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Hello folks. I broke my wrist on Thursday, so Ive decided to share with you a little something I've been working on in lieu of my Word Bearers.

The story has two settings: Isstvaan V shortly following the infamous Dropsite Massacre, and around 846M41 the characters from our Dark Heresy party.

Enjoy

Chapter 1

ACROSS the night-blackened fields of Isstvaan V, a raven unlike any other flew. Moving from darkness to darkness, it glided over the corpses strewn across the field, bodies daubed with a wide spectrum of colours. Some were a brilliant emerald green, the finish marred only by the red stained across every surface. Others a gleaming silver-black, the steel palm print daubed on them grimly mirrored in the sea of augmetic limbs; some of them still twitching awkwardly, awaiting input that will never come. And lastly, those who were the shade of midnight, the Raven's kin. Birds that will never fly again. This was not the scene of a valiant last stand, depicted in so many frescoes and tapestries over the millennia of mankind’s existence; this was quite clearly a slaughter. And even the casual observer who could hold his humors in check long enough to look upon the grisly scene could see the treachery in their demise. Some of the furthermost soldiers in the mass grave still lay upon the ground with their arms spread wide in gestures of greeting and brotherhood, and the stunned look upon their faces testament to the seditious blow.

The Raven took all of the grisly detail in at a glance, sparing a moment for his fallen comrades. There had been too much death this day. Too many heroes of the Imperium, men who had protected the human race for centuries, snuffed in an instant. So many brothers. Comrades. Friends. These were no mere men, upon whose blood the Imperium was built, these were Adeptus Astartes. They were demigods of war, warriors who had taken planets in the course of a day. Genetically and mentally enhanced by the will of the Emperor of Mankind, for the sole purpose of uniting the galaxy under the will of man, in the hope that one day their swords may be beaten into plowshares and peace would rein throughout the galaxy.

Unfortunately, so were their killers. Astartes who had turned away from the designs of the Emperor, and claimed their righteousness on the blood of slain brothers.

As the Astarte bade his silent eulogy, he suddenly was interrupted by the grinding of arcane gears and oil slicked machinery. Ten, maybe twenty kilometers away. The Raven regarded this with calm detachment, and melted into the shadows with the ease of a woman sliding into her nightgown. With a ghostly whisper, he called into the vox.


"Wing to Talon." The response was equally subtle


"Talon here. How does our quarry fly?" The question was partially obscured by the growing rumble of heavy armor. The Raven chanced a glance at the approaching foes. Seven tanks were making a stilted approach through a broad chasm, with slight whizzing shapes at their flanks. The hulls, even in the dim evenings light were easy enough to spot, resplendent in brilliant purple livery, broken only by the stylized motif of an eagle's wing.

The Third Legion of the Adeptus Astartes, the ironically named Emperor’s Children. Warriors who had prided themselves on martial skill and perfection.

The Raven suppressed a wave of revulsion at the memory of them. Emperor's Children. Traitors. Filthy cur that blasphemously bore the name of the very individual they swore to destroy. Steadying himself with a breath, the Astarte voxed back to his allies.

"In numbers. 4 Rhinos, 2 Land Speeders, 3 Predators, moving to your position"

"Orbital support?"

"Unlikely" The other voice regarded this intelligence with the determined calculation of a chess master, watching the pieces fall into place.


"Understood, we engage in thirty. And Gaul?"

"Yes Captain?"

"Happy hunting." Despite the clinical detachment, the Raven Guard could not keep the feral glee from his voice. Dawn was breaking over Isstvaan, and it would be a red dawn, the red sky mirrored by the blood of the heretic scum.


EDIT: updated the chapter with corrections to several spelling errors and rewrites

It weighs in at only 425 words, but that's about as long as most fiction posts. I'm enjoying it. Battles are always difficult to write, so I'm eager to see how you do.

Hey guys! Long time, no update, so I decided to add the next portion. More to follow tomorrow!

Gaul shifted his weight uncomfortably as he angled himself behind a strewn boulder, ignoring the awkwardness of his position in order to align the sight of his Boltgun. In the morning light, even the three meter tall bulky form of the Astartes was blurred and indistinct, melting into pools of darkness amongst the light.

Of course, the description was an apt one for a warrior of the Raven Guard. The Nineteenth Legion Astartes was always the Dark Horse of the Emperor’s domain. Ever since their Primarch, the Emperor’s true born son Corax, had cast off the chains of the slavers and mercenaries on his home world of Deliverance, the Raven Guard had excelled in the art of striking from nowhere. It was not cowardice, far from it. If their blow failed, the fewer warriors of the Raven Guard would be left exposed to their enemies, and swiftly overcome. Hence their war cry, Victorus aut Mortis. Victory or death. If they could not overcome oppression swiftly and with few casualties, only death could come in its wake.

Bringing the Boltgun up to his shoulder once more, the Raven Guard angled his bolter for the first strike, bringing his eye to the sight. The lens filled with the angular violet helmet of one of the Emperor’s Children tank commanders, barking orders to his kinsmen over the throaty grumble of his Rhino-class transport. Gaul exhaled, allowing the boltgun to rest in a more natural position. The shot had to be perfectly aligned before he even thought of pulling the trigger. Sniping was as much of an art as a science to the trained eye of a warrior, a delicate mental dance of timing, and patience; distance and speed, velocity and lethality. If the shot was even a hair’s breadth from the target, not only would the target survive, but the shooter’s position would be revealed, and all advantage lost. Taking in another breath, Gaul raised his eye to the boltgun, and with a whispered prayer on his lips, pulled the trigger.

The key feature that separates a civilian from a veteran, was perception of time. To an average man, a second was a blink. A moment. An infinite resource to be squandered by the billions over the course of his life. But a soldier knew the difference. When adrenaline sings in your veins and your heart races at the sound of a fired weapon, a second is a lifetime. In the infinite moment after the mass-reactive bolter round was discharged, three things went through the mind of Aulus Quintus, tank commander of the Emperor’s Children legion.

The first thing to go through his mind was the ringing sound of shot. Was it an engine backfiring? Had something gone wrong in the workings of the invaluable transport? No. This was something else, a shot? But from what?

The second thing to go through Quintus’ mind, was a flash at the edge of his vision. His mind was racing to process the new data, the sound could only have been a bullet, but from who? Any further speculation was cut off by the third thing to go through his mind.

That was the mass reactive shell from Gaul’s boltgun, as it entered his skull and a moment later detonated, marring the brilliant purple finish of his tank with a shower of viscera.