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Since rising from the Cold Sleep, the Hunters had stalked the length and breadth of the Milky Way, pitting their strength and cunning against the galaxy's deadliest prey. The strong among the Hunters collected grisly trophies to prove their status as True Dominators. The frail perished in battle and in dying, cleansed their race of the taint of weakness. By this process, each Hunter contributed to the inexorable progress of the Overpath.

Warkha was old, even by Hunter standards. These days, what Warkha could no longer accomplish by brawn, he would accomplish through guile. Though no longer in his physical prime, he was still fit for the Hunt, a seasoned veteran forged by centuries of experience. A survivor of ten thousand hunts, Warkha had scoured the galaxy for worthy prey, and one by one, he had bested them, tearing out skulls and spines when anatomically possible. Over the long centuries, Warkha had amassed a collection of trophies most Hunters could only dream of one day earning. Of course, many of these youngsters would never achieve true greatness, but the exceptions would eventually rise to the ranks of the elite, as Warkha himself had once risen.

In search of new prey, Warkha had looked to the folklore of his race. Of the species memorialized, many were now extinct, a testament to how far the ancient history of his kind stretched back. Other species praised in the annals as worthy prey were nothing but disappointments. Through lofty embellishment, the scribes of those accounts had transformed unremarkable hunts into tremendous feats of skill.

On the verge of giving up, Warkha had come across an ancient account recorded by some long-dead scribe. It told of a Hunter called Skemte. The scribe’s tone was one of amusement rather than respect. According to Skemte, he had crossed a bridge to the other side, a realm where he had witnessed Ooman warriors the size of Hunters, strange warlike species, and endless conflict enough to make a Hunter’s mandibles click with battlelust. His only souvenirs of the other side had been two strange skulls. The scribe described one as blunt and heavy, with over-sized tusks jutting from a prominent lower jaw. The other was described as angular and delicate, similar to an Ooman skull in overall appearance, but distinct in its slender proportions. Insisting on the truth of his tale, Skemte had given the location of this bridge, but the coordinates had been those of a primordial Abyss, a swallower of stars. His peers had laughed heartily at Skemte’s tall tale. The account concluded that after being met with disbelief, Skemte had vowed to revisit the other side, claiming that he would return with the skulls and weapons of those giant Ooman warriors. With a few gullible youngsters in tow, he had embarked, disappearing without a trace.

At first, Warkha too had chuckled after perusing this strange account, but then he had grown somber as the prospects of challenge dwindled. Some veterans of his age were content to take their place among the Clan Council, gradually retiring from the Hunt. Not Warkha. He yearned to feel lightning rush through his veins as he battled truly worthy foes. He had no desire to engage in lengthy debate over the laws of the clan. He lived and breathed the Hunt. He was not old enough to forsake its thrill. To feel his heart beat with the song of battle...that was the reason for his existence.

It was clear to Warkha that a life separated from the Hunt was no life at all, and so he found himself doing something desperate, ridiculous even.
The spacecraft shook with juddering force. Strapped to the pilot seat, Warkha could only brace himself as he offered a silent prayer that his ship would survive the gravitational riptide. Warkha heard the screech of warping metal as the swirling eddies within the gravity well sought to crush his ship into oblivion.

That.
Was.
Awesome.

AVP/40k crossover? Do want!

The juddering suddenly stopped, and just as abruptly the world went dark. Silence. The Hunter was unsure whether the ship’s lighting system had failed or whether he had paid for his foolishness. After a few seconds, he noticed something more disturbing. He could not feel his limbs. He could not feel his body at all. Was he already in the Black Warrior’s embrace? His consciousness existed in this disembodied state for what felt like several minutes. Warkha prayed to Paya for light, and the god must have heard him for it finally came. As swiftly as the world had been stolen from him, light, sound, sensation returned in an instant. Still strapped to the pilot throne, Warkha let out a slow breath and shifted in his seat. He thanked Paya for returning him to reality. Warkha quickly turned his attention to the ship’s control panel. All systems were online. His eyes met the navigational display. According to stellar alignments, he was still in the Milky Way. His ship was a safe but relatively short distance from the Abyss that had just swallowed it. Preposterous. Had he been swallowed and then spat out as a cruel joke? He checked the energy readings. Normal...except for what had to be some unidentifiable form of background radiation. Very faint, but still detectable by the advanced sensors. This piqued his interest. Warkha switched on the long-range comm array and cycled through the channels one by one. Nothing. Even the familiar Hunter channels returned only static. Of course the comm system could have been damaged, but he doubted that. There was something different about this place. The star alignments were no doubt familiar but upon closer inspection, he realized there were subtle differences. The distances were not quite right, the arrangements were slightly off. For the first time in over a century, Warkha’s body tingled with the buzz of excitement.

[The Deathwatch will probably appear only near the end, but here's a little preview of my attempt to write space marines.]

Valerian held the training spatha in a two-handed grip above his head. The hawk stance he had learned as a youth. As he slowly circled his opponent, his feet padded across the cold marble-like floor. The figure facing him moved with a pantherish grace, mirroring Valerian’s circling movement. Without breaking his focus on the immediate threat, Valerian allowed his eidetic memory to rapidly replay their earlier exchanges. His gene-enhanced mind raced through each move, searching for weaknesses in his opponent’s technique. He was forced to conclude that his adversary was more than just competent.
From across the ring, Jamukha broke the silence, “Is this a staring contest, Ultramarine? Do you fancy my scars, or is it my beautiful face?”

The White Scar wore a hearty smile, one that belied his bloodlust in battle. Ceremonial scars crisscrossed Jamukha’s leathery face. His scalp was shaven clean save for a central strip of cropped black hair running from the nape of his neck to his forehead. The White Scar’s left ear was lined with half a dozen gold rings, and there were even two embedded in the flesh of his nose.

Valerian smiled. “Your appearance is as atrocious as your accent, Brother. After I finish this lesson in swordplay, perhaps I will give you a lesson on how to speak proper Gothic.”
Guttural, grating laughter from Jamukha. The White Scar held his sparring sabre in a loose one-handed grip, twirling it casually.

The Imperium of Man was not known for its tolerance of diversity. The myriad space marine chapters were a notable exception. Each chapter had its own customs and traditions, its own way of thinking. Back on Macragge, this sort of banter in the training ring was a rare thing. Any distraction from the fulfillment of duty was frowned upon if not outright punished. But this was not Ultramar. This was the Jericho Reach guarded by the unblinking eye of Watch Fortress Erioch, one of the most formidable Deathwatch strongholds in the segmentum. At Fortress Erioch, Brother Astartes hailing from over two dozen chapters made up the current taskforce. To fight effectively as a Deathwatch member, Valerian had realized he could not rigidly adhere to the ways of his chapter. This had bothered him immensely at first, but ultimately he had recognized efficiency as the Codex's central tenet. To serve the Emperor efficiently was thus the ultimate goal of any true Ultramarine.

The distance between the two Astartes had grown shorter.
Jamukha lunged. His sabre darted out like a snake. Responding almost instantly, Valerian twisted, barely deflecting the blow in time with his heavier spatha. The White Scar’s blade grazed Valerian’s side and retracted as swiftly as it had struck.

“That would have drawn blood”, Jamukha smirked, knees bent, his sabre held out in front of him. The White Scar undulated his wrist so that the curved sword swayed like a cobra waiting to strike.