Rampaging Carnifex
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I've been in this hobby for 13 years now and have always thought about writing fiction for my army but never actually got around to it... until now. Be warned that as an absolute fanatic for all things MCU, this story is heavily inspired by one of my favorite MCU films. Here goes!
Asgard Secundus
In the depths of the Eastern Fringe, where the light of the Astronomican can barely be seen, lies the remote planet of Asgard Secundus in the Yggdrasil system. Far flung as it was, the light of the Imperial Truth was not brought to Asgard Secundus during the Great Crusade. It was not until 113.M35 that an errant successor chapter of the Imperial Fists, The Sons of Odin, discovered Asgard Secundus almost entirely by accident.
The battle barge Odin’s Wrath and her accompanying escorts flew into a tumultuous warp storm in pursuit of Malekith, Lord of the Wild Hunt, a notoriously bloodthirsty Drukhari Archon. The Astartes had been made aware of increased kabal activity in the sector and had been chasing leads for months to no avail. Having finally caught a realspace raid in progress, the Sons of Odin did not balk at a mere warp storm at this chance to run down their quarry. Frustrated for so long at having always arrived too little too late, the Astartes doggedly pursued Malekith even when discretion was the better part of valor.
A short but violent battle was waged in the skies over Asgard Secundus. Outgunned and outmatched by the battle barge, Malekith’s damaged raiding ships fell into a decaying orbit. The Astartes followed closely on their heels while the servitors aboard Odin’s Wrath scanned the planet and extrapolated the probable landing zones.
The readings from orbit revealed a planet that was clearly well past its prime. Blankets of algae dotted the oceans like islands and cities that sprawled entire continents lay in ruins along the equatorial band, choked in nuclear ash and waste from wars long forgotten. Signs of complex life could still be detected in the colder climes closer to the poles. A sprawling metropolis poked out from beneath the ice and snow around the factorums, billowing their plumes of smoke into the frigid air.
As The Sons of Odin descended onto the planet to purge the Drukhari with bolter and chainsword, they were surprised to find the xenos already engaged by unknown parties on the surface. Humans bearing crude but effective weaponry opened fire on the Drukhari. Caught between the Space Marines and the unexpected hostile indigenous combatants, the Drukhari were quickly overwhelmed and torn apart by a torrent of fire from seemingly every direction. With the xenos slain, the Astartes turned their attention to the ragged band of militia. As the Space Marines of the second company prepared to unleash the Imperium’s wrath on the erstwhile defenders, whom they believed to be xenos themselves, Captain Hephastos Heimdall had the foresight to order an immediate ceasefire.
In total breach of protocol, Heimdall holstered his weapon and strode forth directly into the militia’s field of fire. Confident he would not be fired upon, he removed his helmet and looked upon the awestruck faces as they gazed upon him. Seeing that he was of their kind, they threw down their arms and wandered toward his angelic figure. They fawned over him and his comrades, bewildered at these fellow men that descended from the heavens to help them vanquish their hated foes. Words of gratitude and vows for celebration were sung to the heroic Captain.
Chapter Master Siegfried al’Thor broadcast his demand on all frequencies for immediate surrender. Having just witnessed the awesome firepower of Odin’s Wrath and the impeccable martial skill of the Space Marines, Siegfried’s request was promptly answered in the affirmative by what passed for Asgardian government. Siegfried al’Thor and his personal retinue descended onto the planet themselves to find a warrior culture not unlike their own.
Siegfried was deeply troubled to learn that the Asgardians had been contending with Drukhari realspace raids for centuries, indicating that kabal activity in the area had gone unchecked for much longer than was previously thought. Asgard Secundus had become something of a pleasure world for the perverted debauchery of the Dark Eldar. Malekith had organized many a hunt on the planet, leaving the grisly trophies of his kills behind. These were often done with a morbid artistic flair. Flesh was cut from the backs of his prey and suspended in the air to give the appearance of angels at prayer, while others were left hanging by their intestines from the highest peaks for all to see.
The venerable Astartes were impressed by the sheer tenacity of this populace that had resisted Drukhari realspace raids for centuries. The constant threat of these swift and sudden attacks colored Asgardian psychology. They were a stoic, humourless, and despondent people. They had grudgingly accepted their lot, stubbornly resisting the predations of the xenos knowing full well that they would eventually succumb to their hated enemy.
The certainty of this eventual defeat went far beyond dispassionate acknowledgment that they were outmatched. It existed even in their creed. Ragnarok was to be the final, cataclysmic downfall of their world. Warrior shamans would sing to their fellow brothers in arms to give life and limb on the battlefield, that they may postpone Ragnarok a while longer.
Having long since lost their homeworld and fortress monastery to war with the Eldar, the grim and taciturn Sons of Odin felt a near immediate kinship with the people of Asgard Secundus. After decades of surviving as a fleet-based Chapter, here at last was a home that they might call their own. Once the populace was screened for genetic mutation, Siegfred al’Thor officially brought Asgard Secundus into Imperial Compliance within just a year of its discovery.
Having labored for so long to protect their way of life by themselves, the Asgardians welcomed the Imperium with open arms. For the first time in their remembrance, they had allies. A fortress monastery was constructed in the barren mountain range that ran along the coast of the northern continent. Its sole access point was a bridge crafted by master artisans from the rarest mineral to be found on Asgard Secundus. The Rainbow Bridge glittered day and night with spectacular hues of blue and green that lit up the mountainside.
To the indigenous inhabitants of the planet, this fortress monastery was revered as a symbol of hope. Pilgrims ventured into the wilderness with naught but the wolfskins on their back, that they might gaze upon its hallowed halls and towering spires and feel the warm embrace of hope in their breast.
Almost overnight, Asgard Secundus became the planet on which the Sons of Odin drew the bulk of their neophytes. To the Asgardians, the noble Astartes were their saviors. To be in service of them was to guarantee one’s place in the vaunted halls of Valhalla. Donning the sacred armour of The Sons of Odin was the highest honour to which an Asgardian could aspire.
With Imperial Compliance came the sudden shock of being integrated into the monolithic entity that was the Imperium. Asgardian culture and history was censured by Administratum Historitors. Under the auspices of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the planet’s industry was transformed to produce the ubiquitous arsenal of the Imperium’s armies rather than the crude implements hitherto used by the Asgardian units. The Ecclesiarchy meddled with the Asgardian creed, though this at least was a relatively simple task. The Emperor was presented as a divine savior from the looming threat of Ragnarok, but so ingrained was Asgardian fatalism that this was accepted with great reservation.
The Herald of Ragnarok
For the next three millennia, little of note occurred on Asgard Secundus. Its people continued to revere the Astartes who called their planet home. The fortress monastery was well supplied by munitions and aspiring recruits, and the population exploded under the Imperium’s protection. The Drukhari seemingly lost interest in Asgard Secundus, its resources no longer worth the cost of seriously challenging her defenders. Gradually, the burgeoning population moved back into the ruined cities overgrown by the native flaura and fauna.
Rebuilding and reclaiming these ancient ruins was no small feat. Traffic to and from Asgard Secundus gradually increased in tandem with her growing populace. With so many ships coming and going, carrying with them vital supplies of materiel, conditions were ripe for one of the most dangerous threats in the Imperium to take root.
At some point in the third century of M38, the exact year of which either unknown or redacted by Imperial records, a Genestealer stowaway made planetfall aboard a transport ship bound for Asgard Secundus. The labyrinthine ruins and snow drifts made for an ideal habitat for this dangerous invader. In the dark depths of the sewers and storm drains, the Patriarch patiently waited and plotted. As legions of construction crews churned the surface of the planet and breathed new life into Asgard Secundus, a cancer grew in their midst. Workers beyond count fell under the Genestealer’s Kiss, and the corruption festered across the planet.
The intrinsic fatalism of the Asgardians was easily turned to service the Patriarch and its vile machinations. It preyed on the Asgardian creed and came to be known as the Herald of Ragnarok. Children went to bed frightened and fearful as the end of all things was whispered into their ears. Walls and doorways were vandalized by warnings of a nameless threat that beckoned from across the void. There was a growing sense that the planet was living on borrowed time, that the longer the calamity was staved off the worse it would be for everyone.
The Disciples of Surtur, as the cult came to be called, adorned themselves in the bulky and cumbersome regalia of their ancient ancestors in protest of the Imperial Creed and to hide their deformities. They saw themselves as prophets of death and faithful servants of the star children that would bring Ragnarok with them. Enlightenment and salvation awaited them. With single-minded determination, they endeavored to infiltrate as many sensitive areas as possible. With a fortress monastery on the planet, the threat of being prematurely uncovered was a potent one indeed.
It was not long before civil unrest was fomented on neighboring systems with an eye to spreading the Sons of Odin thin. Hundreds of cultists willingly undertook the voyage to other planets, plotting all the while to cause as much mischief and disruption as possible. Manufactorums were sabotaged and assassinations conducted with chilling efficacy. Within just a decade, an entire sector was embroiled in disarray by the plotting and scheming of the Disciples of Surtur. The Sons of Odin were committed on multiple fronts, not only at home but abroad. The situation was not deemed critical, but there was nevertheless a great deal of concern by both the senior commanders as well as those officials responsible for the governance in those systems.
The planetary defense force on many of these worlds was expanded, though a great deal of the recruits had been unwittingly drawn from the cultists themselves. Fortifications were built to defend sensitive areas, but their construction was deliberately sabotaged by crews loyal to the Broodfather. Equipment was stockpiled to resist open rebellion but was quietly redistributed to guerilla units eagerly waiting to begin their insurrection.
The board had been set and the pieces put into place. All that remained was the signal to begin.
The End of all Things
In 521.M38, after so many years of meticulous planning and preparation, the siege of Asgard Secundus had begun. The shadow of the warp enveloped the Yggdrasil system. Astropaths and psykers with guile enough to evade the the Astra Telepathica and their Black Ships were sent into a frenzy as the screeching of the approaching hive fleet split their skulls.
The grim Asgardians, beset for nearly a hundred and fifty years by the doomsayers of the Cult of Surtur, felt the imminent arrival of Ragnarok in their bones. Many uttered prayers to whatever gods could hear them before they hung themselves or killed their own kin in acts of mercy. Pilgrims descended on the fortress monastery of the Sons of Odin in numbers never-before seen and were so mistakenly identified as enemy targets. Thousands of innocents were slaughtered upon the Rainbow Bridge by the Astartes they so dearly admired. Corpses choked the gates and gore slicked the ramparts, causing chaos and confusion for when the cultists arrived in earnest shortly thereafter.
All across Asgard Secundus, guerillas poured out of the gutters and sewers to assail the defenders from every quarter. Bunkers and trenches long thought bastions of safety for the local garrisons were suddenly detonated in spectacular fashion. Lines of defense were overrun from within, the carefully sighted firing lanes and prepared positions all for naught.
The Astartes exacted a heavy toll on the cultists, but even they were not impervious to the Cult of Surtur. Improvised explosives and the sheer audacity of the zealots throwing themselves at the Space Marines proved to be a match for the ceramite plates of their power armour. A scant few battle brothers perished under such attacks. The sight of these mighty warriors being mortally wounded by the attackers broke the thin resolve of the already demoralized planetary defense force that witnessed it. Panic rolled through the garrisons like a wave. Commissars that were the veterans of many battles were torn apart by their own men desperate to get away.
When the hive fleet itself finally arrived, only a handful of cities could mount anything like an organized defense. The battle in orbit was a brief and terribly one-sided affair. Odin’s Wrath and most of the Chapter’s fleet was deployed elsewhere to keep the peace in the sector, leaving a scant few defenders that were no match for the hive ships that blotted out the stars.
As spores and Tyrannocytes rained down from the sky to disgorge their deadly cargo, the cultists of Surtur rejoiced. Hymns were sung in the streets as the cultists went about their bloody work. With a spring in their step and a song in their heart, they smiled and jeered while countless innocents were gunned down and blown to pieces. Their day of reckoning was upon them. Ragnarok was here, and with it came to an end to all of their toils. Salvation and ascendance was at hand. Like children eager to please their parents, they threw resolutely themselves into the digestion pools with certainty they would be transformed into something greater than themselves.
The fortress monastery was unsurprisingly the sight of the most bitter and gruesome fighting. Gargoyles descended upon the battlements as Harpies strafed the defenders with hails of living ammunition. The entire breadth of the Rainbow Bridge was covered by a blanket of the smaller biomorphs who excitedly licked at the blood and gore from the carnage that had come before. Yet, even undermanned as they were, the Sons of Odin were up to the challenge. Siegfried al’Thor conducted the defense himself, holding where he could and conducting fighting retreats where he couldn’t.
The veterans of the first company, led by the Warriors Three, covered themselves in the ichor of the Great Devourer as they held the gate of the Rainbow Bridge against seemingly insurmountable odds. Bolter and holy chainsword were used as never before, carving paths of corpses through the endless Tyranid horde. Even as caustic blood defamed their holy armour and ornaments, they threw themselves at the vile invaders and exacted a heavy toll.
It was then that it came. A monstrous beast of unimaginable savagery was unleashed upon the hapless defenders of the fortress monastery. A Hive Tyrant bearing a bone sword like no other stepped upon the Rainbow Bridge, its hooves ominously crunching into the blanket of corpses. Its weapon crackled with entropic energy and seemed to steal the light from everywhere around it. The dazzling light show of the Rainbow Bridge retreated from its advance, leaving nothing but cold, hard stone in its wake. Siegfried commanded the Warriors Three to retreat whilst the Chapter Master himself strode out to meet this new and terrifying adversary.
Wielding Mighty Mjolnir, the Chapter’s most sacred relic, Siegfried al’Thor let out a battle cry that would have curdled the blood of any other enemy. The Hive Tyrant roared back, and for the next three days and three nights Siegfried tirelessly fought this foul abomination. Hammer clashed against sword, every blow echoing among the mountains as horrific war raged all around them. The Warriors Three and the veterans of the first company tried to intervene, but each time were met by a wall of chitin that blocked their path as if the hive mind itself willed the duel to continue uninterrupted. They watched helplessly as their commander fought desperately for their survival.
On the fourth day, the haft of Mighty Mjolnir was sundered by the Hive Tyrant. Lesser men may have screamed for mercy, but not Siegfried al’Thor. The stalwart chapter master rained blows upon his enemy with naught but his fists. With a terrifying roar, the Hive Tyrant plunged its blade into Siegfried’s chest. His body exploded into a cloud of red gore as what remained of his holy armour rained down upon the mountainside. Enraged by the death of their leader, the Sons of Odin could restrain themselves no more. All that remained within the monastery charged down the Rainbow Bridge like mythic heroes to avenge their fallen leader. Sword and bolter gleamed in the faint light of dawn before the horde rose up and enveloped the scant few that remained in a flurry of claws and gnashing teeth.
The battle for Asgard Secundus was over. The capillary towers descended from the hungry hive ships in orbit, quivering with anticipation as they sank into the digestion pools. The Great Devourer had taken another world.
Aftermath
By the time the riots had been quelled in the other systems of the sector, it was too late. Those battle brothers of the Sons of Odin that were not present for the battle for Asgard Secundus returned to their home world only to find it a barren, lifeless husk. They scavenged what precious little they could as mementos to their fallen brothers, and for what seemed like an age the entire chapter was engaged in endless funeral rites. Vows for vengeance were taken and pleas for victory were made to the Emperor.
Terribly depleted and undermanned, the Sons of Odin stubbornly refused to acknowledge their defeat in the tradition of all those Astartes that drew their lineage to Rogal Dorn. They would have their vengeance or die in the attempt, a noble ending for warriors such as these. Even as they laid their fallen brothers to rest, courses were plotted and weapons were readied. The pursuit of Hive Fleet Ragnarok had begun.
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