault.”

A long couple of seconds passed before she opened her eyes. Her foe had lowered her hand and was looking at her quizzically. “You…what?”

“I’m…I’m sorry.” Lorika repeated. “It’s my fault you’re alone. It’s my fault you mutated. It’s my fault you’ve been stranded here for two hundred years…I couldn’t stand up to my leader.”

“I…not understand,” said the woman. “You…sorry? Not proud of scientific progress?”

Lorika blinked a few times. Where had she learned that? “N-no. The project was a mistake. We never should have experimented on you and your people.”

The woman was silent for a long time. “I…underestimate you. You determined enemy. Thought you proud and arrogant, glad to kill my people, glad to achieve goal.”

“Of course not!” Lorika burst out. “I…I never wanted any of this. I wanted to propel my people on…” The woman was looking at her strangely. “I just…I never wanted to see your people dead. I thought our work was noble, but I was wrong.”

“I always thought you enemy. But you not. You equal.” She suddenly brought her claws out and lashed out, drawing blood from Lorika’s cheek, evoking a cry from the scientist. She then performed a similar action on her own face, leaving three long slash marks on her cheek. “We share blood. We share common goal. We no longer enemies.”

“I’m…touched. I think?” Lorika said, slightly confused by the turn of events. The woman just laughed.

“Come now. We fight together now. You and me, battle sisters,” she said, offering a hand out. Lorika grabbed it and pulled herself to her feet.

“I feel kinda strange asking this, but…do you have a name?”

“You funny. Of course I have name. Me Mati Dacci. What yours?”

“Lorika Lucora. It’s very nice to meet you, Mati.”

“Good to meet you, Lorika.”

Lorika allowed herself a small smile. She had gained a friend today. One who had been her enemy for over two hundred years. Her struggle was not over, not by a long shot – she still had no idea how to get off the planet, and the backwater nature of the world meant that it would probably never get a serious examination. But in spite of all that, she was no longer a helpless prisoner on the icy death world.

The truth had set her free.