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Been wanting to do something like this for a while, ever since i read the FW HH book. I like the more earthy realistic portrayal of the Heresy, less zany and gilded eagle baubles. The sons of Horus/Lunar wolves were particularly well done. This is just a starting morsel, but i hope it give a good flavour.

A Great Crusade.

They only locked eyes for half a second, then both pairs danced and fled to other regions, the other's knife, the other's feet, the other's throat. The eyes shared cold grey-green irises, better to catch the dull orange bio-luminescence that lit the cavern. In a circle a handful of onlookers surrounded them, impassive, silent as the grave. It was a gathering of ritual not sport, they would not whoop and holler and if one of the encircled fell backward he would feel only a stony barrier.

The younger of the two tried to control his breathing, his heart had been small then, later he would recall the tightness in his chest, a stifled dry swallow. The older looked calmer, more sure with his footwork and less energetic in his offence. Tiring of the initial non-committal strikes the younger gambled with a more decisive attack. He was looking to thread his blade between the older's arms from below. If he was quick he would swipe the arteries before a retaliation, one which would likely prove fatal.

In the slow second it took, it seemed to have worked; the bold manoeuvre taking the more experienced man by surprise. The knife sailed easily to his neck, just managing the slightest graze before the tables suddenly turned. With time-worn ingenuity the older man nodded his chin unto the blade, crushing the lethal slice. The younger man just managed to slide his blade out of the indecisive wound before an arm could close round and trap him for an effortless dispatching. Despite his swift recovery his offhand still had to deal with a return strike, he paid the price with his palm, grabbing the knife by the blade. Both reeled backwards with new unexpected wounds. Despite the cold both pale bodies shined with sweat, prickling and stinging the fresh cuts. He couldn't remember what happened after, which stroke bit where, how many gouges scored his young body by the end, how many scored the elder. That first folly-blow was the only thing he recalled with clarity, the smarting shear of his palm under the knife, he didn't remember how he had bested the superior fighter but he knew he taken Abaethon.

His father had been the only one who would fight him, the only one who would take on an opponent so young. Tisce tried to refuse the final memory of his father, he wished he had severed the windpipe more cleanly, that way it would have been gurgled silence. Instead the words haunted him, 'Is this what you wanted?'
It had leaked out with the blood from his neck, the wound changing the voice, like the holes in a flute. There had been cruelty there, it was a vindictive way to teach a lesson.

***

The ribbed fuselage that held him now was not unlike the tunnels, were there was once luminous hyphae there was now emergency lighting, the gentle heat of a dying core replaced with the drone and convection of burning engines. One hundred of his Legion brothers shared the space, five tactical squads in all, below dreadnoughts filled the second deck, reincarnated brothers doing fifty years indentured service before final release. Tisce had refused the offer, to be such a large beast was not something he desired, no cavern would house such a creature, he was resolved to die the Cthonian way; Crawling.

'You, Cthon, stop staring into space, we arrive shortly.'
The Terran spat 'Cthon' like it was the filthiest word he knew, the Legate Vanger was a prejudiced dinosaur, the Cthonians outnumbered the Terrans seven to one now, the margin ever expanding with aid of their Primarch's favouritism. It was whispered that Horus had stalked the outer tunnels of Cthonia as a youth, living amongst shifting dark shapes and the rampant frost, others still that he had ruled the core, where it was warm and none stooped to walk. When directly questioned the Primarch's cool demeanour was said to melt into mischief, spinning a new tale each time, his eyes glinting with a rare pleasure. Tisce didn't care, Horus followed the tunnels to the caverns and licked the water off the walls, It only mattered that he was Cthon. The Legate would do well to remember that, the Unification wars were a distant memory, an eclipsed Triumph. It was the time now of the Great Crusade, with the Lunar Wolves as it's rampaging Vanguard.

Restrained and creepy, nicely atmospheric.

What comes next?

Really like a bit of Atmosphere, glad you found some in the story. Oh and incase you haven't read The FW HH book, 'Abaethon' is Cthonian ritual combat, the aim being to cut the other's throat.

Within the Stormbird the deck rumbled with the prelude to war, harnesses were clipped and unclipped, feeds were checked and cocked and helmets sucked their void seals. Some marines helped each other calibrate their suspensors and power-plants others had help from the engineer team. Tisce rose from his seat and looked to his fellow, Klepper, they nodded briefly and Klepper gestured to his right pauldron.
'I've slackened the fibre bundles on the right shoulder, gave a better swing during training. Can you check the clearance? Oh, You need anything?'
'That I can. As for myself, my thanks but no brother,' He was curt but not impolite, he avoided Klepper's eyes and looked to his shoulder, 'and flex', he said.
He watched carefully as the plates shifted over each other, sure enough a chalky squeal signalled abutting ceramite, the top corner of the pauldron meeting the exhaust vent. Klepper's face shifted into a rueful grin, trying to stir some dull ember of humour in Tisce, no smile bled from the stony face.
'You need to tighten the Anterior flexor bundle and loosen the pectoral flexor bundle, an intriguing strategy though'. His voice crept slightly outside it's monotone to pay the complement, he had realised too late that Klepper had desired good humour, some relished the bonding before the shared fight, it was something that Tisce often forgot in his introspection.

Tisce was one of the last to don his helmet, before he checked it he looked over to Vangar, his nose and mouth wrinkled with contempt as he watched fearful engineers scurrying around the Centurion. Despite being the same two foot above the technicians as Tisce, Vangar still managed to look down on them more. It was an increasingly frequent sight, Tisce sometimes wondered if it was the destiny of all the Legiones Astartes to come to despise the ones they protected. Life inside Cthonia was brutal but it was short. Instinct and hatred can sustain a man for two-score years of plenty but men like Centurion Vangar had known no kindness for over a hundred.

He brought the helmet to his face, Tisce watched as his vision was enveloped by the eye-holes in the fluid motion. It encased his head now, floating just above it's final resting place, he sucked one last real breath through the tiny crack in the seal and then closed it. The small grill in his mouthpiece let out a small sneeze of compressed air, he only heard it but he knew it issued like a raging bull. His new armour was comfortable, it was slim and graceful where his previous panoply had been brutal and durable. Many of his legion had been fighting for months in the 'Maximus' but his cohort was the first outside the nascent Ullanor campaign to get them. Vangar still retained his 'Iron', it's clumsy rivets a liability to the impenetrable plates, still, it's pulping fists and thundering feet still intimidated like nothing else.

The crested visor of the Centurion shot a glance at Tisce, he spoke above, and through, the crowd of murmurs as if he didn't acknowledge their existence.
'Decurion..' His rank, Tisce had only just got acquainted with sergeant before his recent promotion; He had fought alongside the Justaerin on Terentius' capital ship, his squad destoryed, his armour and flesh staved-in and rent, the chance to see the Primarch was all that had sustained him. He had seen Horus take the weakling's life; 'So perish all traitors'. He remembered Horus looking to him from across the conquered bridge and nodding to his lieutenant, his lips moving with unknown words, words that Tisce would still forfeit his soul to hear. The next day he had been summoned by the Mournival and under a waning crescent he was decorated.
'..Yes Centurion?'
'The Astropaths have relayed my Battle plans to Horus, he is assessing them now..'
Despite being 10,000 light years away Horus still approved all strategies, rarely taking more than five minutes to pick it to shreds if need be.
'I am sure it will....'
'SILENCE...' The Centurion put a hand to his earpiece, a reply, Tisce had no doubt his eyes were closed under the helm, quivering lips whispering a benediction.
'He Approves!'
His cry had a manic quality to it, as if he was appealing for a great standing ovation. After an almost awkward pause the Centurion stepped into the egress aisle that ran down the deck, he strode to the assault ramp, shod metal on metal clicking and clanking in silence.

'Prepare yourselves..' Vangar had started to address the men but his voice only managed a hoarse whisper, he continued, managing to cough some authority back into his reedy voice, '…. We are to land inside their lines. I will not condescend you men; the cannon fire will be thick and their numbers at their most prodigious. But we aim for the heart! If we endure the initial scouring, we can carry the command post. I was allotted one thousand men, but we hundred are all I need!'. A subdued cheer rattled along the deck, Vangar gave a curt, yet smug, nod.

The 'I' was emphatic, Tisce rankled at that, he was also vexed by Vangar not counting the dreadnoughts in his tally, it had been ill-done .

A second later the light of the atmosphere flooded into the deck, and the noise of planet-fall ground it's way along the floor. The peace of vacuum had been replaced with resistant cloud and the whole dropship sighed and grunted with elastic effort. At this Tisce rose from his seat,

'The Centurion calls for a strike to the heart. Men of Cthonia, I call for a strike to the throat, I CALL FOR ABAETHON!!!!'
The Cthon contingent of the force exploded into an echo of his cry, Tisce felt the low bellows of the Cthon dreadnoughts underneath ring through his feet. They all called the same:
'ABAETHON!!! ABAETHON!!! ABAETHON!!!'.

I like the creepiness of this, but the descriptions is sort of lacking, of course it is a superb piece by any means, but for me descriptions is king. I personally love to read descriptions as of now I tend to read a very sterile environment for the people (nevermind them, I love descriptions of them as well). Of course me not having read the HH-novels might hurt a bit there, as you have based your fluff on that Perk.

I agree with Beaviz up to a point. Making the story a bit more descriptive would certainly give more to the reader and captive us more. But the atmosphere that you are providing is superb. Keep it up Perk!

Hopefully the coming action will see to that.

I'm liking the wee details - the tweaking of the armour, the inkiling of the growing gulf between the Terrans and the Cthonians.

Plus, there's the promise of dreads. What's not to like?

Thanks for the kind comments and criticism as well. It is all much appreciated. MORE TO COME VERY SOON! Call this part 2.5 with three coming very shortly! Here we are:(Editing in Progress).

What little windows the deck had faded from the upper atmosphere's silvery white to the gold of a fogged sunset. Gentle yellow shades played across the edges of Vangar's armour as he approached Tisce.
'You have a way with the Cthon's' he said, his head turned away, remaining fixed on the cohort.
'And I appreciate it, however, don't let me mistake it for insubordination. It could be an easy mistake to make.'
For a second he turned his head face to face, a dull glint of sunlight wiped across his visor. Tisce held the gaze then slowly nodded, With it came the first dry rattle of flak upon the fuselage. Just before the blast shutters strangled the light from the windows, they strobed, each thick blossom of black smoke outside stifling the sun's glow.

The pneumatics of the decks lurched and pumped into action, some pressurised hisses were interrupted by the muted thump of direct hits to the void shields. In a ponderous synchronised dance the egress ramps took a slope, then fell into the darkness below. Slowly, red light-stripping came to illuminate their course to the lower decks. Some of his brothers had already took to the top of these exits, pausing before the gentle clank of the couplings engaging. Without any panic or rush, the Marines filed down the ramps, methodical and patient, the only sound the increasing battering of the void shield and the harmless tinkle of spent shrapnel all around. Tisce noted the pitch of the impacts, it had lowered, the shield would lose it's integrity soon. He took to his own ramp filing in after Klepper and before the one called Montag. Even Klepper was silent as they entered the lower deck, it was sparsely lit, scant shards of light picking out large armoured curves, the rest brooding in shadow. As the first form shifted so did the rest, delicate whirring hefting titanic limbs, a choral hum of reactors throbbing into Tisce's ears. They filed in with rest, standing side by side, if not, shoulder to shoulder, five dreadnoughts, each one a powerful warmachine, inside an even more powerful one. Some had markings on their Contemptor pattern coffins, most did not, for some a scrawled Cthonian glyth or an engraved victory was too painful a scratch for their new skin.

Direct hits shook the deck as it lit up in red to reveal the force, the lighting flickered over the armoured soldiers with each impact, their neutral grey armour sucked in each pulse of blood red, within ceramite shells and hardened bone-plates some of the hearts begun to stir, some threatening to rise beyond their throats, at least in feeling. Tisce's remained subdued, issuing a miserly beat every few seconds, he would unshackle it soon but not before his feet were on the ground.

Some shifted their footing with the first of the heavy blows, they were unblunted now, heavier weapons would be able to get a bead now. The enemy had no doubt bought their ground vehicles to bear, the slow hulking descent an easy target. Mega-bolter point-defence echoed through the fuselage, the squeals of missiles could be heard in the rare seconds of silence. Some fidgeted in the ranks, riling against their impotence against the mounting fire. The sonic boom of the retro thrusters absolved all doubts, the creaking of strained metal heartened those who had doubted.

'THREE HUNDRED METRES!! PREPARE FOR ASSAULT!!'
Vangar bellowed as best he could against the racket of friction, he was at the head of the host, his boot rested on the bottom of the assault ramp, his lordly footing impossibly sure. A gleaming ribbon of suction and light gilded the ramp as it started to open. The dreadnought beside Klepper broke the silence, Tisce felt some of it's steely lustre disappear as it spoke.
'How does it smell brother?' It lowered it's two Autocannons, the barrels greedily stealing the light to gleam.
'Like fire and death!' Klepper replied, a smile tingeing his voice.
'The last smell I recall, ha'. The guffaw had sounded horribly unnatural, relayed through vocoder as it was, Tisce felt of shiver run down his spine, Not a fate I want, he thought.

The ramp was a halfway open now, showing an angry yellow sky and swirling dusty winds. The tops of the tallest buildings started to creep into view, their sharp blackened spires casting long shadows over the Marines. Criss-crossing contrails and tracer stripes brought tidings of the threat to the Cohort, the air was saturated with high calibre previews of the upcoming resistance.

They were to land in a gigantic inspection pit that had been spotted from orbit, they would have to fight upwards but only small arms had the traverse to pour fire down on them. Once outside, the industrial squalor of the titanic ship breaker yard would grant them cover from the heaviest emplacement fire but they would need to cross vast swathes of concrete runway. To all but Astartes it was a suicide mission, only their stalwart power armour would afford a crossing. Tisce had admired the forethought Vangar had given the strategy, however his pride In choosing so small a force, reeked of folly.

The landing gear finally kissed the reinforced concrete, and for a second all the din of battle ceased, the Stormbird was safe for now. Trundling wheels and sprinting boots would be converging on them, it would only buy them a few minutes.

'To War' Vanger whispered forcefully, as his boot drew parallel with the fully lowered ramp.

Action and Bolter based death! Got some cool ideas for action set pieces to come so this is just a taster! In this entry the marines utilise my favourite tactic from most shooter computer games, Most notably Max payne 2; shoot them from below!

Tisce only heard his breaths as he ran, each deep, deliberate, inhale filling his ears and lungs. His eyes were fixed on the service coupling that stood in the middle of the concrete channel. Hydraulic shafts rose from it's sides and great wires coiled within the fat steel girders that housed them. It could hold the tonnage of a starship as it was decommissioned, the load lessening as she was picked clean. The coupling took up twenty of the channel's fifty feet span, Narrow gangways coupled with steel staircases littered the sides and lips and the ground was slicked with a shallow film of oil.
The men around him rushed to the position he had chosen, he had not yet given any orders to his squad, he didn't need to, not yet. A hundred yards up the trench Vangar and his breachers along with the dreadnoughts forged ahead, they were almost three quarters of the way along the pit, halting where the shallow ramp's ascent began. Tisce would join them when they made the upward push, replacing them with his own covering fire as they charged.

The first signs of enemy activity alerted his autosenses and then his eyes, some foolhardy heads peaked over the rim, into the Abyss. When the first shots trickled downwards Tisces men returned fire with heavy bolters, ten in all. Fat sparks and clouds of dust kicked up the sides, shards of spall began raining down the walls in sheets. Despite it's fury the enemy gave a fresh salvo, it lacked bite though; Montag took a shot to the chest but did not cease his fire, a shot or three went wide but his heavy bolter remained true. Tisce noted that the enemy did not want for accuracy or discipline, it was simply their weapons that let them down. Rounds would spark and chip away at armour plates but made no lasting impression, his men had initially halted but now they resumed their advance.

'Flamers!' Tisce said over the comms, his voice barely rising. Five specialists stepped out of formation and gave the quickly amassing enemy a taste of liquid fire. He watched Klepper arc his flamer eagerly, waving streamers of flame forging upwards with each press, saturating the gangways above. The first of the enemy fell screaming from his perch, for fifty foot he flailed downwards, his legs breaking him into burnt silence. More flaming men fell alongside the concrete chips and incandescent drips that ran down the walls, each issuing a scream that would curdle a man's blood. Tisce's blood did not, if anything it ran more freely through his veins.

Some of the enemy scurried past their broken kin, filing into the gangways and stairways that ran all the way down the sides. Tisce stole a glimpse of shoulder mounted launchers, the tubes glinting with the fires of burnt men.
'To the sides!'
Again it was little more than a whisper, his men still obeyed, parting down the middle, each back-peddling with blasts of bolter fire or Promethium. Across from him Tisce saw his first marine fall as a missile detonated in his chest. Beneath the blast the Marine's heavy bolter had exploded into sheared slag, and in amongst his blackened armour his vitals dribbled from his wounds. The warrior fell on one knee and Tisce felt a pang of pride as the dying brother drew his side arm to send a final bullet through his killer's skull, tracing the fading contrail to it's source. As the marine listed forward to die, Tisce gave another order.
'Upward'

The gangway cast a patchwork shadow over his men, the grilled walkways did not shut out the light entirely they only patterned it. Tisce aimed his pistol through them, to the first black form he spied through the levels. His men did the same, and a furious salvo tore upwards, punching through the thin walkways like paper. The shapes above rocked with each bullet that ate them from below, Tisce leered through fat holes as the enemy's feet, legs and groins exploded into a flecked mist, the walkways rang and shuddered with cries and ricochets, the channel granting an eerie echo. Bowels, blood and bone rained down on the marines, slick red sluicing down the matte grey of their armour.
'Resume the advance'.
He whispered icily, each Marine stepped out from underneath looking like a statue plastered in bird mess. They filed back into formation, and sped towards Vangar and his breachers, who seemed to be having the worse of the fight.

Nicely-detailed bloodletting. I smiled at the description of the Marines looking like statues covered in bird mess. It shouldn't have worked in the context of the chapter but ... you pulled it off Also liked the marine casualty taking out his killer before succumbing. Hardcore.

Stepping back a bit to look at the bigger picture, how far are you taking this? To Isstvan and beyond?

Not that far, i have an ending in mind, with a couple twists in the meantime. There will be scope to continue but the writing is quite dense and getting to istvaan would take a while.

I struggled with that metaphor for the exact reason you describe, it's a little out of place but i thought statues are pretty common in 40k so it might just about work.

Thanks for the support.

I liked both of the additions and yes the metaphor would look out of place but you did manage to pull it off

I was going to ask about the story and whats going to happen but I prefer reading it

Here's a 100 word mini-update, expect a larger update either tomorrow or monday/tuesday. Possibly both.

The Contemptors were sheltering the flanks of what was left of Vangar's men, with the flagging breachers stifling withering anti-infantry fire from the top of the slope. The air was rippling not only with the heat and concussion of the missiles and AP rounds but the haze of the dreadnoughts' straining shields. As Tisce entered the air around Vangar's contingent he tasted the torture it had endured, each detonation greedily sucking in the air and warping it with pressure, a tang of ozone, the tannin of soot. Closer now, Tisce's keen eyes catalogued the way the explosions now erupted into more smoke than light, shedding their shrapnel in oily black tendrils. Where the missiles and sabots blunted against the Contemptor shields surging talons of flame snatched across the speherical fields and the Foetal forms of braced Dreadnoughts beneath. The five deadly Warmachines remained still to maximise the output from their shields, their weapons silent and cradled to their chests.

If he took off some of the pressure the Mortis from the Dreadnought Claw could resume his hammering of the enemy strong points and in turn start the chain reaction of a counter attack. While he strategised Tisce did not attempt to recall the honoured brother's name, he was simply the Mortis and his twin autocannons should be firing until they depleted their rounds or the barrels drooped molten in their mounts.

Liked the trailer ...

...Now run the movie!