I own nothing in this story.

Warhammer 40,000 and all related keywords and names are owned and copyrighted to Games Workshop.

RWBY and all related keywords and names are own and copyrighted to Rooster Teeth.

I thank both companies for creating universes that allow people like me to make the story I've made, and other stories that other writers have made.

And last of all, thank you Monty Oum for creating RWBY. May you forever dance on in joy.

ETA 20/04/2020: New cover art courtesy of DragonBlitz85 on DeviantArt.

"Brother! Brother, help me!"

A tiny voice, nearly subsumed in the roar of a dying city. Fires rage out of control, their flames fed by exploding munitions, the embers of ruined builds and the blast of battle. Kasr Drak is dying. The archenemy are pounding away at the city with their guns, intent on bringing the city to dust, while the defenders fight back with everything they have to buy just that one more second, so the civilians can escape to safety.

"Brother! Please!" The young girl cries out as she reaches out with her hand, her violet eyes shining with tears, even as they reflect the wicked flames around her. Her leg is stuck fast by a piece of masonry, likely breaking the limb, while above her, the roof threatens to collapse with each round of artillery fire.

He tries to reach her. He reaches into the building as far as he can. His flak armour protects his torso and back against the snicks and cuts of the broken masonry around him, although his forearm and hand are still bleeding where he has cut himself on glass, rock and metal. Sweat pours down his forehead and into his eyes, mixing with the blood from the cut on his head.

"Hold on, Arie!" He calls out as he tries to dig in deeper. Just a foot. An inch. A centimetre, even. Emperor, just let him get an inch! "I've almost got you!"

The rumbling increases in pitch and volume as more shells are lobbed into the city, the teeth-shaking quake of a building toppling sending a rumble through the ground.

He's closer than he was, but it's not enough. Him on Earth, blessed Father of Mankind, give him strength!

The rumble is persistent now, dust and flakes falling around the pair like rain. For a moment, he hesitates, thinking that the artillery barrage has stepped up to become drumfire. He looks around in instinctual fear, hoping to see or maybe even hear the round that will kill them.

He sees something worse emerging through the ruins of one of the buildings. Festooned in barbs and spikes, adorned with hooks and rotten cadavers and covered in blasphemous symbols daubed in blood or worked into the very metal, the tank crushes rocrete and cement under its metal tread. A blasphemous work of metalcraft, a fallen effigy to the darkest depths of humanities depravity. A Predator of the Legions of Chaos.

Panic and dread fills his soul as he turns to the girl.

"Arie! I've almost got you, just hang on!" He cries out in panic as he frantically, desperately tries to dig away at the rubble and soil blocking his path. "I've almost got you."

The tank moves closer. The driver has either seen them and wishes to crush them, or they are unseen and just in the way. The cracking tread of doom fills the air.

The ruin shakes, jolting the masonry heavily, pushing it further against her leg. The girl screams in pain.

"Brother! Please! It hurts so much."

Just a bit more! He's almost there. He moves a stone the size of his head out of the way, letting him force his shoulder through the gap in the ruin, his fingers just inches away from her hands. Blood trickles down to the dusty floor in a slow spill.

"Arie!" He cries out in elation, even as the creaking sound of doom inches closer towards him. "I've got you!"

"Brother!" She cries out in response, her face alight in joy.

A shell lands close by. Not close enough to injure him, but close enough to shower him in dust and dirt. Close enough to make the ruined building shake to its very foundations. Close enough to dislodge another piece of masonry above the girl.

He screams as though that would stop the fact. He screams as if it would instantly pull his sister towards him, freeing her from her prison. He screams, as the last sight he sees of her is wide-eyed joy turning to wide-eyed horror at what she sees looming behind him.

"ARIE!" Tychos screams, bolting upright from his bed. His eyes are open in fear and his body is dripping sweat, making the vest and light trousers he has as nightwear stick to his body. The scar on his forehead throbs slightly with pain, making him grimace, moaning as he doubles over to try and quench the pain.

"The dream again?" A lazy voice asks to his side.

Turning, he looks at the bunk next to him. From underneath a pale grey blanket, a woman's face, angular and tanned, topped with close-cropped black hair looks at him in the zombie-like stare of someone who's not had enough sleep.

"Yeah." Tychos replies, nodding his head forlornly. "It… it keeps getting worse. But thank the Emperor I don't see her die. It's just that… Terra-damned tank. Always the tank…"

Pushing herself up in her bunk, Specialist Sophia turns to look at Tychos properly. Like him, she too is wearing a simple vest as nightwear, revealing the subtly defined muscles of her arms, along with the tattoos of her various tours of duty and her scars. She looks at Tychos sadly.

"You want to talk about it?" She asks with genuine concern, earning a shake of the head from the man in the bunk next to her.

"No, it's all right." Tychos replies, rubbing at his eyes with his hands, wanting to wipe away the tears from view, although the low light of the dormitory wouldn't reveal much. "I think I'm gonna see the medicae."

"Oh, no, come on." The specialist trooper says in quiet annoyance, trying her best to keep her voice low to avoid waking the others around them. "You've already had to use sleeping aids twice this trip. Three times is enough. And remember what happened when you managed to get your hands on that amasec?"

"Will you two shut up?" An annoyed groan comes out from beneath Tychos' bed, making both people turn to look down. Underneath his blanket, Trooper Reinhardt is a beast of a man: tall and muscular, he's a man who can easily lug a heavy bolter around like Tychos could a lasgun. His boxer's face, with broke nose and cauliflower ears, is currently contorted in an annoyed grimace as he tries his best to shut out the noise from above him. "Sophia, if the man wants to be able to fall asleep, let him. Then at least he'll shut the frak up."

Huffing from her nose, Sophia looks at Reinhardt for a moment before turning to look at Tychos, a resigned look on her face. "Fine. Just watch out for the commissars."

Nodding his head, Tychos smiled wanly. "Wouldn't be the first time. Try and get some sleep guys."

"Easy for you to say." Reinhardt grumbles out, as he rolls in his bed, trying to wrap himself in his blanket, while Sophia says nothing, simply turning to face away from Tychos.

Moving as quietly as possible, Tychos descends the ladder bolted to the side of bunk bed, one of the many that line the room. He hisses slightly as his bare feet touch the cold plasteel flooring, earning a low rumble of a warning from Reinhardt, before he manages to get his boots onto his feet. Deciding to at least have some semblance of professionalism in his post-dream, sleep-deprived state, the man quickly dons his jacket, a uniform khaki colour, with a pewter double-headed eagle, its wings outstretched on the left breast, over his heart. The device is copied on both his arms on his biceps while above them is another device wrought in pewter: a gate made from three simple blocks with a single skull in the centre. The emblem of the Cadian Gate.

A gate now sundered wide open.

The man is Tychos Litten, trooper of Second Squad, 1st Platoon, Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, 598th Cadian Infantry regiment. He, and the other two-hundred souls of his company that make up the two-thousand-odd strength of the regiment he calls home are sequestered in one of several dormitories on the troop ship, The Sublime Vengeance, en route to the Ilyusian system, on the orders of the Lord Commander of the Imperium, the reborn Primarch, Roboute Gulliman.

But it is far from a quiet journey. As he walks down the aisles of bunks towards the exits, he hears sounds of suffering; muffled sobs, cries of anguish both loud and quiet, apologies to the deceased or lamentations to the Emperor for souls departed, or simple weeping.

They are all, man and women, Cadian Shock Troops. Men and women born on the very edge of the Ocularis Terribus, the Eye of Terror, born in the Cadian Gate. They are all men and women who are known throughout the width and breadth of the Imperium of Man as one of the most steadfast and honoured regiments in the numberless ranks of the Astra Militarum, the Imperial Guard. They are famed for wills of iron and hearts of steel, the bravest of the brave and the most courageous of troopers.

But courage and bravery, like iron and steel, can be corroded and tarnished.

The death of your home world will do that.

Tychos, Sophia, Reinhardt, all the other troopers of the 598th are now orphans. One segment of the three-million souls that were safely evacuated from the doomed planet. Three-million, out of eight hundred and fifty million. Many more Cadian regiments were out of system, waging the Emperor's wars in systems and on planets far from their home, meaning that the number of survivors had to be higher than three-million… but what did that matter when your home, the birthplace of your people was destroyed?

Slipping as quietly the dormitory bulkhead as possible, Tychos makes a move to go towards the medicae.

"Out of bunk, Trooper Litten?" A cold voice, as cold as ice, from behind Tychos makes him pause.

"Commissar Anton. Good evening, sir." The man says as professionally and smoothly as he can in the compromising situation of being out of bunk and trespassing outside of the assigned dormitory past regulated hours.

Turning to face him, Tychos suppresses a shudder as he comes to face with Commissar Anton Schreiber. An aristocratic face almost carved from stone, with high cheek bones and a sharp nose under a high forehead, the violet eyes of a Cadian shining from underneath the perfectly starched bill of his hat, the pale-skinned man looks an absolutely terror in the black uniform of his office. Until his icy face melts into something sorrowful.

"The dream again, Tychos?" Anton asks, earning a simple nod from the trooper in front of him. "Gulliman's blood, this is getting worse. Why are you out of quarters?"

"I was heading to the medicae to try and get some sleeping aids and-"

"Again?" The commissar asks in horrified shock, his voice stern even as he tries to keep it from echoing in the spacious hallway. "Tychos, this is the second time I've caught you and, against my better judgement, I have let you get your hands on those pills."

Stepping forward, Anton places a hand on Tychos' shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze as he continues speaking.

"Tychos, I consider you as close to a friend as our ranks permit, but I cannot allow you to do this."

The commissar is right. Despite their ranks, Anton and Tychos are friends, of a sort. Introduced to the other in the ranks of the Whiteshields, the pair formed… something of a friendship. Tychos' low-birth in the urban sprawl of Kasr Drak earned him a quick wit, which was matched by Anton's Kasr Karth spire-born education, meaning the pair could easily outwit the less intelligent or slow witted members of the regiment who sought to take advantage of their fellow soldiers.

It wasn't a friendship in as literal a sense, but it was companionship. Which meant a lot in the cold dark void.

"But…" Tychos began, feeling sadness well up in his throat again. "I can't… I can't see it again. I don't want to see her die. Not again."

For a moment, Commissar Anton just looks Tychos in the eye, gauging his words and motives before, with a sigh, he relents. Patting the trooper on the shoulder, the political officer reaches into one of his jackets inner pockets and withdraws a simple paper notepad and graphite pencil.

"I don't like doing this, but I'll do it. Just this once. No more." Anton says as he begins scribbling on the sheet. "This chit will let you draw two allotments of sleeping aids. No more than two. Understood?"

Swallowing what was building his throat, Tychos nods his head. "Yes. Thank you."

The sound of a paper being ripped from the pad fills the immediate space between the two Cadians before Anton hands him the chit, which Tychos takes carefully.

"I don't know what I can say to try and help you, but… I don't think taking drugs is what will help you." Anton says softly, the action completely at odds with his bombastic rank. "Maybe… maybe it's something you have to leave to time to help you with."

Tychos nods his head in understanding.

"Maybe it's something worth praying on." Anton says, a little more warmly than before. "We have four more rotations until we reach our destination, maybe you'll be able to get some time in the chapel."

Again, Tychos nods his head in understanding, although he's not overly sure that prayer will help him. He's prayed enough times since the Fall that he's sure the Emperor is getting sick of hearing him.

"I'll give it a shot." The trooper responds, earning a small but warm smile from the commissar. "Again, thank you, Anton. Have a good night."

Anton nods his head. "You're welcome, Tychos. Emperor watch over you."

"And may He watch over you, Anton." Tychos replies as the commissar turns around and walks back to wherever he was bunked for the journey, tucking the chit into one of his breast pockets.

Prayer. Faith. Out of the myriads of cultures that exist in the numberless systems of the Imperium, faith in Him on Earth, the God-Emperor of Mankind, was the only constant variable. He was a rock in times of trouble, a byword for loyalty and humanity itself.

A rock for a troubled soul.

But, like a rock, He gave no reply. Just… took the prayer given to him, the offerings, and said nothing.

Tychos isn't a heretic, not by any stretch. Heretics were quickly weeded out of the regiments after they left Cadia and Tychos had taken his part in the pogroms with zeal stoked by his own rage at the loss of his home world. But… praying just didn't feel like it was giving him the answers he needed, for why this dream was plaguing him.

Walking down the corridor of the ship towards the area that he knows is the medicae, Tychos passes a stain-glass window. Looking up at the multicoloured, glass mosaic, he pauses at the image. Like many on the ship, it's an image, but not one of the Emperor, which takes the trooper by surprise. It's of a demi-god, a man like but also unlike the Emperor, resplendent in beautifully crafted, baroque golden armour, a wicked looking but also gorgeous chainsword clasped in his hands. Above him are thunderbolts, eagles in flight alongside angels, while at his feet is a towering and menacing fortress wall.

Letting his eyes trace down the masterwork of glass, Tychos gazes on the name of the being rendered in gold mosaic, written in sheer black onyx: "Rogal Dorn, Praetorian of Terra".

A glorious name, to be seen by someone like Tychos.

Looking up, the Cadian looks at his reflection in the window, backlit by the low light in the corridor and lit by the active Gellar Field. Compared to romantically noble features of the Primarch, he is as basic as a Cadian can get: dusky skinned, a round chin, flecked with stubble, leading up to a sharp cheeked face and a low forehead. Black hair cut short in the regulation cut did nothing to hide the jagged scar on his forehead, while beneath those, his eyes, the stereotypical violet of the Cadian people sat lustreless and dull.

Tychos lets out a sigh.

"Before the greatest mountain, the single pebble doubts his worth, even though both will wash away with the tide of time."

The voice, a low grumble almost like a Leman Russ' engine, makes the Cadian jump and wheel around to see who is behind him.

Turning around brings him face to face with a pillar of a torso enclosed in a jet-black cassock, a pair of pendants level with his eyes: a golden Aquila sitting next to the roaring head of a dracon, exquisitely and simply made from silver.

"My-my Lord!" Tychos calls out in shock as he takes a step backwards and drops into a kneel, bowing his head in respect of the being in front of him.

The act earns a low rumble, which Tychos quickly realizes is a chuckle.

"Rise, Guardsman. I will not admonish a man for reflecting on the image of the blessed Primarch."

Hesitantly, almost like looking at the speaker will instantly turn him into stone, Tychos raises his head to look at the being in front of him, because the speaker is definitely not a human.

Tree-trunks for arms and legs and a torso as thick around as a Demolisher cannon, combined with muscles that are hidden by the cassock but undoubtedly had to exist to support a being of roughly eight-feet in height, even outside of his power armour, the Astartes is a menacing figure. Even if he has a benevolent smile on his face, the gigantism renders it something… not realistic. Like something a plasterer would try and affix to a broken statue in a hurry. Combined with the deep ebony skin, crossed with a myriad of scars and a nose that has been broken and rebroken countless times, and the piercing green eyes, the Space Marine sends a chill through Tychos' spine, even though he has seen one before and he knows that this is one the 598th's saviours.

"Although," The Astarte continues in contemplation, putting a massive hand to his chin. "I am afraid that I must enquire as to why you are outside of your dormitory during the sleep cycle. Well, Guardsman?"

Tychos stammers. "A-apologies, my lord. I… I-I've been having dreams… nightmares, and I've been unable to sleep." Remembering the chit, he fumbles with his breast pocket. "I-I have a chit, from Commissar Anton, of the Cadian 598th, my regiment, to let me go to the medicae for some sleeping aids. Look."

Clumsily handing the paper to the Astartes, Tychos watches as the giant warrior scrutinizes the note for any sign of it being a forgery. 'A suspicious mind is a healthy mind' is one of the mainstay catechisms of the Imperium, and definitely so of the Emperor's Angels of Death.

"Alright," The Astartes responds in a tone that shows he is happy at what he has read. "Although, I must say: I fear that using sleep aids to combat these dreams will do little in the long-term to help you. Perhaps I may be of assistance to you."

Despite himself, Tychos chuckles slightly. "You… you want to hear what's wrong with me? My lord, I don't think that-"

"Do not presume to tell one of the Emperor's Finest what to do, guardsman." The warrior says in a stern voice that sends a shiver down Tychos' spine, but his voice softens again to a cordial tone as he continues. "I am an Astartes, a warrior of the Emperor. But I am also a Reclusiarch; a healer of the spirit and faith. So yes, I do want to hear what troubles you. Come, follow me, Guardsman Tychos."

Motioning in a direction down the corridor, the Astartes turns and begins walking, forcing Tychos to jog to catch up with him.

Again, the Reclusiarch speaks. "Also, I would like you stop calling me 'my lord'. I do not relish such a title. Too grandiose for one such as myself. You may refer to me as either Reclusiarch or Brother Akios."

"Understood, my- Brother Akios." Tychos catches himself, although it seems that his companion has no qualm with the cockup.

Tychos knows who this being is (to call him a person seems so wrong); Reclusiarch Akios, a high-ranking Astartes officer in the Steel Drakes chapter attached to the 598th's portion of the Indomitus Crusade. Even if the trip so far has been very uneventful, with only a few minor skirmishes against space-borne pirates, the Steel Drakes have kept to themselves. He's seen their vehicles and their support staff in the hangar of the Sublime Vengeance, even seen them in their armour when they have deigned a situation lethal enough to warrant their aid, but this is the first time he's seen one of the warriors proper. And it is every bit as unnerving as he imagined.

Although at least they're a lot less terrible than the Traitor Astartes.

Walking in comparative silence, the only sound being the tramp of Tychos' steel-shod boots and the surprisingly soft-hush of Brother Akios' sandals, the man wonders where he is being led, until a new sound reaches his ears as they near their destination. A plaintive, low, singing that, despite the coolness of the night cycle and the steel of the ships interior, warms Tychos in a way he didn't think possible.

It was a plainsong, low but joyous in its worship of the God Emperor, each note filling the air as Tychos and Brother Akios reach the door to the ship's chapel. The doors are taller than the Reclusiarch by twice his height and made from burnished brass and gold in a relief of the Emperor Ascendant, his gigantic, eagle-like wings stretched out above him, a flaming sword held high in his hands, pointing to the heavens.

Taking a step to the door, Brother Akios rests a large hand onto the surface and pushes, easily opening the chapel door enough to let both people enter before he turns to look at Tychos.

"In here, Guardsman Tychos. Here, we shall have our talk."

Confusion and trepidation flare up in the Cadians mind. "How… how do you know my name?"

"It was written on the chit." The Astartes responds simply, like it is the simplest thing in the universe. Which it undoubtedly was, making Tychos feel incredibly foolish.

Not saying anything else, Tychos steps through the open portal and into the chapel. As large as the dormitory, it has three formations of pews ranging from the back of the room by the door to the altar at the front, which made from a simple pedestal for a book while a giant Imperial Aquila hangs above it from the ceiling. The roof, high enough to easily fit two Leman Russ' stacked on top of each other, is supported by eight columns, made from white marble, each gilded on the tops by four double-headed eagles to support the roof, from the mouths of which flows the low plainsong.

Silently, Brother Akios motions to a seat nearer the door after closing it, letting Tychos sit first before he himself sits down. The pew protests slightly under his enhanced weight but it holds.

"I'm… I'm not really sure where I can begin, Reclusiarch." Tychos admits, rubbing his hands against his legs fretfully. "This is just… all so strange to me."

"Do not fret on this." Akios says calmly in an experienced tone. "Just… retell your dream to me."

Closing his eyes, Tychos breathes in before letting out a low breath… and he tells his tale.

He tells of how the 598th had been stationed in Kasr Drak with both Whiteshield companies and other blooded regiments of their home-world, of how they had mustered out in force; infantry squads, heavy weapon teams, tanks, artillery, everything they had, when the first hint of the enemy was hinted at coming to the planet. He tells of how the Archenemy hit Kasr Drak with all their fire and fury; of how the sky burned with the blazing trails of landing craft and drop pods. Of how the ranks of the enemy; hordes of mutants and cultists, twisted machines and brutal monsters, marched into their guns under their horrendous masters, the Traitor Astartes, their heavy weapons hammering away at the Imperial lines.

Oh, but they fought back. Cadians always fought back. Lasguns, heavy bolters, autocannons, missiles, grenades, mortars, earthshakers, they fought back. They punished the heretics and the traitors for every inch, every street. Every corner hid a squad with a flamer or meltagun, every room a man with a bayonet. Leman Russ' smashed through buildings, their guns blazing as they smashed through columns of enemy infantry, while Basilisks broke the very sky above their heads as their rounds hit with the fury of the God-Emperor himself.

But it mattered so little.

No matter how many times the traitors were blasted apart into dust, they kept coming. And then the Traitor Astartes brought up their own heavy guns; ruinous Predators, Vindicators and Defilers grinding through the smoke of battle and into the Cadian lines. By this point, the focus of the Imperial defence had shifted from 'keep the enemy out of Kasr Drak' to 'get as many civilians out as possible'. So that's what the Guardsmen did, what they always did: they held the line. Every minute bought in their own blood was a minute extra to get the civilians out. Tychos was sure that for every Cadian killed, they killed ten of the enemy.

But against such numbers, against such overwhelming hatred and rage, their positions were untenable. Creed wasn't around to help them, nor were any Astartes, so in the end, the line broke. Not in a pell-mell rout but in an ordered, staggered retreat; each company, each platoon pulling back while the others gave cover, tanks trundling backwards as they fired back at the encroaching enemy.

It was during his company's retreat that Tychos had gotten separated by an attack of mutated Ogryns, forcing him down a side-street, where he found Arie, his younger sister, trapped in the rubble of their home.

"I thought she'd managed to get out." Tychos says heavily, breathing in strongly through his nose as he tries to steady himself. "I thought… I thought that mother had gotten them both out. But their hab-block been hit by a barrage of missiles and she'd become trapped. Mother was dead, so I tried my hardest to get her out."

He tells Brother Akios all of what happened: how he tried to dig her out of the ruins of their home, digging with all his might at the rubble and dirt in his way, prayers to the Emperor on his lips as he dug and dug. How the Chaos Predator burst through a nearby building and seemed intent on crushing both of them, about how the artillery barrage smashes home around them, about how…

Tychos can't bring himself to finish the sentence, sobs of regret and sorrow replacing his words as tears fall from his eyes. Realising what's he doing, he hastily beings to wipe his eyes with his sleeve before he turns to look at the Reclusiarch sitting next to him, only to see the giant warrior-priest sitting, his arms crossed other his expansive chest while his eyes are closed.

Blinking in confusion, Tychos thinks to himself '… I'm probably the only person in the universe to bore an Astartes to sleep.'

A thoughtful sigh filters from Akios' mouth, making the Cadian jump slightly as the Reclusiarch opens his eyes slowly, a contemplative look in the green pools.

"I can see why that would bother you. Because it is a sorrow I know well, Guardsman Tychos." Akios says mournfully. "Many times through my career, I have had brothers express the same feelings that you are suffering from."

The giant slowly turns his head to look at Tychos.

"You are suffering from guilt for your failing to rescue your sister, which is made worse by the loss of your planet." Akios says simply. "I know this, for I have seen it manifest in various ways among the neophytes and youngblood battle-brothers who have recently suffered a loss. While they do not… have dreams, such as yourself, they all suffer from the same feelings as you do: regret, self-loathing and shame."

Reaching out, the Reclusiarch places one of his large onto Tychos' left shoulder, the length of his fingers enough for him to just touch the Guardsman's other shoulder blade.

"I know that as a human, you are fallible, and as such you will want to drown these sorrows in… in sleeping aids. But you must not submit. Have you had these dreams more recently since we have been in Warp transit or is it a regular occurrence?"

"… since we've been in Warp transit, Reclusiarch." Tychos admits, not sure where the question is leading.

Almost knowingly, Akios nods his head lightly. "Then my suspicion is correct. Guardsman Tychos, the Warp seeks to try and corrupt a person's mind, making them more susceptible to their influence. Awake, it is easier to repel them, but when you are asleep… well, that goes some way to explain your dreams."

For a few seconds, Tychos just blinks his eyes in confusion as he takes in the information before it hits him. He has always been told about the vagaries the Warp could instil on the unprepared and unprotected mind, and he, like all other Cadians, know the rites and prayers to protect their minds against the Warp, formerly being so close to the Great Eye. In his grief at the dual loss of his family and his planet, he has just forgotten the catechisms and rites.

"An open mind is like a fortress with its gate unbarred and unguarded." He intones, earning a nod from Akios.

"Correct." The Reclusiarch says in agreement. "Forget the sleeping aids, they will do you no good. Are you aware of Saint Theoscarma's Catechism of Protection Against The Daemon?"

"Umm… no." Tychos admits shyly, earning a low rumble of annoyance from Akios.

"Shame. I think it would help you better in your situation. That aside, repeat Saint Sebastian Thor's Benediction of Deliverance three times before you go to sleep, and light some incense before you sleep. I don't think our hosts would begrudge you for taking one stick for spiritual purposes."

Tychos can't help but smile at the idea coming from such a giant warrior-priest.

"Make sure you repeat this every time you go to sleep on this ship, and also when you leave for campaign as well. Remember: focus. Perform every rite of maintenance for your wargear and every benediction to the Emperor. These dreams will pass, as all things do. But only if you focus the mind."

Taking his hand off Tychos' shoulder, Akios stands up to his full height from the pew, his gaze looking down on the guardsman next to him.

"I cannot guarantee that the dreams will not persist, but I do think that they will diminish in regularity."

"Heh. That will be enough, Reclusiarch." Tychos says with a smile, thankful for the help.

He opens his mouth to speak… before a jolt shakes the entire ship for a couple of seconds, suddenly stopping as soon as it starts, leaving both in a worry as the plainsong cuts out, leaving them both in silence.

Both warriors look around in worry and preparation. A jolt enough to shake the ship could have only come from one of two locations, neither of them good; either the engine deck had suffered a serious malfunction, or the Gellar Field had been compromised. Either way, both meant catastrophe in Warp transit.

"What just happened?" Tychos asks in confusion and worry, spinning around as he expects for daemons to begin pouring out every nook and cranny of the chapel.

Silently, Akios stares up at the eagles adorned to the columns. While they function as speakers for plainsong and canticles of the faithful, in the event of breach in the Gellar Field, the speakers would broadcast warnings to the crew at the same time as they would broadcast special vocal wards to stave off the daemonic presence.

At the moment, they are silent, which sets Akios on edge.

Suddenly, the speakers begin broadcasting the same plainsong as before, picking up where the song left off at the interruption.

"That is… peculiar." The Reclusiarch grumbles out, a suspicious look on his face. Which quickly vanishes when he turns to look at Tychos. "Forgive me, Guardsman Tychos, but I must go see what the cause of this was. Return to your dormitory and your fellows. And remember what I instructed you to do."

Without saying another word, Brother Akios quickly strides out of the room, pushing open both doors with his powerful arms as he leaves Tychos alone in the chapel, the plainsong coming from the speakers his only source of comfort.

Deciding on what he should do in a snap, Tychos makes his way into the aisle before he jogs down to the nave. Quickly, he snatches up a stick of incense from the altar before he jogs back to the door. Casting an uneasy glance around, he sees that it's all clear, so he makes a run to the dormitory.

It's one thing to be caught in a possible Gellar shield failure. But it's another to not follow a task given to you by an Adeptus Astartes Reclusiarch.

Striding down the corridor of the Sublime Vengeance, Brother Akios, moves with the gait of a man used to giving comfort and words of encouragement in times of trial: easy but purposeful. Passing by various voidsmen and ratings, he gives out words of faith, telling them to remain strong and remain where they are for those that are armed and to see shelter to those who are not.

The pace of an Astartes is one that can easily outpace a man, so it does not take him long to reach the elevator that leads to the bridge. Outside of the transportation, he is met by a squad of five armed men; four armsmen lead by the sergeant-at-arms of the vessel. All are dressed in pressurised suits of carapace armour that render the armsmens faces invisible behind visored helmets, while the sergeant-at-arms has his drawn up to allow him to see eye to eye with the Reclusiarch.

"Status report, sergeant-at-arms." Akios commands in a low voice as he draws in front of the squad, prompting the five men to bow their heads in respect.

The sergeant-at-arms, a grizzled veteran of void combat, lifts his head as he speaks. "My lord Astartes. Commodore Valask is on the bridge with her senior staff. They await your arrival."

"Very good."

Not saying another word, the sergeant-at-arms steps aside, letting Akios past. The Astartes nods his head in acknowledgement as he walks past the armoured mortals and into the elevator. As he turns to press the button for the bridge, he sees the five crewmen looking at him expectantly, even if four of them have their faces covered.

"Look to the Emperor and to your wargear," he says with practised ease. "For he is your rock in these times of trial. Your faith is a shield for your soul, while your armour is a shield for your body. Do not neglect one for the other, and you shall prevail."

Buoyed by the Reclusiarch's words, the Imperial Navy troopers stand just that bit taller as they turn back to guarding the hall, the elevator doors closing behind them as Akios is borne up to the command deck.

The doors open with a ding and the warrior-priest steps out in the maelstrom of activity that was on the bridge. Naval officers in the emerald green and white uniform of the Segmentum Pacificus run back and forth between stations, consulting various charts and graphs, while hardwired servitors slave away at their stations, blind and deaf to the situation around them. In the middle of the storm of disorder is a single person with some semblance of calm.

"Commodore Valask." Akios states in a firm voice, which in the space of the bridge of the Sublime Vengeance, might as well have been a bolter shot. In an instant, all human eyes turn to look at the Astartes as they quiet down, even some former-human eyes joining to look at the distraction. No one says a word.

"Reclusiarch Akios." Commodore Valask says in an equally firm voice of her own, her own tinted with joy at the arrival of the warrior-priest, as she stands on the command dais of the bridge. "Thank the Emperor you're here. Join us, please."

The staff on the bridge clear a path, letting Akios move towards the raised dais of the commodore's station, before promptly remembering that they each have a task that needs to be seen to. Reaching the dais, Akios is greeted by the sight of Commodore Valask looking intently at a holographic display of the Sublime Vengeance, the pic spinning lazily on its axis.

To a human, the commodore is a tall woman, but to a gene-enhanced post-human warrior such as Akios, the top of her head barely reaches the top of his ribcage. Her skin, lined with age but tinged with the subtlest of rejuvenant treatment afforded to her station, is the colour of burnt umber, with a sharp chin and high cheekbones, a small but pointed nose, would make her beautiful if the iron and brass mechanisms of augmetics weren't replacing her left eye and ear, the scarring from an ork stub round in her early captaincy. Her other eye is untouched, a hazel sphere. Valask's hair, a silver waterfall, is held high in a high and multi-tied topknot that adds to her height. The left breast of her uniform is covered in ribbons and medals, showing the many victories and tours she has undertaken in her years of service, while gold epaulettes sit on her shoulders accompanied by a deep red cloak lined with white fur.

Currently, she is unarmed, which strikes Akios as odd in the situation.

"Commodore Valask," Akios greets the woman with a bow as per her rank, as he comes to stand beside the holographic display. "What is the situation?"

For a few seconds, the commodore just stares that the pict of her own ship. Suddenly, she reaches forward and cancels the screen, switching the display off, before she leans forward to rest her knuckles against the glass surface.

"I…," She begins. "Have no bloody idea."

The admission, and the use of such informal language in front of him, takes Akios by surprise, his eyebrows raising in shock as he looks at the woman. Sensing his gaze on her, Commodore Valask turns to look at the Astartes before, sighing, she turns back to look at the display.

"The ship is intact. There no hull breaches reported, no loss of structural integrity. The engines are running at full-capacity, our munition stores are fine. There is no fault in the ship."

"And what of the Gellar Fields?"

"If the Gellar Fields are down in any way, we would definitely know about it, Reclusiarch." Valask responds with the surety of a woman who knows her vessel well. "You know that as much as I do."

Akios nods his head in response. He knows full well the dangers the denizens of the Empyrean pose to the mortal realm if the Gellar Field of a ship fails during Warp transit. It is a danger that he has been taught to prepare for, physically and spiritually, and one that he been trained to fight, both physically and spiritually.

"So what has happened?" He asks.

Not answering, Commodore Valask turns away from the holographic display to an area behind the dais. An area thick with the smell of burning incense and decay. An area screened off by a delicate fabric and wood screen displaying varied images of the Emperor and saints, along with numerous wards and words of power and protection, on both sides. A simple but potent protection against the powers of the Warp at the command of the ship's sole means of guidance through the Empyrean.

"Navigator Le'Vel?" Valask asks with a stern voice. "What can you tell us?"

A bubbling, snorting sound comes from behind the screen, like the sound of a person clearing a throat clogged with thick fluid, before a man's voice, weak with strength but unnaturally clear responds.

"… We… are so far."

The answer is to the liking of neither Akios or Valask.

"What do you mean, Navigator?" The Reclusiarch asks testily, a hand reaching behind him to the combat knife he has concealed in the back of his cassock, as he sees a form behind the screen shift position slightly.

"... The light of the Astronomican… is so far from my sight. It is a… pinprick… in the darkness." The Navigator answers, that same weak but clear voice. "I am sailing blind."

The answer from the Navigator unnerves Akios. He does not fear the answer. Fear is not something that he is able to feel, but he cannot fathom this answer to any semblance of sense.

"Contact the Ferro Cordis immediately." The Reclusiarch commands immediately, turning to address one of the bridges technicians as he removes his hand from his knife. "I must see if they have had the same problems we have had."

"Or even if we can still contact the fleet at all." Valask adds as she turns away from the Navigator.

It takes a few seconds for the order to be carried out, the peculiarities and wrongness of the Warp making ship-to-ship contact difficult during transit. But soon, the order is completed, and the message is sent.

The holographic display flares into life and an image is displayed. It is the image of a figure cut from the same cloth as Brother Akios. But where he was dressed in the simple fabric cassock, this one, rendered in simple green lines and dots of light, was dressed in the panoply of war of an Astartes captain. Formidable and expansive adamantium plates joining flowing curved ceramite, an ascendant Aquila, wings outstretched, emblazoned on the cuirass, while various tokens and glyphs hang from a pair of chains over the Aquila. The left pauldron is marked with the symbol of their shared home: the snarling head of a dracon, rendered in green light instead of its regular silver. The head of the speaker was the same proportions as Akios' own, but with a more well cared for nose, coupled with thick eyebrows, and a trio of metallic studs underneath his high and noble brow.

"Brother-Captain Sharas." Akios states, bowing his head in respect to the captain of the Steel Drakes Fourth Company, the Master of the Fleet, and commander of the Ferro Cordis. Commodore Valask copies the gesture

Sharas bows his own head, the accoutrements following the gesture. "Brother-Reclusiarch. It is fortunate that you contacted us when you did. I was about to make contact myself. I think I can imagine the reason for your message."

"So this affected the whole fleet then?" The commodore asks in shock, drawing a nod from Sharas.

"It has, Commodore Valask."

"Have the Librarians been able to ascertain what has happened?" Akios asks, which draws a shake of the head from the Fourth Captain.

"Not yet, Honoured Brother. And that has them… unnerved. The Navigator onboard, and the ones onboard the vessels we have been able to contact have all the described the same phenomenon; the Light of the Astronomican is-"

"A pinprick." Akios interrupts, knowing full well that direction this conversation is heading. "This is troubling."

Brother-Captain Sharas nods his head, unperturbed at the interruption. "Indeed, Honoured Brother. I am suggesting that… wait one moment." The holographic display of the warrior looks off to the side as he confers with an individual unseen and unheard to Akios and Valask. The captain nods his head several times before he turns to face Akios. "The Chapter Master is ordering all vessels to drop out of Warp and into Realspace. He has ordered a meeting to be held onboard the Ferro Cordis of all senior officers and adepts, Astartes, Navy, Militarum and Mechanicus."

"It will be done, My Lord." Commodore Valask replies with another bow of her head.

"I shall see to it personally, Brother-Captain." Akios responds.

"I shall leave you to it then." Sharas says in response. "The Emperor guide you."

The pair of officers make the sign of the Aquila on their hearts as the holographic display winks out.

Valask sucks in a lungful of air before she gives the order. "All hands; prepare for translation into Realspace! I want all gunnery crews to be at their station and ready for possible combat situation as soon as we come out of Warp. Navigator; whenever you are ready."

Le'Vel wheezes something horrible before he speaks. "…It will… be done!"

Despite himself, Akios raises an eyebrow. "Expecting trouble, Commodore?"

"With all due respect, Reclusiarch." The woman responds, raising her head to try and look the Astartes in the eye. "I didn't come this far by not being expecting trouble."

Akios nods his head in respect. "A suspicious mind is a healthy mind."

Valask nods her head in agreement, a small smile on her face.

Out of all the mortals onboard the Sublime Vengeance, the commodore is one of the few that Akios sees himself forming a healthy respect for as an individual. He respects the Cadians for he both knows the reputation of the Cadian Shock Troops and he has seen it first-hand. He respects the Imperial Navy for theirs is a hard fight and one that must be done.

He respects Commodore Valask for she is a woman of action. She carries out her duty to the letter and executes her orders with the skill and precision of a master of her craft. She bares no grudge against the Reclusiarch and his retinue coming aboard her vessel, but she does not simply treat them as a member of her crew nor as simply another passenger either. Valask defers to Akios on all things spiritual and matters of faith, letting him hold sermons in the ships chapel for the crew and the Militarum, allowing him to broadcast his readings on the Emperor, duty and honour at all times that he feels necessary.

Two equal warriors, divided by branches of service, but joined together in duty.

"Do you have any suggestions? A reading, perhaps, we can play to calm the crew?" Valask asks in a low voice.

For a few seconds, Akios says nothing. This situation is not something he imagined encountering, and thus, for possibly one of the very times in his extended lifespan, he is unsure of what he could say.

"Broadcast the hymnal, Steel my Heart, O Holy Terra, to all quarters of the ship, coupled with the plainsong, Pange lingua gloriosi proelium certaminis, to keep the Guardsman's spirits up." Akios says simply before he leans slightly closer to the woman in front of him. "As for yourself, I would suggest the Prayer of the Lost and Endangered and the Prayer for Safe Return."

Nodding her head, Valask smiles as she watches Akios being to walk away from the command dais.

"And where are you going, if I might ask, Honoured Reclusiarch?"

A small smile flashes across the Reclusiarchs face before he continues marching.

"To prepare for trouble."

Soundlessly, a tear opens in the fabric of space. A part of the black expanse of the void is seemingly ripped inwards, multi-coloured and brutal lightning lashing out from the hole as it expands to the size needed for the ship that made the hole to pass through it. The same lightning lashes out against the ship, rebounding off the Gellar Field that protects the ship, trying its hardest to ensnare the vessel to keep it trapped in the domain of the Empyrean. Plasma engines on full-burn, the Sublime Vengeance slides into reality once again.

A brutal ship-of-the-line, it is an Oberon-class Battleship. Archaic, even by the standards of the Imperium of Man, but it still flies true through the ether as the day it was lain. An eagle-headed prow carves a path for seven kilometres of baroque steel and gothic adamantium construction, battle-scarred and pitted by centuries of travel in the void. Her flanks are dotted with a bristling array of torpedo tubes, missile and plasma batteries, macrocannons and heavy duty laser weapons. She is a killing machine, brutality and majesty all rolled into one.

And she is not alone.

Even as the rip in Realspace closes behind her, another one opens to the starboard of the Sublime Vengeance over a dozen kilometres away as another metallic behemoth pulls itself into reality. Followed by another below that one, and another above, and behind, and below. In the space surrounding the Sublime Vengeance, a score of vessels of the Imperial Navy of nearly all shapes and sizes translate into space. Cruisers, battleships, frigates, escorts. It was enough firepower to lay waste to an entire planet in a single night, enough firepower to cow a system into compliance. It was only a pinprick of an example of the power wielded by the Imperial Navy in the name of Him on Earth.

Amongst these vessels, four more appear, but these ships are as similar as a predator is to a scavenger. First come the battle barges. Blunt-prowed, they seemingly smash their way out of the Warp, trailing Emypric fire and lightning in their wake. Their flanks and spines, eight and a half kilometres in length and made from burnished steel and bare adamantium, are lined with heavy cannons capable of void combat and orbital strikes while oversized shields on the aft and bow project their void shields, wreathing them in protective energy, even as they show the mark of their owners: a roaring dracon's head rendered in silver on an obsidian black field. In their wake, like a praetorian guard, a pair of strike cruisers follow close behind. Smaller than the battle barges, these steel vessels are smaller than the barges but are no less potent weapons of war. Each one is fitted with a bombardment cannon and their flanks lined with weapon batteries, while they are marked with the same roaring dracon's head.

Finally, like three breaching whales, come the trio of ships of the Adeptus Mechanicus, their burgundy, black and brass hides showing their loyalty to Mars. Much thicker than the ships of the Imperial Navy and the Adeptus Astartes, these ships are less weapons of war and more vessels of exploration and transportation. Two heavy transports, fat bellied and blunt prowed, swim through the ether next to the formidable presence of a Retribution-class capital ship of the Basilikon Astra, The Omnissiah's Grace.

It is an armada, a fleet of ships designed and created solely for the purpose of war.

And it is currently lost.

Once all ships are fully out of the Warp and in formation, their giant plasma engines spin down, letting the vast space-borne engines to sit silently and threatening in the void. A floating collection of gigantic knives and blunt hammerheads, poised for destruction.

One by one, small motes of light detach themselves from each ship. Small landing craft supported by void attack craft, like minnows detaching themselves from deep-sea leviathans, propel themselves from their mother-ships and headed towards a single destination: one of the battle barges. Aquila landers and Arvus lighters, flanked by the shark-like forms of Fury Interceptors, glide in slowly into the cavernous hold of the Ferro Cordis.

The strategium fills up slowly as the commanders of the menagerie that was the Indomitus Crusade, 46th Fleet, came in to the large, vaulted chamber for the meeting. Fleet officers of the Fleet Pacificus, their emerald green uniforms clashing against the dark grey marble of the multi-tiered room, as they converse among themselves. They are soon joined by officers of the Cadian remnants, their mismatched uniforms; drab khakis and woodland greens, simple tans and browns and even a few reds, clashing wildly with the other, even as they sat in groups together, some chattering away like old friends, which some undoubtedly were. Many of the men and women carried medals on their uniform, some going for simple bars and aiguillettes while others went for full decoration medals, making their chests glimmer in the light.

The priests of the Ecclesiarchy were next, their clothing a combination red or pale cream robes, worn with purple albs, maniples, stoles and mitres of all shapes and sizes, each one seemingly gaining more gold and silver filigree as the rank of the Ecclesiarch increased, eagles and thunderbolts abounding in a glare on the form of High-Deacon Alzecht von Stollish, his old-crone form swaddled in layer upon layer of vestments and cloth, each one more jeweled than the last, his tall, tower-like mitre cap almost the same height as himself, as he was carried into the strategium on a palanquin moved by a quartet of censer swinging servitors, their dead flesh painted in garish colours to look like mannequins.

Lastly, came the adepts of the Mechanicus, their bodies swathed with black and red robes. Icons of the Cult Mechanicus adorned them, while their bodies hummed and wheezed slightly as their augmetic body parts moved. The low sound of Mechanicus plainsong, the binary chant of the blessed Machine God, the Omnissiah, heralds the arrival of the High Adept of the Forge World Norstra's expeditionary force, High Magos Zar'Garscon. Propelled on thick, six insect-like legs, the adepts back almost swarms with snaking mechadendrites, some headed with snapping claws, others drills while some are fitted with simple plugs. Zar'Garscon's face, or what likely what remains of his face, is covered by an elaborately fashioned death-mask of a man's face, their mouth closed and eyes lidded.

Watching the procession of characters is First Captain, Brother-Captain Mardas, high up one of the strategiums rows. Even for an Adeptus Astartes, Mardas is an imposing figure. Standing broader and taller than his own battle-brothers, motionless, the brother-captain resembles a statue from antiquity, let alone with how weather-beaten and broken his bald slab of a face is. Clad in the archaic suit of Cataphractii-pattern Terminator armour, a relic from the Great Crusade, Mardas is a statue of unburnished steel and gold trim. No weapons are present on his form. But for such a master of war as the First Captain, who would need them?

The warrior's face is twisted in something akin to a contemptible scowl as he watches the procession draw to an end, the various members taking their assigned seats.

"Something on your mind, Brother-Captain?"

Mardas turns slightly to look at the new speaker, seeing the form of Brother-Captain Sharas. His armour is the same unburnished steel as Mardas' own, even if his is a lighter (relatively speaking) mix of Mark IV and Mark VI patterns, the trim on his giant pauldrons a deep green.

"Just reminding myself what we've picked up." The First Captain growls out, turning his head back to look at the people seated below him. "It's… humbling. In annoying way."

Sharas lets out a short, low laugh at the statement.

"Danaus Mardas. Ever the diplomat." Sharas said, a smile on his face.

The corner of the first-captain's mouth arcs up in a small smirk.

"Still. It is… comforting, in a way." The giant warrior says. "Cadia fell, but we rescued so many of them in the end. The Emperor's divine providence at work."

Drawing beside him, Sharas nods his head in agreement. "And here we are."

"And here we are." Mardas repeats. "In the middle of unknown space, potentially jolted out of the Warp by something or other, with no knowledge of what is out there."

The sound of servos whining in sympathetic movement reached Mardas' ears as he hears the fourth-captain shrug his shoulders.

"It is as it is." Sharas says simply. "Or as I had heard an expression in the Astra Militarum once go: 'We're here because we're here because we're here.' Poetic but simple."

Mardas says nothing, just a sound like a rumble at the back of his throat.

A Space Marine is removed from humanity, that is a fact that he knows and one that has been drilled into him and his brothers time and again. He cannot understand what the men and women in the camouflage uniforms below him feel, he cannot personally fathom it. As a fleet-borne chapter, there is no home-world to lose to the enemy. No stands to make to cover civilian craft, no charges against enemy guns in a do-or-die attempt to punish the enemy for their actions.

Mardas has done this on other worlds for other people's planets, but it's something he will never experience for his own planet.

But even then, he knows that the mood among the Cadians is low.

"These men and women have been through much." Brother-Captain Sharas says solemnly, reading Mardas' mood easily. "Much more than possibly anyone in the universe has been through. By the Emperor's grace, they have been placed under our charge."

"And by the Primarch, we will not shirk our duty." A voice comes from behind the pair of Astartes captains, making them turn.

Dressed in his full wargear, Reclusiarch Akios is a formidable sight, even to an Astartes. His armour, forged in the foundries of Mars in the days of the Great Crusade, is a suit of Mark IV Maximus armour, black as the void of space while gold adornments glitter on his greaves and gorget. Next to the splendour of the filigree, the presence of the dracon skulls on his cuirass and greaves are a savage twist to his blessed rank. His leering skull-faced helmet, currently held in the crook of his arm, stares out at the world with a savage grin.

"Honoured brother." The two brother-captains intone, placing their fists over their hearts in salute.

"Brother-Captains." Akios replies, nodding his head in respect. "Brother Mardas. You would do well to not look down upon the Cadians. Although, I will grant, with your height, it is somewhat difficult to do."

The sound that Mardas makes for a laugh is a low grumble.

"I cannot help my size, Honoured Brother." The First Captain replies, the broad smirk still on his face. Which falls again as he turns to look at the people gathered below. "But I… worry, for these Cadians."

A low huff of amusement sounds from Brother-Captain Sharas' mouth. "You? Worry?"

"I understand what you mean, Mardas." Reclusiarch Akios says as he moves to stand on the left of the First Captain. "I have spent much of this voyage among the men and women of the 598th Infantry regiment. They all… feel the same. The loss of their home planet has done much to harm them in the mind as much as it did the body."

"They are not normal guardsmen." Sharas says suddenly but simply. "They are Cadian Shock Troops, guardians of the Cadian Gate. That was their purpose and their duty. But how can they fulfill either their purpose or their duty when there is nothing to guard?"

The mood around the trio of Astartes becomes sullen, the three post-human warrior-commanders mulling over the question presented to them.

Releasing a growl of annoyance that is akin to a Leman Russ engine idling, First Captain Mardas shakes his head ruefully.

"This is not how I envisioned the Forty-Second Millennium beginning."

He does not know if it is due to his age, being nearly three and half standard Terran centuries old, or whether it is just a quirk of his own, but Madras finds that, whenever he looks at a chronometer, he wishes that the display is incorrect.

009.M42

Ten years since the Despoiler loosed his hounds onto the Cadia system. Ten years since the Cadian Gate was sundered open and the Cicatrix Maledictum was spawned. Ten years since the thirteenth Primarch, Roboute Gulliman, was returned to the waking world through Mechanicus tech and Aeldari magicks, and launched the Terran Crusade to relieve besieged Holy Terra, where he was made Lord Commander of the Imperium. Ten years since he launched the might Indomitus Crusade.

The Steel Drakes, a fleet borne chapter housed in the northern edge of the Segmentum Pacificus, answered the call as quickly as they were able, hastening their ships with all speed to the closest Imperial rallying point. Though their gene-sire was Rogal Dorn, Defiance, the Praetorian of Terra, they were Adeptus Astartes, bound to the Codex Astartes, and thus answered the call willingly.

They had picked up the remnants of Cadia, marshalled in to Task Force Cadia Thirteen, marshalled at the shipyards of Koraten, along with a detachment of Mechanicus forces from the Forge World, Norstra, before setting forth into the cold void. Indomitus Crusade Fleet Forty-Six.

And yet, here they were. Becalmed in unknown space after a freak void jolt.

It did not bode well.

Mardas sighs a heavy breath, pausing in thought as he sees the breathe mist before it wafts up into the air.

"The Council gathers." He says firmly, knowing what approaches.

"Come." Reclusiarch Akios says simply, maglocking his helmet to his belt. "We must take our places."

Not saying a word, the three Astartes move from their position at the top of the strategium's ringed seats before they make their way down the thick, worn stone stairs. Each one is hewn from the planet the Steel Drakes' primary stock of neophytes are drawn from, their deep grey colour nearly merging with the flat steel of their power armour.

As they advanced down the steps, the other attendants in the room make to take their places in the seats of the strategium. Even the High-Deacon does so without complaint.

A Third-Founding chapter, the Steel Drakes have many customs unique to themselves, shaped by their Imperial Fists originators, their life as a fleet-based chapter and their main planet of recruitment. One custom was an archaic but simple one: only the masters of the chapter; the Chapter Master, the Captains, to the Reclusiarch, the Master of the Forge and Chief Librarian were permitted to form the circle of council that formed in the strategium.

The Council.

It is an archaic and almost primordial ritual, but it serves its purpose well.

The doors to the strategium open wide, the heavy wooden doors pushed open by a pair of battle-brothers in tactical dreadnought armour, Tartaros pattern, their flat steel adamantium plates shining dully in the glow of the lumens, as they allowed entry to the room.

First in are the captains of the second, third, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth companies. As a fleet borne chapter, the Steel Drakes commanding officers are always present, either on the main battle barges or on the strike cruisers. The tread of their feet on the ceramite and stone flooring almost makes the room quake as these warriors take their places in the circle.

Mardas lets his eyes scan each being as they take their place. He knows all of them; he's trained with them, argued with them, fought alongside them, bled with them. Each one is a master of his craft of death and a skilled commander in his own right. Each one a veteran in his own right.

Well… all but one.

"Brother-captain." Second Captain Jonah, Master of the Watch, bows his head in respect as he slams his right fist to his chest in greeting. His eye is on the same level as the First Captain's.

Madras is not sure what to fully make of Jonah.

Jonah is a Primaris Space Marine. Wearing the new Mark X power armour, he is just as tall as Mardas is and is just as strong. He is from old Terran stock, something that the First Captain has only encountered in meeting the venerated ancients of the Imperial Fists. His face is lean but strong, with a sharp chin and cheeks under a high brow, all completed with a head of short black hair and a pair of brown eyes.

But Mardas has never seen Jonah fight. He has never seen him lead his troops into battle.

A Space Marine is famed for one thing in the vast expanse of the Imperium, and that is that he is a warrior; a being without fear, who knows courage and honour and valour above all other virtues, and captains should represent those values to their very core.

Jonah has taken the place of the former captain, Brother Tirello, who fell slaying the Ork Warlord, Ugtukk World-Burner. The decision did not follow the code of the chapter, but when such a thing is mandated by a Primarch, then allowances must be made.

The First Captain reciprocates the greeting, placing his fist over his heart as he bows his head. "Brother-Captain."

The Primaris Marines are a new… enigma in the Astartes ranks, in all of them, Mardas believes. The Primaris in the Steel Drakes, enough bodies to form three companies, were inducted after the 46th Fleet rendezvoused with other Imperial Forces in the Segmentum Solar, on the orders of Roboute Gulliman himself, described as replacements to cover loses in previous engagements before the launch of the crusade.

As Jonah takes his place on Mardas' right hand side, he remembers what it was like when he first saw them. Nearly three-hundred warriors, their armour and weapons freshly minted and clean, the flat steel of their armour and the silver on black scheme of their chapter badge standing proudly.

They were like freshly built automatons off of a Mechanicus assembly line. Impressive to look at, but sorely untested.

They are simply an unknown equation. And Madras is not happy about that.

Although, according to Sharas, he is never happy.

As the last of the captains takes his place in the Circle, Reclusiarch Akios taking his place one place over from the First Captain on the right, the last two and most esoteric members of the council enter the room.

The heavy smell of promethium and blessed oils of the Mechanicus hits Madras' nose, even before he hears the heavy tread of the Master of the Forge, Techmarine Brother Varkon. Alongside the First Captain, and before the induction of Brother Jonah, Varkon is one of the tallest Astartes in the chapter. It is less through a fact of his biology and more through his faith in the Omnissiah that his legs below the knees are akin to the legs of a Titan, each four-toed foot stamping heavily onto the floor. His red armour glistens like dry blood, even as the silver dracon's head shimmers in the light. Above his back, his mechadendrites and servo-arms wave and sway with each movement as he trudges into the strategium. As he passes them, the Master of the Forge dips his head and sends a binaric burst of greeting to the members of the Adeptus Mechanicus, who reciprocate.

A chill is sent through the room as a thin, almost invisible layer of hoarfrost covers the ground, heralding the arrival of the Chief Librarian. The Master of Librarium, Brother Nemon, is an unsettling individual among the chapter, even for Astartes. A Delta-level psyker, Nemon is as much a master of his art as any other Astartes captain, but therein lies his unnaturalness. His royal blue armour, adorned with wards of protection and purity seals, which sets him apart from his brothers in their flat steel armour, is the sign of his position in the chapter. But that's not the unsettling part.

Every Astartes knows the perils of the Warp and unsanctioned psykers. They know what Nemon is capable of, and Madras has seen the Chief Librarian demonstrate his skill and mastery of the arcane arts time and time again when his presence was called for. It as a power that is awe-inspiring as it is destructive.

And for Nemon, it was always in constant use. An action against the dark eldar on the moons off Caeralus had seen him loose his eyes to the horrible toxins of the perfidious xenos pirates, a toxin that rendered the skin unable to take a graft or augmetics. Instead, the apothecarion had to simply cover his eyes with a band made from black dracon leather, the only material that did not aggravate the injury. Robbed of his natural sight, Nemon was forced to use his psychic abilities to allow him to see the real world.

In a moment of intrigue, Mardas had once asked the Chief Librarian what it was like to use his powers continually, with no rest.

"Like walking on the thinnest ice imaginable," Had been the reply. "And all the while knowing that one single misstep would see me fall under."

An already cold individual, Nemon was a being who knew no pleasure in anything, least of all, combat. Every waking hour was virtually dedicated to prayer, meditation and focus. Moments for him to join the Council with his brothers are rare and few between.

Moving slowly, Nemon takes his place alongside Varkon on the Reclusiarch's right side. Thirteen spots on the circle of fourteen filled, with only one place remaining empty.

The strategium is quiet as all eyes on the seats turn to look at the entrance way.

If the masters of the chapter were to be seen as ideals of the virtues and skills that make up an Astartes chapter, then the being entering the large room is the very embodiment of those ideals.

He is not as tall as First Captain Mardas, but he still commands respect through his presence. His armour is as ornate as Reclusiarch Akios'; a combination of flat steel adamantium plates of Mark III and Mark IV construction, the greaves of his left leg are studded with brutal spikes while the image of a roaring dracon adorns his right kneepad. Gold filigree script in High Gothic proclaiming the glory of the Emperor of Mankind and the Primarch glint on his pauldron edges and cuirass, while under his armpit, he holds his Mark III helmet, modified to bear a crest in the shape of a reclining dracon settled among a nest of spikes, picked out in silver against the flat steel of his helmet.

Bare headed, Chapter Master Remudes has a stern face, scored by scars from a myriad of campaigns in the name of humanity's protection. The tawny skin of his face is drawn with age which, framed by a wild mane of greying-black hair, gives him the countenance of an ancient Terran mystic. A quartet of golden service studs sit above his left eye, a dark grey orb that glitters with unknowable intelligence, while his right eye is a sharp red lens of glass in a metal augmetic. A price paid to slay a brutal Traitor warlord.

Like the others, his armour too is adorned with a trophy of the mighty Sartesian dracon. All veterans have some form of trophy; some a simple tooth hanging from a chainsword hilt or bolter grip, others possess a cloak or loincloth of dracon-hide, the colour and hue depending on the breed of creature hunted. Mardas has the skull of a dracon the size of a battle-cannon shell lashed to his left pauldron, Captain Dormeran of the Fifth Company has a pair of smaller dracon skulls hanging from his belt, to name two.

Remudes' backpack has a pair of dracon skulls the length of his arms attached over the top of the stabilising jets on his backpack, while beneath that hangs a cloak of sable and red scales and leather that hang down almost to the floor.

Walking around the circle of warrior captains, Remudes says nothing as he passes his junior commanders. He acknowledges no-one, not his own battle-brothers or the other Imperials seated in the room.

Quickly, he takes his place next to Mardas' right hand side, between himself and Reclusiarch Akios.

Then he speaks, in a voice and tone used to shouting orders in pitched battle and delivering war cries to terrify the enemies of Man.

"In the Emperor's name, and in the sight of the Primarch; I greet you."

The thirteen other members of the council respond.

"In the light of Humanity, and in the sight of our brothers; we greet you."

The ritual greeting complete, Remudes turns his attention to the seated notables and officers.

"To you all, I thank you for following our chapter's customs. It is an honour to have you all here, and a blessing. Especially in such dark times."

A ripple of positive responses swim around the room, each man and woman nodding their head or making the gesture of the Aquila or, in the case of the Mechanicus delegation, the sign of the Omnissiah.

The stiff whir of augmetics in action fills the room as High-Deacon von Stollish pushes himself up from his seat, his decrepit form moving to stand upright.

"My Lord Astartes," The High Deacon says, in a voice that while strong is beginning to become frayed with overuse. "If I may be allowed to say a prayer… for our survival in the Warp?"

Glancing to his side, Mardas eyes Remudes slightly. The chapter master's remaining organic eye twitches slightly, but he displays no emotion before he nods his head.

"As you wish, High Deacon."

Von Stollish clears his throat, the sound raspy and old, before he speaks loud and clear.

"Oh, Him on Earth, Protector of Mankind; our guiding light and our salvation. We give thanks to you this day for delivering us from the perils of the Warp and of its denizens. In your name, please continue to watch over us, your loyal servants. Amen."

A chorus of 'amen's echoes through the strategium, each Imperial officer giving their own thanks to the Emperor, while the Mechanicus adepts each give a small burst of binaric cant.

Three spaces down from his left, Madras hears Sharas say in a voice low enough to be missed by mortals but clear enough to be heard by Astartes.

"Short, simple and clear. I think that's a first for an Ecclesiarch."

The First Captain just rolls his eyes, while the others ignore the joke. Nonplussed, Remudes continues speaking.

"Now, to business: what has driven us here?" The chapter master asks rhetorically, his eyes flicking between nearly every occupant in the large room. "As of this time, I am welcome to hear any information that can be gleaned."

A rustle of fabric draws everyone's attention as Commodore Valask, clad in her ceremonial emerald uniform, stands tall from her seat.

"My Lord Astartes," She begins clearly. "I have cross-referenced and cross-checked each ships data-log from the Imperial Navy. So far, not a single ship has shown any sign of fault by the crew. So I am willing to place my honour on the fact that this cannot be a fault due to the Imperial Navy captains and commanders."

Remudes nods his head. "If we were to blame your comrades, then we would be needlessly placing the blame on the Imperial Navy. This… occurrence affected every ship equally, so I doubt one party is solely at blame here."

Satisfied, the commodore sits down, which is quickly followed by the sound of whirring gears and straining pistons as High Magos Zar'Garscon stands tall. His voluminous red robes trail over his legs.

A burst of binaric static, the Cant Mechanicus, fills the air, forcing the unenlightened and non-Astartes to wince in pain and shock.

"In Low Gothic, if you please, High Magos." Remudes chastises simply.

A small, liquid burble comes from the high magos' mask.

"Apologies, My Lord Astartes," The Mechanicus hierarch says in a stilted and decidedly synthetic voice. "It has been a while since I have used my flesh-voice.

"As I was trying to say: I have conferred with each tech-priest of the contingent sent by the Basilica Astra, and after also conferring with the tech-priests aboard the vessels of the Imperial Navy and the holy ships of the Astartes, I have reached a conclusion based on the data that no fault can be laid on the ships or their engines. Their Machine Spirits have been properly mollified, all pertinent rites were performed properly, as pertaining to the rituals of the Holy Mechanicus, and each engine was properly cared for and repaired. This is not a failure of the Machine. Nor of the Flesh, I think."

There was the unspoken slight. The fear that permeated the entirety of Imperial culture: the fear of the psyker. And who it was directed at was clear for Mardas to see.

The servos in his fist clenches in sympathetic motion as he tightens his fingers in anger.

+Peace, brother-captain+ Nemon says telepathically, obviously wishing to avoid an incident. +It is just their way. Bear no anger against them.+

Turning his head, his covered eyes showing no hint of his mood, the chief librarian addresses the room.

"I will assuage your concerns; this incident was caused by the Warp first and foremost." Nemon states simply and clearly. "After consulting with my fellow brothers of the Librarium, the navigators aboard our own vessels, and then the navigators aboard the others, I believe that I can describe what happened. In loose terms, I am afraid.

"As we all know, the Warp is best akin to a sea, to the mortal perception. It is ever shifting, pitching and rolling; calm one moment, raging the next. I believe, from the information I have gleamed and from what I experienced, that we were caught in a… a freak wave of a storm surge."

Mutters of concern and confusion echo through the strategium before Remudes' voice cuts through them clearly.

"Can you elaborate further, Brother Nemon?"

The librarian tilts his head upwards, his brows furrowing in thought as he ruminates on the best way to describe what has happened to them all.

"It is… if I am honest, I am at a loss myself to say what happened. To say we were struck off course is not a lie, but is the manner in how we were struck off course that leaves me lost for words.

"Normally, a wave in the Warp would see our fleet scattered, our Gellar fields destroyed and lost to the predations of the Ether. But not this time. We were less flung and more… pushed slightly off course, I feel. Our fleet is intact and our ships sound."

The large room falls silent at the revelation, each person taking the information in in whatever way they can.

A Cadian stands up, his uniform a simple khaki colour with a deep blue beret on his head and the number '48' on a blue diamond sewn onto his upper right arm.

"My Lord… I feel I have to ask: do you suspect this to be the work of the Arch-Enemy?"

If the air in the strategium had been chilly before, the mention of the Great Enemy makes the room ice-cold, especially for the Cadians.

The Segmentum Pacificus is no stranger to the scourge that is the Traitor and the Heretic. The site of the ruins of the planet Colchis; home of the traitor Word Bearers, the Nova Terra Interregnum, the Macharian Heresy, the Sabbat Worlds Crusade, and most recently, the Night of a Thousand Rebellions. The Segmentum, almost directly south of the Cadian Gate, was always prone to the predations of Chaos and its perfidious and brutal followers, and with the opening of the Great Rift, more and more incursions were detected and brought to battle.

For the remnants of Cadia however, the idea that this freak wave was the work of the Despoiler's minions would surely spark a dark fire in their hearts.

Nemon shakes his head. "Slaves of the Dark Powers are known to have some control of the Warp, sometimes much more powerful than any Imperial servant. But this… I feel that this was different in its task. If this had been the work of a sorcerer of the Despoiler, then we would have either been scattered or destroyed wholesale in the Warp."

"Neither of which happened to us." Captain Madras finally says out-loud, making all eyes fall on him, which earns a nod from the chief librarian.

"We are intact, and in full working order. Those are facts that bear repeating, because we are still functional and combat capable."

"This is a sign!" The voice of the high deacon echoes throughout the chamber, making even the Astartes masters, beings who have seen collective centuries of combat, flinch in shock as they all turn to see him standing up out of his chair, his arms outstretched above his head. "A test of our faith by the God-Emperor Himself!"

The other members of the Ecclesiarchy begin to devolve into frantic chanting and praying, the chapter master holds one gauntleted hand up for silence. Which swiftly follows.

"That is an interesting theory, High Deacon," The Astartes says in a placating tone. "But I think that we should look at all the facts that are known to us before we come to conclusions. Brother-Captain Sharas?"

Coughing slightly, the Master of the Fleet takes a step forward into the circle as he raises his left arm up to his chest level, revealing a small dataslate built into the armour.

"Since we dropped out of Warp, I've ordered each Steel Drake vessel to begin scanning and mapping of the local stars and to compare them to any known constellations and formations."

A beam of bright green light projects down from the ceiling, a single line before they form a three-dimensional holographic image of the 46th Fleet becalmed in the void. As the images form, all twenty-seven vessels are perfectly displayed, right down to the torpedo tubes on the flanks of the smallest Cobra-class destroyer.

Pressing a sequence of buttons on his vambrace, Sharas shrinks the view of the image of the fleet as a score of stars, simply bright balls of green light in the dark room, come into view.

"I combined this information with the mapping data retrieved from the Imperial Navy vessels."

Another series of buttons are pressed, prompting more holographic stars to appear.

"And then I combined that data with data… given to us by the adepts of the Holy Mechanicus."

Buttons are pressed, and the number of stars to appear jumps exponentially to several hundred points of light. Each little dot hangs in the expanse of the room at different heights and distances, but one thing is abundantly clear to all those staring at it; no planets are close-by, nor any other vessels of any make or construction. Only stars, asteroids and emptiness.

One person instantly recognises that significance of what they are seeing.

"These match no known star chart on Imperial records." Commodore Valask says in shock as she stands up slowly, recognizing, or possibly not recognizing, what she sees. To Mardas' ears, it sounds like something like awe is in her voice too.

"Can you be sure of this, Commodore Valask?" The First Captain asks, the positioning of star charts not his forte.

The question earns a cocky smirk from the umber-skinned woman.

"Please, My Lord Astartes. My job is to know the stars, like yours is to know your bolter." The commodore says simply but with a faint smirk on her lips. "I know many star charts, even the few maps of the Halo Zone and the Halo Stars that exist. These stars align with no chart I know."

For a brief moment, Mardas is taken back by the comment. It is not often that a mortal, senior officer or otherwise, essentially tells an Astartes, an Astartes captain no less, to not question them. But he does see the vindication of her words. He has no mastery of the ships of the Imperial Navy. The only place he has any control of is the company of his battle-brothers in combat. Valask is one of the many chosen to ferry the troops of the Emperor of Man throughout the stars and she is the master of her vocation.

Softly, Mardas bows his head towards the commodore. He fosters no resentment towards the woman for her words or the display in front of the others, for it is not the way of the Steel Drakes. Resentment means that the Astartes is proudful, and that pride can easily become their undoing.

"So where does that leave us then, Commodore?" Mardas asks as he raises his head again.

The woman shrugs her shoulders slightly. "In the simplest terms? I believe that we truly are in uncharted space. But, I think that we might simply be… be beyond the boundaries of the Imperium itself."

The implication is heavily unsettling for everyone. To be outside of the boundaries of the Imperium of Man is to be wholly cut off from any contact with civilization as they know it. Support from the Adeptus Mechanicus will be non-existent and with the loss of the Astronomican, there can be no calls for reinforcements.

The 46th Fleet is marooned and lost.

"The Emperor protects." Reclusiarch Akios mutters under his breath as he grips his rosarius tightly.

To his side, Remudes nods his head. "The Emperor protects. But we must act."

Stepping out of his place in the circle, the chapter master moves to stand directly in the centre of the room, allowing all eyes to look at him easily.

"The theoretical situation is this: we are beyond the Emperor's Light, beyond any and all aid from allies, and we stare into the unknowable and dark abyss. We potentially face xenos more dangerous than any we know, and we could also face the servants of the Dark Powers."

Those statements give everyone pause, as they were chosen to.

"The practical solution is this: we continue our mission. The mission set forth by our Lord Commander, Roboute Gulliman. The mission set forth by our Primarch, Rogal Dorn, ten thousand years ago. We march forth, all arms of humanity unified into one force, with one fist, for one purpose: to forge the path of humanity's place in the stars and to ensure that our kin are kept safe for now and forever more!"

Mardas smiles at his lord and master's choice of words and the affect they soon have on the room.

Not even as the last syllable finishes its echo, the room erupts into cheers of acknowledgement and joy. The Cadian and Imperial Navy officers, stand up cheering, stamping their feet or clapping their hands together. The High Deacon bursts into a reading from one of his religious texts, his fellow priests taking up a chant in High Gothic. Even the adepts of the Mechanicus give their own voice to the speech, canting their approval, mechadendrites waving in the air in a cheering motion.

The greatest sound in the room comes from the ranks of the circle. Each of the captains beats their fists against their breastplates, the smack of adamantium on adamantium nearly drowning out the noise of their roars of approval. To his side, Madras sees Captain Jonah's eyes glisten with pride at the chapter master's words, his fist beating against his cuirass heavily.

In the middle of the room, Remudes holds up his hand once more for silence. Slowly, the noise dies down, the chanting and canting slowing to a murmur while the hammering of adamantium fades to silence.

"But we must not be blinded to the facts around our situation." Remudes says firmly, his eyes looking around the room, seeming to lock onto each individual in turn as he speaks. "The situation we are in is fraught with peril. We must not act too brashly, nor must we be too lax in our dealings. We must be vigilant at all times, prepared for any hostile entity we meet. But we must also be prepared for the eventuality that we may meet groups who may prove to be friendly to us. Humanity may have prospered outside of the Imperium, in the right situations. And it would do well to guide them back to the true path."

Mutters of confirmation and awkward acknowledgement fills the room.

Turning on the spot, Remudes looks directly at Commodore Valask.

"Commodore, I suggest we assign an advanced vanguard of ships. Destroyer-class will suffice."

Standing up again, Valask nods her head. "I'll lead the vanguard myself in the Sublime Vengeance. I would also like to request the presence of at least one of your own chapter's strike cruisers. The bite of their guns and the Astartes presence would be a morale boost, and a boon if we engage hostiles."

The Astartes chapter master is silent for a second as his thinks over the answer before he nods his head.

"It shall be so. Brother-Captain Sharas?"

"I can spare the Dracon's Fang," The captain says, "which will place the Third and Tenth Companies alongside the Cadian regiments already onboard the ships. Formidable."

Valask bows her head. "I thank you, My Lord Astartes."

The sound of whirring servos fills the air again as Zar'Garscon rises from his seat again.

"Recommendation: I would like to submit several members of my own entourage and their expertise in augur scans. Adept Carish is well suited for the task."

At his side, the Magos motions to another Mechanicus adept, who rises from their seat. The being is as androgynous as any other adept who submitted themselves to augmentation, but this one seems to have taken it to heart. Whereas Zar'Garscon has their mask of male human's face, Carish has had their entire face replaced with augmetics; lidless red eyes peering out at the world while a grilled mask takes the place of where they mouth would be. Their body is covered entirely in the flowing red robes, giving no hint of what lays beneath, only a section of mechadendrites that wave from their back.

Carish bows at it speaks in a monotone and robotic voice.

"I am at your command, Lady Commodore."

Madras sees that Commodore Valask is not entirely comfortable with the recommendation, but still the officer does not give anything overt away as she stiffly bows her head.

"I thank you, Magos, and the support of the Mechanicus."

Still stood in his place in the circle, the First Captain smiles slightly at the fact of what has happened. For many thousand years, the Adeptus Mechanicus has been an entity unto itself in the Imperium of Man. Never bowing, never submitting to those who did not share their same beliefs in the Omnissiah, the Deus Mechanicus, and even for those who did, they were fragmented by factious in-fighting and arguments of doctrine.

To have them share, willingly, one of their adepts, by order of a magos himself shows the severity of the situation they all face. And it shows that the vaunted Mechanicus, ones who pride themselves on removing themselves from the 'constraints of human emotion' still fear the sting of fear of the unknown.

"My Lord, if I may speak?" Second Captain Jonah speaks up, making the Chapter Master turn to look at him.

Jonah is fair-skinned, unblemished by serious scars such as those that adorn the faces of his fellow captains, except for a small, curling scar that cuts through his right eyebrow and up to the middle of his forehead. His nose is aquiline, his cheeks and chin rounded while his eyes are a piercing shade of green under hair the colour of obsidian.

Remudes nods his head. "As long as you stand in the circle, you may speak freely, brother-captain."

Standing straighter, such a thing only being possible for an Astartes, Jonah inhales before he speaks.

"First, I agree fully with your tactical decision, I feel I must ask: with nearly limitless possibilities of directions in which to go… where do we go from here?"

While it might sound like impertinence between their ranks, it is a question of the chapter master that needs to be asked, and Remudes knows this.

"It is true that the Codex Astartes does not give full direction on how to deal with this situation, one passage gives us some direction; 'Know thy duty, and discharge it above all else'." The chapter master quotes easily and plainly, knowing the entries of the Codex off by heart, as all Codex-compliant Astartes do. "But, I believe that some outside guidance would be helpful. Brother Nemon?"

The chief librarian mulls over the question, his eyebrows furrowing above the leather banding over his eyes.

"I feel… that it would be unwise to remain in our present position." Nemon says flatly. "Since we do not know whether the force that brought us here was malevolent or simply a random occurrence in the Warp, it would be prudent if we move to a different location."

"It would stop us getting caught in the surge of Warp energy as well." Captain Sharas notes. "But the point remains: which direction do we travel in?"

Still standing in the middle of the circle, Remudes looks up at the holographic display of the fleet. Bathed in the green light, Madras can see each detail of each scar in the chapter masters weathered face, the lines of age around his organic eye and mouth, and the scar tissue that has not fully healed correctly around his bionic eye. All the signs of a life dedicated to the protection of mankind.

It is several seconds before Remudes speaks.

"Brother-captain, I believe that there is a passage in the Tactica Imperium that will give us guidance in this matter."

Even Madras cocks an eyebrow in surprise at their chapter master quoting the myriad texts of war for the Astra Militarum.

"And what would that be, My Lord?" The First Captain asks.

Remudes turns to face him, a cocked smile on his face as the green light of the holographic display casts his face in an eerie light.

"When in doubt, go forward. And that is what we shall do." The lord of the Steel Drakes says as he points a finger at the holographic display. "We shall simply continue on in the direction that we find ourselves facing."

The logic is simple, Madras notes. The theoretical is that, without the guiding light of the Astronomican, the fleet is marooned here in the unknown with no way to contact the Imperium for aid.

The practical is that, no matter what direction the fleet heads out in, they know nothing about what they will face. So it matters little that they simple forge a path forward, since the result had the same percentage of being the same as in any direction they travelled in.

"It will be done, My Lord Astartes." Commodore Valask says, still standing at her seat before she sits.

"To the commanding officers of the Cadian Shock Troops," Remudes says, addressing the officers of the Militarum. "Tell your soldiers as little about this as you can. Do not tell them about our predicament, for it will spook them needlessly and it will damage morale."

A commissar, dressed in the black long coat and hat of their office, stands up from their seat. "What should we tell the men, My Lord?"

A moment of thought comes to Remudes' mind. "Tell them… tell them that because of the difficulty in reading the Astronomican, we have had to change our bearings."

The assembled officers nod their heads at the logic before Remudes speaks once more to the room.

"Cadians, have your men begin training once more. Focus their body and their minds will follow. Adepts of the Holy Mechanicus; tend to our ships and our vehicles. Keep their Machine Spirits ready and prepared. And to the priests of the Ecclesiarchy… pray for us. Pray for our deliverance, and pray for our success."

Seeing that there is nothing more to be said, the chapter master raises his hands to his chest before he interlocks his thumbs and spreads his fingers wide.

"The Emperor protects."

The room echoes with the same prayer as each man, woman and transhuman warrior copies the gesture.

Silently, the flotilla moves through the void, plasma engines burning brightly. Escorts in the shape of knife-like Cobra Class destroyers and Sword Class frigates blaze the trail forward as the vanguard, their augur arrays sweeping the empty space for any sign of potentially hidden hostile vessels or space platforms, blaze a trail through space.

The flotilla passes through various asteroid fields, the smaller ships easily navigating the floating obstacles, while the larger capital ships simply blast the most annoying to smithereens as they make their way to their destination.

The voyage takes a week at simple impulse power, giving the soldiers and Astartes aboard time to fine tune their minds and bodies. Combat drills were carried out in the cavernous holds of the battleships and cruisers, the recycled air filling with the cacophonous sound of faux combat; lasguns snap and whine as grenades are lobbed at non-existent targets in prefabricated battlefields. Some squads of guardsmen are sent alongside the voidsmen of the ships into the bowels of the ships on routine sweeps for creatures that lurk in the innards of the ships.

The Cadians take to it willingly, almost happy to be back in the swing of combat training again.

It is a sign that something is changing, and they relish the chance for combat. No-one can say who the potential enemy is for none know. Some say that it will be xenos, and the guardsmen reply 'good'. Others say that it will be heretic forces… and the guardsmen relish the chance for retribution.

But the personnel of the Imperial Navy, it is strenuous. The ships they control are already ancient and cantankerous, prone to random system failures, not the least that some of them still bear the scars of pirate and xenos attacks. Internal repairs can be made easily, especially with the tender mechanical hand of the adepts of the Machine Cult. External damage cannot be so easily mended, even through the use of void-suited servitors. And that's not to mention the basic commodities of a ship of the line in the Imperial Navy needs to operate: fresh air filters and supplies, ammunition for their weapons, both personal and ship, and most importantly fuel. The ship-board forges of the Adeptus Mechanicus can take care of many problems, but resupplying wholesale is impossible.

The naval officers know that a protracted firefight in this unknown sector of space will be the end of them. So all augur and sensor arrays are turned up to maximum and men-at-arms and gunnery crews are ordered on alert status at all times.

"A moment of laxity will not damn this fleet to an ignoble demise" are the orders from Commodore Valask.

It is on day eight of the journey that the first of the vanguard ships spots their destination.

The first sign is a moon. A large, grey sphere of space-borne rock, with almost a full half of the natural satellite shattered and floating into space. Large chunks of rock hang suspended in the void, while finer particles cause a white mist to form, appearing like a comet caught in a stasis field when first viewed. It is an uneasy sight to see, and some superstitious deck-hands take it as a negative sign of their destination.

The sight past the moon, however, fills the hearts of the voidsmen and deck-hands with wonder and when the news reaches the ears of the Cadians quartered in the ships, their only emotion is the joy that only ground-pounders can feel.

The command deck almost reverberates with his heavy, armoured footfalls as Reclusiarch Akios strides up to the view-screen. Waiting for him is Commodore Valask, Adept Carish and Colonel Leontij Creed, commanding officer of the Cadian 598th Infantry Regiment, the officer saluting as he stands to attention.

"What do we have?" He asks Adept Carish, turning slightly to look at the red and black robed Mechanicus adept.

Moving quickly, Carish snakes out several of their mechadendrites and plugs them into one of the augur arrays on the command deck. Soon, the view screen increases in magnification, showing what all of the people are looking at.

It is a planet. Almost perfectly round, it is coloured blue with oceans and the varying colours of landmasses; green fields and forests, tan deserts and white icy poles, all spread out under the undulating masses of swirling clouds. Before the quartet, the planet spins slowly, letting the glare of the planet's sun appear over the horizon, the blazing orb lighting up the planet and nearly blinding the two unaugmented humans in the process before the screen dims slightly.

"It's… it's beautiful." Leontij says with awe as he moves his hand down from his face.

"It is." Valask says in agreement before her non-bionic eye squints slightly. "I don't see any artificial satellites. Do we have a clue as to what level of tech this planet is at? Is it even inhabited?"

"The probes sent by The Omnissiah's Grace have not encountered any serious habitations proper," Carish intoned, their mechanised voice filtering through their face-mask. "But signals from heat sources have indicated there are at least four principal cities spread across the planet with many minor settlements being noted."

"So it's inhabited." Leontij says with curiosity. "Do we know by whom, though?"

Carish shakes their head. "Unknown at this time."

"We are possibly beyond the known borders of the Imperium." Akios ruminates softly, letting his eyes drift over the gently spinning planet. "The inhabitants could well be xenos… or they could be human."

Turning, the three non-Astartes look at Akios with surprise. Or at least what could pass for surprise on Carish's mask.

"It's not outside the realms of believability." The Reclusiarch says simply. "The Great Crusade only went to so far outside of the Solar System, and would have continued further were it not for the Heresy to halt it. I do believe that it is indeed possible for humans to exist far beyond the Imperium."

For a moment, the other three members of the group share an uneasy look between themselves. Even Commodore Valask, in her esteemed service in the Imperial Navy, has encountered only a few non-Imperial human civilizations on uncharted world, but all of them either worshipped the Emperor to a degree in some quasi-barbaric sense, or simply worshipped the fell Gods of Chaos.

The idea of such a beautiful world harbouring neither was… unsettling to them.

"So… the question lies; do we treat them as heretics or as possible converts?" Leontij asks, the Cadians lips turning up slightly in a smile. In response, Valask rolls her eyes while Carish just shrugs their shoulders slightly.

"We'll find the answer to that when we come to it." Akios says with a warm tone, finding the Cadian's mirth enjoyable. "But the pressing question for now is: how exactly do we approach this? Are there any signs of extra-planetary communication? Radio waves, perhaps?"

In their housings, Carish's mechadendrites shiver slightly before they rotate. It's not shown on the screen, but Akios knows that Carish is receiving any information from the Mechanicus probes sent to the planet's surface.

"There is… radio waves are present, localised only, and there is also an electronic signal that seems to connect the principle cities together." Carish says with interest. "Rumination: odd. They are able to communicate via a planet-wide network but do not seem to be capable of creating a satellite network."

Putting a jet black gauntlet to his chin, Akios gazes at the planet on the screen as it slowly turns from the night cycle to the day cycle. It is a serene scene, and to Akios' knowledge as an Astartes veteran, he knows that something is amiss.

"So we have no way of contacting this civilization outside of direct contact?" Commodore Valask asks the adept, her eyes fixed on the screen too.

"I agree with that logic, Commodore." Carish replies, bobbing their hooded head slightly.

"Although who would we send?" Leontij asks, the Cadian forthrightness exposing itself again. "With all due respect, Reclusiarch, but I don't think sending a strike force of Astartes would be all that endearing to the local population."

A low sound, Akios lets out a chuckle. "No, I do agree. I do not think that First Captain Madras appearing out of thin air with an honour guard from the First Company would endear us to the local population."

The two other humans each share a laugh at the mental image, while Carish just looks between the three before shrugging their shoulders again.

"No," The Reclusiarch continues. "No, I think this requires the human touch more than the Astartes touch."

Turning his head, Akios looks down at the Cadian colonel, the man still chuckling softly at the idea of First Captain Madras sent as a diplomat. Quickly however, he realizes that the laughter has stopped, and he looks aghast at the giant warrior.

"Surely you can't be serious, Reclusiarch." Leontij says in shock, earning an arced eyebrow from the Astartes.

"It is the most logical idea." Adept Carish says, withdrawing their mechadendrites from the console and concealing them back under the voluminous robes they wore. "Out of all of our myriad forces, you and your Cadians are the most… human."

"The adept is correct." Commodore Valask says with a nod of her head. "Your forces are made up of unaugmented men and women, all of whom are not easy to mistake for non-humans."

"But the 598th are not a diplomatic corps!" Leontij protests loudly and, Akios admits, accurately. "We are fighting force, pure and simple."

Akios smiles at the Cadians dismissal of the plan. It is true that to send a military force for diplomatic first contact is asking for trouble, if not a simple and outright declaration of war, and Colonel Leontij's description of his regiment extends to full fleet: they are all a fighting force in its simplest sense and in its simplest application. Even the Honoured Master of the Chapter, a being who is as much as master strategist as a tactician, would have trouble in reaching a diplomatic situation with an unencountered civilization.

But, once again looking at the image of the planet before them, the unsettled feeling comes to Akios' mind again. Intuition gained from over two centuries of experience in combat against the enemies of Mankind; fighting xenos, daemons, monsters and heretics, has left him with… call it a warrior's foresight.

"Query: is something troubling you, Reclusiarch Akios?"

Shifting his gaze, Akios sees the three other beings on the command deck looking up at him in confusion, or what passes for confusion.

"I…," Akios begins, "Colonel Leontij, I do feel that you are correct in saying that you and your forces are ill-suited for carrying out this task."

The Cadian officer nods his head in silent agreement.

"But… I think there is more to this planet than meets the eye."

As he says this, Akios watches the planet revolve on its axis, shifting the position slightly, as something catches his eye.

One of the continents, somehow shaped in a position similar to winged dracon in flight, is nearly all black. Not black as in the black of the night sky, but as black as the pits of Tartarus. A proverbial darkness that screams of malice and hatred and death. It slowly slides out of view, but the feeling of unease at seeing it settled among the green and blue colours of the other landmasses remains.

"I will contact my Chapter Master." The Reclusiarch says simply. "Colonel Leontij, have your regiment prepped for a combat drop and reconnaissance units prepared. Adept Carish will select a destination for you. I want them put down somewhere far enough away from a principal city to not draw too much undue attention, but they need to be able to reach it if the need is called for."

Adept Carish bows his head. "It shall be done."

Valask arcs a perfectly groomed eyebrow at the Astarte's order. "Expecting trouble, Reclusiarch?"

Taking a step closer to the viewscreen, the warrior-priest stares at the view of the planet. His green eyes just fix on the planet as it spins lazily in the void of space, not caring for the potential violence that could be enacted on it at a whim.

"A suspicious mind is a healthy mind, commodore." Akios replies. "I expect trouble in all things. It means that I will never be put on the backfoot when the firing starts."

Turning, Akios faces Adept Carish again.

"Set a destination in the largest continent. Again: not too close to the principal city but not too far." He moves away from the command deck, stepping off of the raised dais. "We have two days before we launch."

The sounds of the forest at late evening fill the air. The wind rustling gently through the leaves, while all manner of nocturnal animals make their sounds as they come out from their day-time burrows. The setting sun tints the sky shades of pink and orange as the shadows lengthen, darkening the woods of the forest as it sinks lower and lower.

In the middle of the sea of forests that is the northern part of kingdom of Vale, sits a small town called Marysville. Formed like many of the smaller villages and towns on Sanus, and in Remnant as a whole, the town was formed under a strong minded Huntress who simply couldn't live in the city of Vale or in any of the big cities, so with several families, she struck out into the wilds. It took time, sweat, blood and tears, but soon, a thriving town was built.

Built on the fork of a river, surrounding the northern and the eastern edges of the town, which are further protected by walls five metres in height and two feet in thickness, made of the strongest rock found in Vale, while the gates are ten inches of solid oak from the Emerald Forest. In its heyday, Marysville was one of the prime examples of non-city living. The people were well-fed from the farms that were placed on the western edge of the town, while the actions of the huntress who founded the village and the other able-bodied protectors kept the town save from the predations of bandits and the creatures of Grimm. Even trade was facilitated by the presence of the river fork, with small trading ships moving from inland out to sea and coming in the reverse stopping at the town to sell off some of their surplus goods: wood and ore from inland Vale, metal goods and weapons from Atlas in Solitas to the north, spices and foodstuffs from the kingdom of Mistral in Anima to the east and from Vacuo on the far-western end of Sanus.

But now, times have changed. Commerce out of the mountains of Vale has dried up significantly, with many tradesmen and craftsmen packing up and heading elsewhere to seek their fortunes. Some diehard woodsmen and miners still persist but their trips down river have begun to become less frequent. The farms still provide enough food, supplemented by the hunters who range out into the forests around the city, but the town does not feel the same anymore. The huntress who helped forge the village was laid to rest many years ago because of illness, and no-one has been able to replace her.

And to top it all off, for the last month, strange lights have been spotted in the sky. Sometimes they just sit there in the heavens, blinking and twinkling brighter than any star in the night's sky, and sometimes they fall to heaven in streaks of light, their brightness disappearing after they enter the atmosphere. The lights, mixed with the sounds of far-off thunder when no rain clouds are present in the sky, at almost seemingly random times of day, tell a very strange and unknowable tale. To the people of Marysville, it's a trying time.

But to little Carmen Geal-Hart, a small, six year old rabbit Faunus, the town is still as great as ever.

She's a short girl, with shoulder-length russet coloured hair, a pair of long rabbit-like ears sticking atop her head. Her eyes are pale shade of gold, which stand out against her pale complexion. Dressed in her favourite but simple dress made of deep blue wool, favourite toy clutched in her hand, Carmen skips along the paths of the town to her house.

"Hello, Miss Hazel!" She calls out happily to the local greengrocer as she waves, the older lady waving and smiling warmly in return as Carmen carries on her way.

To the girl, Marysville is a wonderful town. Sure, she's heard of Vale, Atlas, Mistral and Shade, and she would love to visit each one of them. But, her parents aren't rich enough, and even with the lien she had saved up from chores and allowance, it would take… a billion years for her to get enough money to go anywhere! Although her mom had said that she'd take Carmen to Vale on one of her dad's business trips, so the young girl was very excited about that.

The big clock in the town square begins to chime, each toll of the bells ringing out across the buildings and walls. It rang out four, five, six times; time for dinner.

Carmen smiles happily as she imagines what her dad is making for dinner. Probably something sweet, something with meat and veg. Oh, she can taste it now…

"Dinner time, dinner time~" She happily sings as she skips along the path to her house. As she goes along, she sees the numerous stall owners and shopkeepers close up for dinner, although the town inn remains open and quite busy as always.

She passes by one of the shops.

She hears it coming before she sees it, her second set of ears turning slightly in the direction it's coming from, but she doesn't react fast enough.

The clump of wet mud hits her square on the stomach, staggering her slightly, making her drop the toy in her hand, even as the dirt splashes against her dress.

"You meanies!" Carmen cries out, tears coming to her eyes as she looks at the pair of older boys that threw the mud pie at her, all of them currently laughing like it was the funniest thing on Remnant.

"Aw, is the poor little bunny gonna cry?" One of them taunts, flicking a mud pie up and down in his hand.

"Th-this is m-my favourite d-dress…" Carmen sniffles, trying her best to suppress the tears in her eyes. She doesn't want to make the boys laugh more at her, but they do anyway.

"Look at that. Now that's just sad." The second boy says loudly, and very mockingly, not caring at all for the damage done to the blue dress.

Again, Carmen sniffles.

"Who cares anyway?" The first boy speaks up again, his face scrunching in an ugly smirk. "She's just an ugly little piece of Grimm bait. The only reason she's here is because her dad married that bitch-freak of a hunter, and my dad says that-"

"Your dad says what?"

The female voice that speaks up from behind Carmen is cold enough to make the boys instantly freeze up in fear, the first one dropping the mud pie as colour drains from his face. But even through her tear-filled eyes, Carmen smiles as she looks up.

"M-momma." She croaks out, her voice becoming sore from the sobs.

Marion Geal-Hart is a hunter. Not a Huntsman or a Huntress, but a regular hunter. She's tall, with a lean, tough body from jumping and running through the woods after prey and away from predators. Her face is a classic mother's face; round, inviting and warm, but it's marked with signs of a hard life. Even though Marion's only in her early thirties, her skin is marked with stress lines and scars from her profession, and the fact she's a female Faunus in a human man's world. Her shoulder length brunette hair has begun to grey, but her grey eyes still hold the power to freeze a man solid with a glare. Like is doing right now with her daughter's bullies.

Or it could be the presence of the double-barrelled, over-under lever-action rifle she holds loosely in her right hand by the trigger guard.

Marion speaks in a voice as cold and hard as steel.

"If I ever, ever, catch you two messing with my Carmen again. There will be hell to pay."

The two boys quickly nod their heads.

"Now scram. And remember: I know where you two live."

The pair of boys quickly scatter, almost bumping into and falling over each other in their haste to get away from the Faunus hunter and her daughter.

When the pair of bullies are far enough away, Marion lets out a sigh as she slings her rifle onto shoulder before she crouches down next to her daughter who is now beginning to weep softly. As she goes down, Marion's leporine ears bob slightly, the one on the left side drooping down heavily from where the cartilage had been fractured while hunting some deer in her younger years.

"What's wrong, sweet-thing?" She asks in the soft voice of a mother.

Carmen gives a small hiccup as she raises a hand to wipe at her eyes. "They… m-my f-favourite dress.."

Her mother shushes her as she strokes Carmen's hair. "It's okay, sweetie. Dirt comes out. Now pick up your toy and let's go home."

Picking up her toy, a stuffed toy in the shape of a rabbit, the young girl reaches out a hand which her mother takes gently. Rough, calloused fingers brush against soft, untarnished skin before the mother and child make their way home.

Their home is a small dwelling; single storey with a small attic which doubles as Carmen's fathers work room, two bedrooms, a kitchen/dining room, and a living room. It's not a pretty house, nor glamorous, being made from a mix of Valean granite walls with oak timbers and slate on the roof. Outside in the back garden is an outhouse with a toilet and a bath. But it was solid, sturdy, kept heat in during the winter and cool in the summer and it was home.

While Carmen wishes she could have something grand like an Atlesian palace, she loves her house with all her heart, and Marion likes it too.

"Honey, we're home." Marion calls out as she opens the door to her home, Carmen stopping to take off her shoes.

"And I'm telling you, Hans Geal-Hart! You! Are a mad-man!" A brusque and rough voice calls out from the attic, making Carmen's animal ears drop in fright while Marion's ears turn to point sideways as she grits her teeth in annoyance.

"Markus, I'm not making this up." The pair hear the man of the house, Carmen's father and Marion's husband, speak up in his scholastic tone of voice. "Now, you've heard the thunder, and you've seen the lights. Godsdamnit, this is not something natural!"

Closing the door behind them, Marion leads Carmen into the kitchen area and towards the stairs that lead to the attic. From above, they can hear Hans arguing with the usual customer.

"Hans, it's just thunder-"

"With no rain or cloud in the sky?" Hans retorts sternly. "Markus, something is going on to the north-east and none of it makes a lick of sense!"

The sound of moving feet on the floor above reaches the ears of the Faunus below as the person above moves towards the stairs. The door opens.

"I'll hear no more of this Hans. If you start spreading this stuff around, then all you'll do is frighten the people."

Markus Meral is a heavy-set man, a mixture of muscle in the right places and fat in a few of the right places. A balding egg-shaped head sitting above his big bushy beard and moustache, he wears a black leather waistcoat over a pale blue, long sleeved shirt while he wears a pair of well-worn deep blue jeans. The outfit is completed by a pair of rugged leather boots on his feet and a holstered large calibre revolver on his hip. A man like Markus didn't become mayor of a town like Marysville by sitting around doing nothing.

Markus looks in quiet shock, his grey eyes opened wide beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows, at seeing Marion and Carmen standing at the bottom of the stairs looking up at him.

"Oh. Sorry, Marion." He says, looking at the pair of female rabbit Faunus' as he makes his way down the stairs. "I didn't mean to get in the way of-oh, little Carmen. What happened to you?"

Carmen looks away shyly as she takes a hold of the bottom of her dress, not really pleased with speaking to the large man who scares her.

Marion answers for her. "Those little… crap-heads were bullying my Carmen again."

Markus opens his mouth to speak.

"And if you say that it's just 'boys being boys', I will hurt you." Marion says testily.

The mayor holds his hands up in a placating gesture. "I'll go speak to them when I get the chance. Good evening to you pair."

Giving a good-bye nod of his head to Marion and a ruffle of her hair to Carmen, being careful of her ears, the mayor leaves the house, letting Hans Geal-Hart step down the stairs into the kitchen room.

Hans is a full head taller than Marion, his wife's leporine ears reaching up his forehead. His hair is a light shade of blue, contrasting with his tawny skin colour and golden eyes. He's wearing a loose fitting white shirt and simple tan trousers over a pair of black shoes. He looks dog-tired and it's left him looking very stressed out.

Although all that stress and worry melts away when he sees his wife and daughter waiting for him.

"Hehe." He chuckles slightly as he finishes making his way down the stairs. "You… you heard that, I take it."

"A little hard not to." Marion says as she shifts her ears to face the front, which is immediately followed by Carmen's rabbit ears popping straight back up in joy at seeing her father.

Hans notices the dirt on his daughter's dress. "Oh, what happened to you, sweetie?"

"… bullies." Carmen replies shyly, earning a rueful smile from her father.

"Well. It's just dirt, so no serious harm done." He says as he bends forward a bit, putting his hands onto his knees. "I'll heat up some water and we'll get it scrubbed out, and you scrubbed up, before dinner. How's that sound?"

Not obviously happy about the prospect of a bath, but keen on having her dinner, Carmen nods her head before she makes her way out of the backdoor and towards the outhouse.

When she's left the house, Hans turns to his wife, a grave expression on his face.

"Who was it?"

"Hawken's eldest and his little shitheel of a friend." The rabbit Faunus says brusquely as she moves to set her rifle on its place on the wall. "I scared them off, but I'm not sure it'll take. You know what assholes like that are like."

"They're teenagers, Marion. They're all assholes." Hans says simply as he switches on the tap to fill the kettle with water. "It's the parents that are the problem. Remember when we first came here?"

She remembers it well. The hostile glares and wide berths at first, then there was the attempted displays at outright hostility and violence against Hans and Marion herself. Even when she had begun to bring in game and prey that far outweighed herself, some of the village still tried to shun her out. It had been the year before Carmen had been conceived that the worse incident had occurred: some drunk farmer had tried to take a hammer to their front-door, ranting and raving about a 'curse' or something like that.

Hans had tried to carefully and calmly talk the man down. When that didn't work, Marion shot him in the foot before smacking him upside the head with her rifle. He hadn't been killed, of course, just knocked unconscious. But it sent a message: don't mess with the Geal-Harts.

Putting the kettle onto the stove, Hans lights a match, so the water can begin to boil as Marion takes a seat at the table.

"So… mind telling me what all that was about?"

Her husband doesn't say anything as he lets the water begin to boil.

"You heard it all. I was trying to convince Markus to let me contact the council in Vale, so we can send a group of Huntsmen to investigate."

Marion cocks an eyebrow as she scoffs lightly. "Over some lights in the sky? It could be flights from Atlas-"

"Marion, we both know about the Atlas military. And we both know that no Atlas military vessels can operate in Remnant's high orbit. No nation has, otherwise the news would be all over it."

The rabbit Faunus sits up slightly in her seat as she takes in what her husband hadn't just said.

"Honey? You're not really suggesting what I think you're suggesting…"

Hans turns to look at Marion with a serious expression on his face.

"Aliens?" He shrugs his shoulders. "Could well be."

Marion's jaw drops slightly, as do her ears, in disbelief as she takes in what her husband has just said.

"That's… you cannot be serious!"

"There's no other way to explain what's going on." Hans points to the north-east. "That 'thunder' isn't like any thunder you or I have ever heard. Those lights sure as hell aren't airships of any kind, or falling stars. This is not right!"

The room falls silent at Hans' outburst, Marion looking at him in shock. Soon, the sound of a whistling kettle fills the room, prompting Hans to turn away and move the kettle to let it settle.

"I just…" Hans begins as he puts his hands against the kitchen top. "I'm just worried. The kingdoms are in the longest period of peace since the Great War, and… I'm concerned."

A lot of aspects of Faunus biology are exaggerated (One particular aspect about horse Faunus being on the top list, Marion recollects), but one thing that is not exaggerated about rabbit Faunus is that they know easily when someone is upset, and right now, Hans is positively radiating sadness.

Getting up from her chair, Marion walks forward until she's standing behind her husband. She wraps her arms around his chest and pulls herself forward until her head is resting against Hans' back, her ears gently tickling the back of his head.

"You're a good man, Hans Geal-Hart." Marion says softly as she nuzzles her face against her husband's body. "Don't worry. We'll sort this out. I promise."

Hidden to her sight, but not escaping her hearing, Hans lets out a contented sigh at Marion's words before he turns around and wraps his arms around his wife. Leaning his head down, he nuzzles his face against Marion's hair.

"Thank you."

Marion says nothing in reply as she lets herself be held by the man she loves. Time melts away as the pair stand together in their embrace, arms crossed over the other as they express their love intimately.

Looking up at her husband, Marion feels a need overcome her as she looks at his lips, thin but very inviting. She pushes herself up to stand on the balls of her feet, lips ready…

Tap-tap-tap

The sound of a very small finger tapping on the window breaks the moment, making both adults look at the offending party.

It's Carmen, standing on the other side of the window, still wearing her dress and looking a bit peeved off.

"Is the water ready yet?"

"Oh, Brothers!" Hans exclaims as he lets go of his wife, a small whine coming from the woman's mouth, before he picks up the kettle. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I'll be right there."

As she watches Hans move towards and out of the door, taking a hold of Carmen's hand as they both head to the outhouse, Marion's mouth turns into a warm, loving smile.

This is home for her.

As the sun finally sinks below the horizon and the trees, the whole of Marysville beings to settle down for the evening. Shops close their doors while the lights inside are lit, the families inside sitting down to meals. The foot traffic at the inn in the centre of town increases in traffic as outside traders and visitors head there for a meal and board; the music increases in volume along with the sounds of chatter, as the smells of cooked foot wafts into the air.

It is a jovial attitude of a bustling town at ease.

But, underneath all that joy and fun, a feeling of unease sets in. Especially when the rumble of far off thunder sets off again. Underneath a clear and starry sky.

"There's that thunder again." A farmhand says as he looks up from his pint glass of beer.

"Without a cloud in the sky and not a flash of lightning?" Another farmhand growls out as he puts his fork down heavily against the table. "Grow some brains, you little soft-shit. It's those Atlesian bastards up to something, I swear on the Brothers."

"Atlas?" A shopkeeper says incredulously. "Like they'd do anything in Vale."

And so the men, in the manner of those who have left work, have their bellies filled and so have less of a care in the world, begin to argue back and forth over their own theories of what is causing the thunder to the north-east.

It is not a loud or particularly forceful argument, but it is an argument that is easily heard by many people in the inn. And it is a topic that unnerves many people. The unknown and the unknowable are the simplest things to cause fear in a person. Even the most strong willed individual can fall victim to the most powerful of human emotion, the one emotion that above all else can cripple a person almost entirely: fear.

And on Remnant, fear is as much a danger as a lit match in a gunpowder magazine.

For, like moths to a flame, fear attracts the creatures of Grimm.

Away from the lights of Marysville's houses and away from the prying but unkeen eyes of its sentries, a band of Beowolves stalk the boundaries of the forest at the western edge of the farmland around the town. Grimm are never far from any human civilization on Remnant, their innate nature; the desire to destroy any vestiges of mankind's, to render humans and Faunus apart with their teeth, claws and talons, to sow fear and destruction in their path, driving them to seek out and attack settlements in the wild.

The main cities on Remnant are beyond them. Walls too stout, too many guns, too many Huntsmen. A dream for all Grimm, if Grimm could dream. To tear down those abominations in the eyes of darkness and cast them to ruin, that is the ultimate end goal for the Grimm across the world, on every continent. As directed by their dark mistress.

In the tree-line, hidden away from the sight of the humans on the walls, the band of Beowolves pace back and forth aggressively, their innate desire to destroy and despoil brimming at the fore of their instinct. Standing the height of a full grown man, the sixteen Beowolves are only juveniles. Their skulls are rounded, and the only spikes of white armour against their black fur is on their backs, forearms and biceps, which hang almost to the floor in the slouching posture. A grotesque fusion of humanoid and wolf, their juveniles snap and snarl at each other, their tempers growing thin at the lack of movement.

One of them approaches the tree-line, down on all fours, wanting to launch itself out of the woods and against the wall.

A sharp, low growl of warning stops it in its tracks, causing it to slink backwards, chastised.

The one that issued the growl is an Alpha Beowolf. It is twice the height of the others, its form more armoured and deadly, while its head more closely resembles that of a predatory canine: long snout, with powerful snapping muscles and brutally sharp rending canines. Its face, white as bleached bone, red lines on the brow and sides leading to baleful yellow eyes, is notched and scarred from the weapons of various Huntsmen and hunters. Each notch is a mark that it has survived each encounter, and each one tells that it has slain many.

As a Grimm ages, its intellect increases. It learns, it adapts. It remembers to avoid certain sounds, which then leads it to avoid certain weapons and how to overcome their weaknesses. It remembers scents; the scent of gun-oil, machine lubricant and dust, all signs of armed humans, which also remembers it to remember the scents of the defenceless ones. Their hide becomes tougher, armour growing more heavy, while their claws and teeth becomes sharper.

As they grow, they become deadlier.

The Alpha looks at the town's walls. The world it sees through its eyes is monochrome; shades of black, grey and white that change with the time of day and position. When it was younger, it was difficult to make out the shapes of farmhouses, fences and walls. All were just fuzzy forms. But now, in its evolved state, it can see each detail more clearly, each form becoming clearer year after year of hunting. As it raises itself to its full height to see more clearly, it can see the approach from the woods to the walls, past a few small farmhouses. It's a straight path.

All that is uncertain to it is the human guards.

They appear as shifting red forms in the Alphas sight. Each one a baleful red, each one it sees driving the killing urge in its predatory brain higher and higher. It bares its teeth to the open air, clawed forelimbs flexing as muscles in its hindlegs coil in readiness.

But it waits. The time is not right.

In its sight, it seems three humans. Even through the distance, probably three-hundred metres or so, it can easily smell the gun-oil, lubricant and ballistic powder. Three humans. Even armed, they would be no contest for the Alpha.

But it knows. It knows the ways of its prey. It knows that if three humans see it approach, then they would all open fire on it, while the alarm would be sounded, and the attack would be wasted. The Alpha would survive, no doubt about that, but the others would perish, and the town would remain.

So it waits. It bides its time.

Around it, the other Beowolves become more anxious, but they stay in place. The desire to destroy clings to the Alpha, so they are drawn to it. The leader of the pack, they take direction from it. So they wait too.

Two of the figures move away from the third one, walking away to the right.

Without a growl or a snarl, the Alpha lunges forward, its powerful hindlimbs propelling it forward as it gallops straight to the wall. It leaps over a fence, then another, before it hits the open road. Using its speed, it propels itself up onto the wall. Its claws dig in tight to the rock, pain flaring in its mind.

But its killing lust is up, so the pain is ignored as it hauls itself up the wall, using its claws as hooks.

It reaches the top. The human hasn't seen it, its attention focused on something inside the town.

Silently, the Alpha moves onto the wall itself. A fact that is unnoticed to the human, but clearly seen to the others. They all see the next action as the Alpha smashes a mighty paw against the human, smashing its upper body to rags and sending it over the wall.

The juveniles charge. They bay, they snort, they snarl as they charge towards the wall. Some jump over the fence, some just smash through them. But they head to the wall.

Behind the pack is a group of large Ursa, six creatures strong, the mighty, stout predators lumbering out of the woods on the heels of the Beowolves.

On the wall, the two human guards hear the commotion outside and they panic. They panic as they see the twin packs heading towards their town. They panic when they see the Alpha Beowolf charge across the wall-top at them. They ready their weapons, weapons that have not seen much use outside of the practice range at the guardhouse.

One of the guns fires, an automatic burst that rips the night air apart. The other one jams, sending its owner into a full-fledged panic.

The Alpha Beowolf roars as it lunges at the pair, jaws wide open and claws outstretched.

Then the destruction of Marysville begins.

She doesn't know which event wakes her up. And Carmen probably never will. The start of that night was so tumultuous that, in her mind, all the sounds of the start blended together to form one noise. One cacophonous, horrendous noise.

The gun-fire at the walls, the howling and roaring of the Grimm, the screams of the townspeople caught in the attack. Or her own parents barging into her room, wild-eyed and fearful, her mother armed with her rifle and her father with a pistol in his hand.

All of those noises wake her from her sleep. And awake her to the horrible night.

"Carmen!" Her mother cries out as she rushes to her bed, her daughter jerking up violently from her sleep.

"Momma! Wha-what's going on?" Carmen asks, as she looks around in worry.

"There's no time, Carmen. We need to go. Now!" Her mother replies sharply as she pulls out some clothes from the drawers and pass them to Carmen. "Get dressed, quickly."

Carmen opens her mouth to respond, but a staccato burst of gunfire goes off somewhere nearby before it is quickly silenced. The young rabbit Faunus girls ears drop sharply in fright as she hears a loud cry come out close by.

"Momma…" She croaks out in fright, clutching her blanket close to her chest.

A pair of hands take hold of her shoulders and she turns to look at the face of her father, fear evident in his eyes, even as he puts on a brave face.

"It'll be all right, sweetie." He says steadily. "Just… just stay with us."

Carmen nods her head before she gets out of her bed and starts putting on the clothes chosen for her. They aren't her favourite blue dress, but she's too scared to ask about it. The noises outside are terrifying and they make her ears flit around as they try to figure out where each noise is coming from. She doesn't understand what's going on, and she no matter how hard she tries, she can't. It's all so confusing to her mind.

But what's more confusing is that her mother is walking around the house with her gun. After all the times she has been told never to touch the gun that hangs on the wall, after all the times that Carmen has seen her mom carefully handle the gun inside the house. To see her holding the rifle ready while she looks out of the window.

"What's… what's happening, momma?" She asks after she pulls her top over her head.

Carmen's mother looks at her, a strange smile on her face. "A bad thing, sweet-thing. A bad thing."

As they dash out of the house, Carmen baulks at what she sees around her. The air has become thick with fear, combined with a pall of smoke from numerous flames that have sprung up as houses have become demolished and set alight, the former blotting out the moonlight while the latter sends the town into a horrible play of shadows.

Screams and cries echo from everywhere at once as Carmen is carried out of the house in her father's arms, her mother close behind. The six-year old looks around, trying to figure out what's happening, to try and see what's going. Against the lights of the flames, she sees people dashing to and fro, backlit against the flames. And there are… other forms. Animals, but not quite animals, snapping and snarling in the gloom.

As her parents carry her down the street, Carmen can't understand what's going on around her. The normally peaceful town is now filled with pandemonium.

She can't process what she's seeing because it breaks every thought and every truth she has been told about her home. The walls that she had thought and been told would keep out all the nasty things and the monsters in the woods, had failed. There's the sound of the mighty wooden gates being forcibly smashed open, followed by more screams and a louder roar.

"Papa," She whispers out as her parents duck into the cover of a buildings wall. "I'm scared."

Being careful not to hit her with his pistol, Hans reaches over and gently brushes her hair as he tries to soothe her.

"It's okay, sweetie. It's okay. We'll be okay."

The sharp crack of a rifle makes both of them flinch, Carmen screaming out in shock, as her mother steps out from the corner of the building and fires her rifle down the street. She fires two more times, each shot earning a roar of pain from whatever she was shooting at.

"There's got to be up to twenty of them!" Marion calls out as she comes back to stand behind the wall again. "But I think there could be more."

"You know what Grimm are like." Hans responds as he pulls Carmen closer to his body.

Marion opens her mouth to speak, but a loud, echoing screech, a screech that goes right through the bones of the family and into their souls.

"Get down!" Marion cries out as she quickly grabs her loved ones and drags them to the floor.

As she does, a massive gust of window buffets them all. It smacks down the smoke and the flames, almost making a trench in the miasma, revealing for a moment the night sky, stars twinkling and the broken shape of the moon beyond.

All of which are soon obscured by a giant black mass of feathers and wings, topped by a giant white skull of a head.

Carmen's eyes open in fright as she begins shivering again.

The Nevermore screeches loudly again as it pass overhead, its wingspan enough to cover Carmen's house easily. Each flap delivers a powerful down thrust that bludgeons the ground, sounding like the beat of doom itself.

Its giant heads swings back and forth as it looks for prey, its quartet of eyes scanning the town. It begins to turn as its eyes lock onto something.

It completes the turn, and begins to fly right towards Carmen and her family.

"No!" Marion shouts out as she stands up, rifle raised as she beings firing up at that large Nevermore. Each round she fires can easily put down a man or a deer in a single shot, and while it would take multiple rounds to do so, she can kill a human sized Grimm with her rifle. But against a Nevermore of this size, it's like spitting at a raging house fire.

The giant Grimm keeps coming, claws out stretched and beak open, maw wide enough to swallow Marion whole. Even as the woman stands her ground and keeps pumping that lever to expend the spent rounds.

Her gun clicks empty.

"Marion!"

"Momma!"

The Nevermore screeches in triumph as it draws closer. With nothing else to do, Hans raises his arms over his daughter to shield her from the sight of what's to come next.

The beast never makes it.

With heavy, barking bursts, the Nevermore's body shakes and shudders as heavy calibre rounds slam into it, shredding the wings and torso. With the ability to fly lost, the beast begins to drop down instead of glide forwards.

Shocked by the turn of events, Marion can only stumble backwards as the giant flying creature slams into the ground pretty much in front of her, making her fall flat onto her behind.

"Wha-what was that?" Hans says out loud, the look of confusion on his daughter's face asking the same question

The doppler scream overhead is their answer. Looking up, Carmen just catches sight of a shape passing above the village. It's the same shape as the Nevermore but slightly smaller, with shorter and stiffer wings, and a shorter, stubbier head. What's puzzling to her is the small pair of bright blue lights that end just above the tail. Same with the green and red lights that blink on the tips of the large wings.

"Th-that's a jet." Hans says out loud.

Carmen and her father watch in fascination as the jet flies out further across the town before it turns to the right and continues flying. For a second, she doesn't quite get how, but Carmen things she sees a figure lit up in green in the centre of the jet before it's obscured by the smoke and disappears.

"Are you two all right?" Marion asks as she finally picks herself up from the ground and rushes towards her prone family, reloading her rifle as she does. When she's next to them, she looks in the direction the aircraft went. "What in the Brothers name was that?"

"That wasn't an Atlesian aircraft." Hans says simply, looking at his wife pointedly.

Marion doesn't say anything, turning her attention back to the world around her as she reloads her rifle. The sounds of chaos are still raging around them, but the screams are fading, and the growls are becoming more prevalent.

"We have to move. Now."

"Should we go to the river?" Hans asks as he picks himself up, Carmen still in his arms, her ears clamped firmly against her head.

Marion shrugs and shakes her head almost simultaneously as she looks around. "I… I don't know. Maybe. That might be the best way out of here."

Nodding his head, Hans takes a hold of Carmen and follows Marion as she leads them towards the edge of the town on the river. Most of the screams are coming from there, but with the growls coming from behind them increasing in volume, that seems to be the only direction to move in.

As they move through one of the streets towards the town square, they hear the sounds of the mysterious aircraft overhead again, accompanied again by the sounds of its heavy calibre guns firing. Looking up, they see bursts of gunfire light up in the smoke, along with the screeches of another dying Nevermore.

Silently, Hans offers a prayer to the Brothers and the Maidens to look after the mystery pilot.

As they enter the square, Marion slows the group down, her rifle raised as they move into the space. The sight that greets them is horrific.

Shops and buildings they had all known, places they had visited and shopped at are either in flames or in ruins; windows smashed with glass strewn everywhere, walls caved in or smashed asunder while doors are simply removed or thrown aside. And then there's the bodies.

People that the Geal-Harts know and recognise, some that they don't, all lie on the stones of the ground square. None of them look peaceful in death; limbs that are attached to bodies lie at unnatural angles, while some are simply strewn around the place. Some bodies are torn, some are shredded, while some are close to unidentifiable. Some have weapons in hands or close-by, showing that they died defending themselves or others, while many do not.

Hans covers his daughters eyes as he whispers to her. "Don't look, sweetie."

She doesn't, as the sickly smell of death is enough to make her shake in fright.

Marion leads the trio further across the space, leading them in a snaking path to avoid stepping on a body or limb. Pools of blood and worse are strewn across the ground, and even with her job as a hunter, it still makes Marion to see the carnage that the Grimm has wrought on her town.

As they make their way past the town's well, a loud groan draws their attention, making Marion wave her husband and daughter into cover behind the stone well.

"What's wrong?" Hans asks quietly as he tries to peer over the well, but his wife pulls him back down.

Saying nothing, the female rabbit Faunus leans carefully out to the side to look across the town square. It takes a while to see what has caused the noise.

It's the mayor, Markus. He is prone on the ground, pulling himself across the ground with his elbows. His face is streaked with mud, tears and blood. His clothes are covered in soot and dirt and blood… more blood than Marion would expect. Until she sees what has happened to his left leg; torn away right at the ankle, his foot is missing, the lower part of his trouser leg soaked with blood.

The man tries to push himself up on his hands, the same loud groan issuing from his mouth again. Marion doesn't like the guy, but she can't stand to see him in the state he's in.

"Wait here." The Faunus says to her family, not taking her eyes off the wounded man. "I'm going to…"

The words die in her throat at what she sees emerge from the smoke behind Markus' prone form. It there is a nightmare given form, the beast prowling towards the injured man is it to a t. Thick, gangly arms of powerful, corded muscles lead down to two large paws that width of a man's torso, each one tipped with five brutal looking claws, each of which are currently dripping with mixed viscera of mud and blood. Going up, the arms lead to a thick simian-like torso, the size of a man by itself, wrapped in coal black fur and studded front and back with white plates and spines of bone for armour, almost like the skeleton is breaking and pushing through the skin itself.

Then there's the head. Like someone ripped out the skull of a wolf and supplanted it onto the head of an ape. Bone white, just like its spikes, except with red markings along the forehead and snout, and with a maw of brutal looking teeth which currently drip with saliva and blood. And its eyes. Each one is a baleful, glowing red that seems to shimmer as it moves from side to side, stalking towards Markus as he tried to hobble away.

Marion carefully ducks back into cover, flattening her rabbit ears against her head in an effort to makes herself smaller. An Alpha Beowolf is not something to trifle with even in the best circumstances. And these are not the best circumstances, not by a long shot.

"What is it?" Hans asks in a low voice.

"An Alpha." His wife replies in a whisper, even as her ears pick up what happens next.

Markus whimpers as he tries to get away, knowing what's behind him.

She doesn't need to see the hit, hearing it is enough for her. The impact is heavy and meaty, the Alpha obviously having smacked Markus a good distance in whatever direction the Grimm wants him to go. The loud cry of pain tells her that the man is now seriously hurt.

And then there's the whimpering.

"Oh, Brother. Brothers, please! Someone, help me!"

Despite herself, Marion looks around the corner of the well, and she immediately wishes she hasn't.

Markus is on his back, now completely missing his right arm above the elbow. Blood is pouring from the stump and it has soaked his clothes thoroughly, making him slip slightly as he tries to back away from the Alpha now towering over him.

The man's voice falls to a murmur in fear as he looks up at the Alpha Beowolf. She thinks it's the trick of the light, but to Marion, it almost looks like the Grimm is smiling as it looms over the man. It raises a giant paw, and Marion quickly ducks back into cover as it swings a claw.

Markus screams. It's not the dying screams of a man. No, that would too merciful, and the Grimm don't know mercy. It's not in their bodies. Each wet burble of a scream is punctuated with the sicking wet crack of a claw scything through flesh again and again and again.

Each blow, each scream makes the hiding Geal-Harts flinch. Carmen is too scared to even utter a word, but her fear of what she is hearing makes her pee herself into her father's arms. Not that there's anything that Hans can do, not with an apex predator nearby. So he suffers through it quietly, just waiting for the sounds of animalistic torture to stop.

It seems like it's gone on for minutes before, with one final sickening crunch, the sounds stop. The trio waits in cover for a few moments as they hear the heavy thump of feral footsteps move away before receding.

Marion leans out from cover slightly, letting her eyes peek out.

"Is it gone?" Hans asks.

A feeling nags at Marion's brain, especially amongst the continuing sounds of ruin from the town.

"I think it's gone."

Not saying anything else, the pair slip out of cover, Carmen nestled tightly into her father's arms.

"Wait here." The Faunus huntress says simply as she readies her rifle and moves to investigate the body of the mayor. The now ex-mayor, rather.

She gags. She's an experienced hunter, with many years of gutting and skinning animals under her belt, but this. Marion is clean, methodical in her skills with the knife on the prey she brings down. But what happened to Markus is nothing of the short. It was pure savagery, unbridled rage and animalistic fury that tore this man apart. His entire torso and stomach is torn asunder, each cut seeming to have been more savage than the last. The ribs are shattered to pieces while his entrails, what remains of them, are thrown around his corpse while his blood still pools around him.

Not wanting to remain any closer to the corpse, Marion heads back to her family.

"We need to get out of here."

"Marion…" Hans says fearfully as he looks at something past his wife's back.

She turns.

They're coming out of the shadows and the flames. They seem to slip directly from the blackness, each step closer they take revealing more of their horrifying details. White claws and fangs drip with blood, black fur is matted with dried offal, while red eyes glow with demonic malice.

There's six Beowolves heading right for them.

"Momma, I want to go home." Carmen whines out fearfully, almost on the point of tears.

Marion doesn't say anything before she reaches into her belt and draws out a small cylinder, the same size as her fist. It cost a pretty penny in lien to get, and she said she'd only use it for emergencies. Right now seems like the right time to use it.

She pulls out a small pin on the top before she chucks it right at the Grimm in front of her and her family. The cylinder flies through the air, somersaulting over itself, before it clacks against the stones of the town square. It bounces once, twice, before…

WHOOSH!

The flame Dust in the grenade ignites catastrophically, engulfing the closest Beowolf in flames and turning it into a man-sized pillar of wailing and thrashing flame. The Dust in the grenade was specially made not just to engulf a target either, as Marion watches the flames spread out in a line going both sides of the initial explosion, creating a wall of flame.

Through the leaping and dancing fire, Marion pauses as she sees the hateful gaze of the Alpha Beowolf directed at her and her family.

Marion moves to stand next to her husband and daughter.

"That barrier won't last long."

Hans shakes his head ruefully. "We won't last long, not with that many Grimm behind us."

She knows he's speaking the truth, especially since the roar of the flames is now joined by the roar of more and more Grimm, each one baying for the morsels in front of them, all but denied by the wall of flame.

Marion looks at her daughter, tears now streaming from her face at what's going on.

Hans shifts his grip on his pistol.

"We can't let them take her."

Marion reaches up and strokes Carmen's hair.

She looks past Carmen's head at the wall they hid behind. A bucket sits on its side forlorn, a length of rope coiled beside it.

"We won't let them."

Taking Carmen in her hands, Marion strides purposefully towards the well.

"Momma?"

"Carmen, sweet-thing." She says as Marion picks up the bucket and places her daughter inside. It's a tight squeeze, so Carmen has to stand. "I want you to know that me and your father love you very much."

"Momma?" The young girl frowns in confusion. "What's happening? What are you doing?"

Understanding what his wife is doing, Hans quickly walks over as he picks up the length of rope in his hands, his pistol tucked into his waistband. Carefully, they both being lowering her down the hole.

"Momma?! Papa!? Wait!"

The yowls and roars from the Grimm grow louder as the flames begin to dim.

The bucket gets lowered deeper into the well, Carmen crying out loudly for her parents.

"Please! I'll be a good girl, I promise!"

Marion feels hot tears streak down her cheeks as she helps her husband with the rope.

"You were the best girl, Carmen. And we love you so, so much!" She cries out loudly, her ears down fully in grief at what she's doing. "And that's why we're doing this!"

"Momma!" Carmen cries out once more before she's fully engulfed by the shadows of the well, out of sight, and, more importantly, out of reach.

Despite her best efforts, Marion collapses into painful sobs at what she and her husband have just done. But it was the only thing they could do for her.

"Marion, we need to go now." Hans says, his voice strained, even as his eyes are clearly watering with regret. "Get up."

Almost reluctantly, the huntress gets to her feet, rifle gripped tight in her hand as her husband leads her away from the town square. Behind them, the flames have dimmed down enough for the first, bravest Grimm to leap the fire and begin to chase the pair.

Running quickly, their lungs burning with the exertion, Marion still sobs loudly, even as she tells herself it was the right thing to do. Hans says it out loud.

"We had to do it! We couldn't let her die like that, and I'm not killing my own child."

The pair run towards the riverside area of the town before they slow down to a stop. The destruction here is not as bad as in the town proper, but buildings still burn, walls and windows broken down. All are joined with the smashed woodwork of destroyed boats, and again… more bodies.

The growls from behind them get closer, making Hans and Marion turn.

Marion isn't a praying woman. The life of a Faunus, especially a Faunus woman in the wilds, teaches a person to rely on themselves above all else. So it takes her back when she hears herself being to pray.

"Holy Brothers; Lord of Light and Life, and Lord of Darkness and Death, hear my prayer. Watch over my dear daughter in this hour. See her safe, and keep her innocence and purity in life. Let her grow old and youthful, and let her days be filled with the happiness and bliss we tried to give her in our lives. Let her pass this night unsullied and in good health."

"Amen." Hans finishes as he turns and faces the oncoming horde, pistol held firmly in his hand.

The first Grimm bounds round a corner, snapping its head back and forth as its tries to seek out its feeling prey. Quickly, it spots them and beings prowling forward, savouring the slaughter to come.

"I regret many things," Marion says as she readies her rifle, bringing the stock up to her shoulder. "But I don't regret meeting you, dear. Or bringing Carmen into the world. Just that it was this world she was born in."

"Agreed." Hans responds as the first Beowolf is joined by another, and another. And another.

The beasts begin to lope closer and closer.

"I love you." Marion says to Hans as the first Grimm breaks into a run.

The pair open fire.

Down in the well, Carmen is bawling her heart out. She can't understand what her parents have done to her and why, so all she can do is cry.

"Momma! Papa! I'm sorry! Please! I want to go home!"

The night has been scary and confusing. The smoke, the fire, the noises. None of it makes sense to the young girls mind and now her parents have gone away, leaving her all alone in the dark underground.

"Momma!"

She reaches up, trying to grab onto the stones of the well, hoping that she can try and get herself up. But the stones are too slippery with water and moss, so she can't hold on. With a small cry, she falls back down into the bucket, nearly falling into the water. There's no way she can climb up the rope.

"MOMMA! PAPA!"

Above, she hears the sound of shuffling feet at the mouth of the well. Hopefully, Carmen raises herself up in the bucket.

"Momma?"

The loud snarl from the lunging Grimm echoes loudly down through the well as it reaches down with a giant paw and tries to claw its way down the well. Carmen cries out loudly as she falls back fully into the water, trying to keep herself afloat by holding onto the bucket, even as the Grimm keeps trying to claw and smash its way into the well to get at her.

When it decides that it can't reach her, it simply stops and pulls its arm out. Looking down, it tilts its horrible, nightmarish head side to side to look at her in the water and the dark before, with a loud chuff, it moves off.

Now, the town above has finally quietened down. The Grimm have stopped snarling and baying, and the screams have stopped. All that can be hear is the roar of the flames, the occasional crash as a house consumed by the flames collapses on itself, and high above all that, the loudening then diminishing scream of the mysterious jet above the smoke.

Down in the well, Carmen, soaked to her skin, tears and snot pouring down her face in fear and grief cries out again.

"MOMMA!"

But the world gives no answer. Her voice becoming one with the sounds of the forest at night.

AN: Sooo... I know that I'm currently writing Code Geass: A Brave New World, but since I started reading For Those We Cherish by The Crimson Lord, and also Only In Death by gatosicarius (both really great stories, really fun to read), I decided to do my own.

MAY have overdone it just a bit with an opening chapter that's 47 pages long, but heyho, that's life.

Both stories above focus around the Space Marines, the Adeptus Astartes, but I decided to go in a different direction with mine: The Imperial Guard, the shield of the Imperium and the unthanked defenders of humanity, who die in droves on a day to day basis to keep the light of humanity going on for just that bit longer.

First chapter is really more of an introductory chapter really. Introducing some, although many of the named ones are major ones, some aren't, OCs for the story, along with the various Imperial factions that are going to be at play from the off. All in all though, the chapter really speaks for itself.

Hehe.

The last third was... man, that was genuinely horrible to write. Not because I struggled, but because I knew where it was heading and it honestly made me feel like a bad person for writing it.

Retribution will come for Carmen's family, believe me on that. Also, the name does follow the RWBY naming convention: Geal is Scots Gaelic for white, but it also means pure. So Carmen is... pure of heart. It comes into play later, trust me.

As always, read, enjoy and review please. Thanks for reading!