Ask Shadow Captain Branwen

Von Koenig snarled, baring his fangs in frustration as he watched what had been a well-drilled battalion of grave guard moments before stumble and collapse into piles of worthless bone and rusted armor. “This is why I prefer to do things myself,” he hissed.

The thinning of the amethyst wind was a handicap but not a deathblow. It would take some time for the necromancers to rally the hordes and turn grave dirt into something useful again, but that was why von Koenig favored building his armies around ranks of thundering Blood Knights. A skilled warrior with a sharp blade could kill regardless of the flow of magic.

The vampire lord raised fingers to his lips and whistled. Something made of smoke and shadow blossomed from nothing behind him, a pall of fog that charged forward, obfuscating all it passed over as it made a b-line towards von Koenig. As it drew closer it began to take a more solid form, and soon a horse came into view. Its hooves thundered, drawing sparks with each iron-shod step as its eyes blazed with orange fire. It was muscular, its nostrils flaring with each angry snort it made. Its chest and flanks were protected by barding colored the black and crimson of von Koenig’s heraldry, and wings spread far out from the beast’s back. Von Koenig reached a hand out, grabbing the reins about the horse’s neck and jumping effortlessly into the saddle.

“We must cut the head off before these aelves think dawn means their salvation,” he said, a blood-flecked snarl leaving his lips. For a moment, the austere noble looked almost feral in his ire. He looked down at Petra, his eyes glowing red.

“My knights and I will be the tip of the spear,” he continued. “I trust you can rally enough of yours to play the part of the spear’s shaft.”

He did not wait for a response. Von Koenig dug his heels into the side of his steed, urging it forward. He cried out, a rallying call that brought a dozen knightly banners in his direction. Most were Blood Knights. A handful were the skeletal Black Knights that had endured the thinning of the magics that kept them animated, their loyalty and devotion to their Wight Kings enough to keep them in their saddle.

“If these fools believe our kind to disintegrate in the sunlight, we should absolve them of that myth.”

“Aye,” Petra agreed, baring her fangs as she reached out with one hand to channel the guttering amethyst winds of magic. “I shall anchor the infantry and make sure there’s a follow up blow to your spear’s thrust.”

She threw a quick glance to her Huscarls. The motley band of Grave Guard had weathered the storm - a testament to the strong spells that bound them to their vampiric mistress. Stll though, their posture was somewhat more slouched, their movements less fluid. It would take some work yet to invigorate them.

“Go, then! Show these damned Aelves that they haven’t yet beaten us.”

The Pale Crow began to incant - chanting words of power as her free hand contorted into a grasping claw, directing the flow of Death Magic as she attempted to assert her will over the grave-dirt and its’ gifts below. Even here in Shyish, the magic had been thinned tenfold. Raising even half of what the undead army had initially mustered wasn’t going to be easy.

But it was that, or be massacred by the Lumineth.

Already she could pick out their banners in the distance, the glow of their magics coalescing at the tips of scores of arrowheads, nocked and drawn to fire.

(Showin' off that MCH style, went back to her original hairstyle.)

Alys Duskwoode, six foot tall goth Thighlander who decides the best course of action when confronted with a primal is to bop it with a sword. Sometimes two swords. Sometimes an axe. And very rarely, a gun.

I consider her "canon" job to be Samurai, but she's got her roots in Rogue/Ninja and Lancer/Dragoon before that.

She's got a bunch of dresses, a room in the FC house and occasionally crashes on a couch in her friend Dahni's house in the Mist. Known to turn into a blushing wreck when flirted with. Sweet on her friend Dahni'to, even though he's dating another catboy.

Alarael shook his head. “I do not like the causeway for a static defense,” he said. “The convoy is a sitting duck from all angles, creating a kill box would only solve half of our problem. I think we are better off inserting ourselves with the convoy and defending it as it moves. Our air support can escort and provide cover.”

“Stormtalons and one gun-cutter are hardly enough to establish confident air superiority,” Tykel said.

Alarael looked at the Firstborn Knight. “Stormhawk and Xiphon interceptors would be, and Commander Estephal owes me a few favors.” Tykel seemed properly chastised, for he made no reply.

“ETA for an orbitally deployed interceptor squadron is still fifty minutes,” Phariel said. “Thirty if its Xiphons.”

“Are you saying you can’t defend a convoy for an hour without air support?”

Phariel huffed. “I’m just making sure we are all aware of what we’ll be getting ourselves into.”

Samson barked out a laugh. “I think it is a bit late for that, brother.”

“Direct reinforcement,” Branwen murmured, letting the idea take shape in her mind. “I suppose it would make sense to concentrate our strengths on a single strongpoint. That way neither us nor the convoy can be isolated from the other.”

“Fewer chances we’d be hit by enfilading fire as well,” Addi nodded her assent as she wrapped several layers of field gauze around Ingram’s ruined hand.

Branwen tapped another command into her wrist-cogitator, zooming the map out to reveal the surrounding area, and the nearby Imperial positions.

“As for support,” She indicated one firebase, marked out with her Chapter’s symbol. “This FOB might be able to assist. Huntress might be busy rearming, but I had something else in mind.”

“Hopefully a little heavier than a Whispercutter,” The tinge of pain in Ingram’s voice was gone - Addi’s pain-dampening stimms at work.

Branwen grinned, indicating six icons. “Storm Speeders. We should be able to have them on-station around when the Xiphons arrive.”

“Right, about half an hour then. Just one other thing to address.”

The Intercessor Sergeant looked down at his bandaged hand, then raised the other.

“Does anyone have a spare bolt rifle?”

Branwen snorted, unclasping Causa Mortis from its sling before handing the weapon over to Ingram. “Don’t break this one, or Shrike will have both our asses.”

The Raven Guard Apothecary balked. “What about you, Captain? Don’t tell me you’re going to challenge the entire Necron force to a sword fight?”

The pace of their coupling increased, as Branwen’s breath became more and more hitched with each undulation of her hips against Janus’s. Her head lolled back for a brief moment, as she let out a quiet whine at the pleasurable sensations shooting up and down her body.

“Janus,” She murmured, her grip growing tighter. Her dark eyes fixed to his as she took in his blissful expression. It was as if they had stepped back in time together.

“After you, my dear.”

The masses of gravewalkers and deathrattle shifted, the mindless soldiers herded like sheep by their vampiric lieutenants and overlords. They were numberless, and moved like the slowly shifting sands of Shyish’s black deserts. Along their flanks, the Blood Dragons moved, resplendent in their blood red and black armor, pennants fluttering in the grave wind that seemed to follow them wherever they rode.

Von Koenig watched his mustered forces march past him. The vampire lord smiled. Such strength had not been gained with ease and the ranks of rattling skeletons and shambling zombies were nothing if not testament to all he had built from nothing when he landed on Ulgu back when the Realms were still young. Von Koenig allowed himself to feel some measure of pride in his cold, dead heart.

Shadow bubbled up from around his feet, and the vampire’s corporeal form began to dissipate, fading into the foundational matter of his adopted home until he was naught but black wisps on the wind, a black mist that heralded death to any enemy as surely and silently as any poison. It was von Koenig’s preferred method of travel. He seldom rode atop a horse or within a carriage unless he had to, and walking was simply boring. The mist-form was quick, and allowed for endless opportunities when crafting a dramatic entry, which appealed to the showman side of the ancient vampire.

When he manifested again, however, von Koenig wore a frown. “Can you feel that?” he asked, looking up at the purple Shyishian sky. “Something is different. Fortune has changed. I no longer feel the Necromancer’s eyes on me.”

While showmanship may have served in battle, a tool to ambush and unnerve her foes, Petra had no need of it for transportation - not when her own two feet would serve. The shambling pace of both zombie and skeleton alike would ensure that she would not be outpaced. Perhaps von Koenig’s Blood Knights and any spectral allies would range ahead, but that simply meant that they would serve as an effective vanguard to any of their Hyshian foes.

The sellsword paced forward at the head of her huscarls, setting a brisk pace that the motley-armored wights easily matched. Before long, Petra and her guards were apace with the foremost lines, between two phalanxes of armored skeletons whose rusted and battered armor looked more green than silver in the gloom of the eternal twilight of Shyish.

But something was wrong. A sudden, palpable surge of magic went through the field. Not the building pressure of a spell being cast, nor the manifestation of bodies being freed from the mire of dirt below, nor even the nullifying stillness of an unbinding. No, this was a fundamental shift in the very fabric of the Mortal Realms.

Petra glanced about, alarmed, even as her Huscarls instinctively closed around their master to form a shieldwall. Von Koenig manifested a moment later - evidently, the magical surge had not escaped his notice either.

“I feel it,” She nodded, dark eyes scanning the immediate area. “The winds of magic have shifted, but to what purpose?”

With a few murmured words and a wave of her hand, the Pale Crow cast her senses to the winds of magic. She was hit with a wave of prickling discomfort almost instantly.

“The Amethyst Wind is thinned,” She hissed. “Overtaken by the light of Hysh, even the energies from the Necroquake are receding.” She glanced up suddenly, her eyes full of urgency. “Our casters must double their bindings or-”

She was cut off by a chorus of inhuman wailing. A nearby unit of zombies milled, their eyes aglow as purple energy seemed to well from the rents of wounds and decomposition in their greenish rotting flesh. With the winds of Shyish in disarray, necromantic bindings were beginning to fail en masse. To their left, Skeleton Warriors began to jerk spasmodically, shedding bones from beneath chainmail as several of the animated undead collapsed.

As if on cue, there were cries of triumph from beyond the ridge, and the glimmering of dawn’s light on the horizon.

The Iron Father betrayed no surprise at Branwen’s presence. It had not been noise that betrayed her, nor any trick of the light. Rather, it was the observation deck’s access door. The tiny machine spirit within its cogitator and slide motor had whined enough at being forced into motion to let the Iron Hand know someone had joined him. Guessing who had only been a matter of intuition. Only so many would come seek him out in this moment. Only one could move so silently.

“It is certainly nothing like the crusade fleets,” he said. “But it will do.” Janus had long since learned that even a fleet that appeared as rag-tag as theirs could be dangerous when crewed by those with purity of purpose and righteous hearts. His own little battle fleet would never have made it this far were that not so. He would have returned to Medusa to lick wounds long ago, and likely be chewed out by whatever council the legion’s surviving leadership had cobbled together since Istvaan.

Janus had no care for such lectures.

“Such is the nature of war,” Janus replied stoically. He had waged war long enough to know the price of victory was often steep. But that was the calculus of it, the cold logic. Whatever risks it entailed where risks they were expected to bear without complaint. They were Astartes. More than that, they were Astartes seeking so many different kinds of vengeance. There was no sacrifice they would not make to bring about their objectives.

“We will set sail for Agrain in eighteen hours. I take it you are prepared?”

Branwen allowed herself a sombre grin, in spite of herself. “A fleet of shattered legions, such as it is. Whatever comes from this, I welcome a chance to pay the traitors back to some degree.”

She turned her dark eyes outward to the fleet once more. Furious Anger drifted into full view, her dark hull freshly patched from the damage done by both the daemonic incursion and boarding torpedoes of the response. She fairly bristled with weapons batteries, macro cannons unmasking and lance banks rotating as she was taken through pre-deployment checks. Doubtless that Strike-Lieutenant Nomax was at the helm, eager to redress the earlier debacle.

“Both Great Vengeance and Furious Anger stand at the ready,” The Shadow-Captain replied, her voice taking on an air of confidence. “Repairs and refits are complete, all that’s left are shakedowns. Great Vengeance is readied for a full planetfall - drop racks and hangars are full.”

She gestured to the Furious Anger as the strike cruiser powered past. “I’ve assigned a demi-company to garrison her for the duration. Close quarters specialists and breachers. The enemy won’t be able to pull the same trick twice.”

Branwen let out a breath, sparing a longer glance at Janus. Again, her expression softened, but there was a wistfulness to it this time.

The causeway was not an ideal defensive location against a foe like the necrontyr. Alarael only had to glance at the grainy display to see that. The advantage of a raised position was negated by the xenos’ greater technology. The causeway was a kill zone for anything on it given the current situation. The Knight Redemptor turned over a number of possible tactical decisions in his mind, given the variables present.

 Blowing the causeway would be counter productive, only serving to further reduce mobility on the already confined highway. It would not hamper the necrons in the slightest. The gun-cutter could provide basic air cover, but for how long depended on how quickly the xenos could bring their sickle-shaped air superiority fighters in to counter the threat. And evacuating everyone was simply out of the question. They would need a dozen gun-cutters just to get the personnel off the causeway, to say nothing of the armor and supplies.

“I believe that would be a safe assumption,” Alarael replied. “And rockets, even.” He gave Branwen a curious look that was blocked by his helmet. The accompanying tilt of his head, however, was not hidden. “What did you have in mind?”

Branwen tapped her chin, leaning towards the hololithic readout of the immediate area as she considered their options. The hills and pools of spoil that surrounded the causeway would provide decent cover, but would also serve to hinder the Marines’ mobility once they disembarked from the gun-cutter. Still, their own air support gave them the ability to strike where they pleased.

“Aerial insertion with gravchutes,” She replied, gesturing to an area behind the immediate Necron presence. “Take up an enfilading position here, creating a killbox between the Causeway and us. The gun-cutter and our Stormtalons can eliminate any hard targets and box the Xenos in, hold them until further support can arrive - ours or the Militarum’s.”

Addi tilted her head, her expression dubious. “What makes you think we’ll get any more support?”

“Two Astartes captains taking the field,” Branwen replied with a smirk. “Should bump the AO’s priority up a couple notches.”

Branwen’s kisses began to be tinged with whines of desire, as the tip of Janus’s cock throbbed against her entrance. She could feel herself getting wetter and wetter as her need built, her hips rocking to let the Iron Lord feel exactly how she felt about her stay being prolonged.

The Shadow-Captain’s impatience won out, and she reached down with one hand to grip Janus’s length, enjoying how it pulsed at her touch. She guided him in, sighing in delight at the audible noise of him entering her.

Von Koenig shrugged nonchalantly. “I couldn’t say. I don’t stop to ask such things before blades are crossed and blood is spilled. But they’re the territorial type, if that rings any bells.” The vampire smiled pleasantly. “About land and blood tithes, it would seem.”

A horn sounded in the distance, a long mournful sound, and the gathered undead host turned in its direction. The Blood Knights gathered themselves from their frenzy and the hordes of deathrattle moved like lethargic puppets.

“Hmm,” von Koenig said. “Seems as if we are needed.” He sounded mildly disappointed. “No doubt the Black Liche needs his proverbial skin saved or something. Maybe von Carstein has finally found the courage to go at him with Nagash’s back turned.” An amused smile crossed his porcelain features at the thought.

“I would pay good coin to see that.”

“If they’ve got blue skin, I know exactly which ones you me-”

Petra cut herself off as the long blast on the horn rolled in, twitching her head in the direction. Likely it was from a frontline unit of skeletons, a duty they shared with hordes of zombies that kept the more elite formations of the Shyishian defenders screened.

“Time to earn my keep, I suppose.” Petra smirked, gesturing to her huscarls. As one the shambling bodyguards turned towards the source of the sound, spreading their formation to envelop both vampires. It was then that her Ironjaw huscarl rejoined them, hauling a wounded and cursing Lumineth before the Pale Crow. The Aelf wore the battered and bloody armor of a Warden, one of the pikemen that had formed the core of the Hyshian-battle line.

“Pray, grant me a moment.” Petra’s voice husked with her hunger, her eyes somehow growing even darker at the prospect of a meal close at hand. She closed with the Lumineth in a blur, biting into his neck in a flash of bright fangs against the gloom. The aelf barely had time to scream as the color drained from his face. The Pale Crow’s hunger was great indeed, as she drew the lifeblood from her victim in the span of a few moments. She withdrew, bright blood covering her chin, her expression nothing short of delighted.

“Indeed,” Janus replied. At least Knightfall was willing and able to fulfill their specified purpose. “On that note, I will leave you all to get reacquainted. I have other war preparations to see to.”

Janus gave Caramia a respectful nod before turning and fixing Branwen with his gaze. The look in his good eye suggested he still had misgivings about all of this, but he remained silent in the hope that he would be proved wrong. If they were to liberate Agrain, the risk was worth it. The calculus said so.

While Janus had spent his time in the tech-forges of the Raven Guard, Captain Riolus had been busy. Gorgon’s Hammer was up and running at 93% combat efficiency and Adamantine had reached full capacity under Captain Hasp’s watchful and demanding gaze. Along with their smaller escorts, the Battlefleet Agulaar was ready for deployment.

Beside the inky black vessels of the Iron Hands floated the emerald gems of the Salamanders. Tsu’ten could not hope to bring anything as powerful as Gorgon’s Hammer to bear, but the two strike cruisers Dragon’s Mace and Infernus and their associated escorts were nothing to be counted out. Including Deadly Prey and Furious Anger, the composite war fleet would well stand toe to toe with the battleships of the Third Legion.

Janus stood on one of Tigrix Station’s many observation decks. Though he watched as cutters and supply packets ran from the station out to the fleet, carrying ammunition, provisions, and other resources, his mind was elsewhere. He had spent hours in Adamantine’s simulation halls, playing over the coming battle and trying to account for every possible variable that might throw the calculus of combat away from their favor. Despite the numbers telling him their plan was sound, there was a part of him- the human part- that remained apprehensive.

No victory came without cost.

“It’s hard to believe, sometimes.”

Branwen had never possessed the ability to Wraith-Slip - a talent passed down to a select few of her legion-kin by the genes of the Ravenlord himself. She could not pass without trace as the Mor Deythan. Yet her Legion training served well enough to enter the observation deck without notice. Whether or not she’d surprised the Iron Father would be evident soon enough. The Shadow-Captain stepped out from the shadows, smiling as she moved to stand beside her X Legion ally.

No, more than an ally. The time they’d spent together on Adamantium, and Tigrix Station, had made that plain.

“When we made planetfall on Agrain V, I had no expectations of reinforcement. We’d aimed to wage a guerrilla campaign as we did on Narsis - rally the population, strike and fade, perhaps disrupt the world long enough to draw out Mikael.” Branwen tried not to grimace at the mention of the III Legion Lord-Commander. “Yet here we stand, amidst a liberation fleet.”

She stared out at the idling capital ships, noting the glittering pinpricks of transport and supply craft that inscribed trails to and from each of the war vessels. Her own strike cruisers, sleek and nearly invisible against the black of the void, sat on the periphery of the larger Iron Hands vessels. Sparing a sidelong glance, the Shadow-Captain’s gaze softened.

“I take it by the look on your face, they’re not having a good time of it,” Alarael said. 

The Captain quickly flipped through the vox channels until he found the one Branwen was listening in on. It sounded like Gorgon Hive playing out on a smaller scale, with a supply convoy suddenly ambushed in all directions by the metallic foe. It was hard to tell if the necrons were looking for the nearby gate or had come from it.

“Do we know the lay of the land?” Phariel asked. “Is this gate also subterranean?”

“I don’t think it matters at the moment,” Alarael replied, turning his crimson helm to face his fellow Knight. “We’re getting our boots dirty again helping that convoy. We’ll find the gate afterwards.”

Samson grinned, the prospect of fighting again setting the big marine’s blood running.

“Agreed,” Branwen replied, nodding to Alarael. “If we can disperse the Necrons and free up that convoy, we might be able to count on the Army-” She paused. “... Militarum, to lend support.”

“If they want to lend us a few Basilisk fire missions, I certainly won’t complain.” Ingram’s brief chuckle became a growl of discomfort as Addi continued her work on his arm.

Keying her wrist-cogitator, the Shadow-Captain brought up a grainy hololithic display of their destination. It was within the Spoils, a desolate stretch of land that had been the dumping grounds of nearby manufactorums and the closest hive-city. The only notable landmark among the hills of slag and pools of chemical runoff was an armored causeway, raised above the Spoils on reinforced ferrocrete pillars.

“The convoy had been making their way east via the causeway here,” Branwen indicated the road. “Mostly Cargo-6s with pintle-stubbers, but they’ve got a couple of Chimeras for support. They’ve got some cover from ground forces, but given the Necrons’ use of antigrav, it’ll more likely hem them in.”

Glancing back to Alarael, Branwen raised an eyebrow.

Even to their enhanced senses, the Custodian seemed stone still. Her faceplate betrayed no thought.

A moment passed, the ash of memories rolling over her. A stolen kiss on a snow swept balcony. Warm hands in her bed. The smell of burnt ozone as the red marker on her HUD flashed.

“What would it mean to you for her to have been there, when what mortal men would call gods still walked among us?”

A confused murmur rose from the Primaris, as heads turned to one another. Aestyr seemed unable to respond, her mouth half-open as she searched for the words. Had her bangs not thrown a shroud over her eyes, it was more than likely that they would be wide in shock.

Branwen felt a pang of guilt shoot through her chest. Belatedly, she realized that she’d shirked responsibility. One of her soldiers had posed the question to her, and she’d passed the burden to Arturia. She frowned.

“I...” Aestyr stammered.

Branwen interjected, taking a step forwards. “Forgive me, Lady Arturia. The question was posed to me - I should be the one to answer it.”

She met the Custodian’s gaze briefly, offering a remorseful expression - one that would need to be reinforced with words later. Turning back towards the assembled Raven Guard, she let her eyes pass over them, taking in the young, eager faces. So much like the ones she’d left behind at Terra.

“I don’t know to what extent the rumors have spread,” She began. “But clearly to a point where it needs to be addressed. A commander owes many things to their troops - one of them is the truth.”

The Shadow-Captain paused, taking a breath.

“It is true on both accounts. I did serve during the Great Crusade, and the Heresy that followed. It is also true that I met Lady Arturia in those days.”

It was her turn to flush. “I didn’t think anyone was that impressed with my work! Its hard to compare when everyone here is trying to capture the same thing.” 

She nodded, sheepish smile curling her lips. “The Nineteeth- they’ve gotta be almost as hard to capture as the Legio. Danton… I’m sure I’ve seen your work, I’m just on the south side of a memory care unit. Now… ” She set her hands on her hips, giving them a long long up and down. “You look positively lost. Do you know where you want to go, or were you hoping for something… fun to catch?”

“Well...” Lon paused, glancing furtively from left to right before leaning in. “The Raven Guard contingent -  their captain was injured just before we arrived in Sol, ordered to wait behind while the rest of the...” They furrowed their brow, searching for the correct word before settling on something more whimsical. “... Flock was on exercise. So they come back in, and the dear Captain’s nowhere to be found.”

The Remembrancer’s expression broke into a grin. “Now, you’d expect it’d be for some strategic considerations. Briefings or something... But I have it on good authority that she’s visiting someone. One of your Legio Custodes, in fact.”

A warm sensation spread through Branwen’s chest at Janus’s suggestion as her hearts fluttered. Slowly, a dreamy smile spread across her face as she lifted her eyes to meet his. Duty had brought their reunion, and war would see them together until the planet was reclaimed - but perhaps for a moment, duty could wait.

“Yes,” She replied, her own voice husky with passion. “Let them break down the door and drag me back to the Deadly Prey by force. We have ten thousand years to make up for.”

Von Koenig listened to Petra’s story with a lazy, amused smile on his lips. With his given demeanor, the only thing missing from the picture might have been a glass of blood wine in his hand and a hearth with a fire crackling merrily away. As it was, there was neither of those things on the battlefield, although the red stain around von Koenig’s mouth might have indicated the former.

“I’m sure you are, I’m sure you are,” the vampire lord said as his counterpart finished up. It was impossible to tell from his countenance whether he believed her or knew that she was lying. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps he didn’t care. Or perhaps in answering the way she had, she had answered the real queston von Koenig had left unasked.

“Petyr and Petra. How quaint.”

The clamour of another cavalry charge drew the lord’s attention for a moment. His Blood Knights had finally broken the last of the Lumineth in this area. A feather in their caps. From what von Koenig understood, other fronts had not fared as well. Not that he expected much. Nagash’s great weakness was that his generals fought for themselves and not together. Blind ambition kept them from presenting a cohesive front in any conflict, and the result was always the same.

Such as it was.

“Well, knowing there is another vampire in Ulgu is knowing I am not quite so outnumbered when the blood aelves decide to be poor neighbors,” he said with a smile. “Again.”

As for whether or not that Von Koenig had bought her tale, Petra couldn’t tell. Her counterpart seemed impassive enough in his demeanor to suggest he had, however. That suited the Pale Crow well enough - truth be told, she wasn’t about to divulge her secrets so readily to someone she’d just met, even if he seemed an apt enough warrior.

She sincerely hoped that Von Koenig wouldn’t ask to go visit Petyr’s castle. For all Petra knew, it didn’t even exist.

“I’ve always found that the Khainites make decent clients,” Petra replied, passing her greatsword to two of her huscarls. The pair of wights dutifully set about resheathing the blade in the scabbard strapped across their master’s back, beneath her cloak. “Blood-drinkers that they are, they tend to be less... judgemental when it comes to my requests for payment. Fewer priests trying to rally a mob to go slay the abomination.”

Her dark eyes grew curious.

The proverbial apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, it seems Janus thought to himself. That certainly explains the habit of picking through the trash of others.

“Apologies,” he said. “My legion does not see inebrients as particularly conducive to our intended purpose. Were it so, we would probably have more experience in brewing them. Such as it is, consumption of them only weighs efficiency down.”

He paused, looking up from his data slate.

“And statesmanship is boring. That’s why we kept the XIIIth around.”

The Iron Father made a few more minute adjustments to Knightfall’s systems, as much as he could with the connection afforded to him through the dataslate. He anticipated the heat sinks would need a more invasive looking at, but that could wait until they were sure Knightfall was no longer at risk for sudden cognitive erosion.

“Would it matter, one way or the other,” Janus said. “My legion is shattered, the bulk of it run home to lick wounds thanks to the treachery at Istvaan. What I have is paltry compared to the forces we once wielded. But some of us are too stubborn to let grievances be paid back in anything less than blood and oil.”

“That explains the taste,” Knightfall boomed with another blurt of static. “But such as it is. I appreciate that my awakening did not fall solely to that red-cloaked Kiavahran harpy.”

Caramia rattled her cog-wings, voice practically dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, wonderful. Your neural pathways are intact. My cognition centers are alight with joy.”

“Caramia.” Branwen’s voice was stern, but she couldn’t hide her grin. Her eyes seemed less dulled with worry - a measure of youthful glitter returned to them as she looked from Knightfall to Janus, an expression of gratitude passing over her face. She motioned to dismiss the support squad that still stood at the Dreadnought’s back, and with no small amount of visible relief, the meltagunners gave a salute before departing.

“I had the Magos run somnotic briefings while we prepared the Leviathan. I figured that given our current... situation, it would help.”

Between this, and Janus’s news, Knightfall let out a trundling sound, her head dropping in the armored cradle of her sarcophagus.

“Would that Lord Corax seen fit to inter me sooner. Mayhaps I would not have turned the tide, but there would have been far fewer traitors to sully the Legiones’ name alive now.”

“There will be time enough for vengeance,” Branwen replied. “Starting with the Third Legion.”