crackin’ carapace

Asclepiusa Metrodora

Asclepiusa's wings are iridescent like crows. Little oil spills.

Nobody knows who her father was and what he is in both 30k and 40k— except Malcador and The Emperor. She absolutely refuses to tell anybody. Yet, it causes more confusion to others when she is referred to as Bane of Slaanesh.

Asclepiusa would hug any Astartes (or give them a kiss on the head) in a heartbeat if they wanted it. She has earned her 'Mater' title accordingly so.

While she preferred hand writing her information in 30k and Horus Heresy, Asclepiusa ended up transferring over to dataslates in 40k. She stopped trusting that things wouldn't be burned or destroyed after the Siege of Terra and the Downfall of the Imperium.

Of all the Primarchs, she liked Sanguinius and Vulkan the most. They both looked different to the average person, like her. It allowed Asclepiusa to not be so excluded within the Palace.

She has three separate forms, and she never tells which one is her true one (and truth be told, none are.) One is her human form— it bears the most resemblance to a woman, with short nubs of antlers on her forehead. The second is akin to a centaur; half body of an elk with the torso and head of a woman, with horns that have extended out to decently sized antlers. The third is a tri-headed elk, with antlers on each head that interconnect and form a large circle in the middle.

Devana

Her eyes are ever changing— they eclipse and shine according to her moon.

Nobody knows when she made a pact with the Emperor or why she and her planet are allowed to exist untouched. They aren't aware her powers extend outside of her moon.

Devana was born from the collective belief of the moon— though her 'home planet' lays special in her heart for being the one that allows her continued existence. Her power waxes and wanes with the eclipse and shine of the moon(s), as compared to it being drawn from worship.

The before is fuzzy, a series of faded picts from someone else's life more than his own.

He knows his brothers as aspirants. Kaer Umbral and Brume Virga- they had always been together. Friends from the more distant past forged into a more true brotherhood. He remembers them being by his side even as the paths of the larger boys- and they were bigger, he remembered.

It was hard, but whenever he thought on those times he was always looking up- he was- had?- always been a bit runty. Not that they ever let him feel like he was falling behind, or would let him.

He knows he wasn't the best choice for an aspirant, but had been determined. He would make it.

And he did. He proved himself as many times as it took. To be a battle-brother was the highest honor, and he would do it with Brume and Kaer.

Why had he been so... concerned? Is that the word? The emotion doesn't feel as foreign as it ought to, but he knows he didn't- couldn't lose those two.

Was... there no one else? Was it so bad to be left behind?

It had to be, for him to push forward so doggedly.

Perhaps there is a mercy in not remembering.

Being a neophyte is hard enough- puberty for baselines adding in the change after change of bone and blood, body and mind changing into Something More.

Again, perhaps not remembering is its own mercy.

But once he started receiving implants he started... changing.

Not the same way his brothers were, with their skin slowly taking on a more deathly pallor and hair darkening.

His eyes remained as dark a blue they ever were, not inching ever closer to the characteristic black of the legion. If he stares too long at them, he can only wonder if they're getting more vivid?

Though he shaves his head, the hair that scatters itself along his body is still the blond it had been since he was... young. He knows it can be seen in his eyelashes, so he keeps his helmet on.

It's easier on his brothers, this way.

Like using the same utensils does- lessons learned from forgetting he needs to be careful in a way his brothers don't of a Betcher's gland that abnormally seems to actually work.

His older brothers- the Firstborn ones- went from looking at him like all the rest, to steadily eyeing him with suspicion and masked hostility as he kept shooting upwards in height, even beyond his primaris brothers.

Looking back, being a Shadow is easy when you've been walking the line between truth and lies, peril and peace every waking moment as a neophyte.

Not that he really knew what he had done?

If he knew what he did wrong he could fix it- but everything he did seemed to treat the symptom, not the cause.

His voice started making the baselines act… odd. Uncharacteristic. He wasn't certain it was him specifically until he commented once that the lot of them were still hungry within earshot of a serf who would never usually mind the comments. And yet, they brought the neophytes food, and when questioned by battle brothers couldn't remember or know why he did.

He thinks that's when he started speaking quietly. It didn't fix the problem, but it helped.

Of course, the suspicion of the battle brothers had a trickle down effect- his fellow neophytes wondered what he had done that had made him the center of so much attention.

Sparring was harder, expectations were higher, standards were different.

He doesn't... really remember specifics. Bolter to his head he couldn't tell you dates or times anymore, the memories faded in the haze of chemicals and sickness and conditioning.

But Brume and Kaer stood by his side through it all, and while they all pulled through by their own merit they would not leave the others behind.

He knew it made them unfavorable as well. Brume's tremendous close-range ability was looked over for those who he routinely beat, his proficiency in multiple schools of weaponry suddenly negligible. Good humor or not, stained by association.

Kaer's skills as an apothecary would always be invaluable before his own levels of competence pushed him above and beyond, but still he was delegated to be the last of them assigned. All of this only helping where his bedside manner was more like a chainsword, it seemed.

Cyn himself given the long range roles, sniper most frequently with a brother at his back.

And as a scout it was his duty to do the job required and learn the skills his brothers would deign to pass on to him.

And the skills that suited him best were to exemplify the second principle of the Raven Guard- stealth.

The older brothers were happier if they couldn't see him, but he couldn't learn from them if he was never there.

Stealth fixed that.

But even they were eventually assigned, and Tenaebris Sixx was a good sergeant. He was fair to them. He may not have cared for them at first, the three misfits they were, but they were a squad and they were his squad.

Slowly, surely, progressively, Ten and the three of them became a surprisingly well rounded squad. Even as they flexed more firstborn brothers in and out as the missions required.

Ten's experience and proclivities for the more explosive things in life taught valuable lessons.

Brume's close combat prowess was applauded and an unexpected boon when they moved from Scouts to Fire Support.

Kaer was always going to be needed, people were injured or died every campaign, no matter how smoothly it ran.

And he? Got better at what made people happiest.

He stopped being there, when he could.

He didn't gain the blessing of the geneseed that so few could unlock- wraithwalking was not a boon in his blood, and that was fine because for whatever he apparently did wrong (had he forgotten it? Did he do something to so wholly alienate people he didn't even remember?) and that would likely only make it worse- but he had the training and learned very quickly.

He had to pick it up from seeing it, because someone teaching it to him directly hadn't... he couldn't remember the last time, not before Ten, anyway.

Ten who became fiercely protective of his squad, that they move companies together even if highly unorthodox and the concept of building this particular reliance a recipe for disaster.

But they worked well together, and the Raven Guard always ran on the light side of marines in a chapter. They could barely afford to properly fill each company, so a squad that could work together as well as they did, flex other marines in and out without question, and get the job done within parameters every time? They couldn't afford not to keep the squad mostly in one piece.

So sometimes he was the sniper, an elder brother watching his back with a knife ready for any enemies who may trip over them, sometimes he was the front line with a bolt rifle.

And then one day, it all changed.

Perhaps he'd finally done enough- was quiet enough, invisible enough, proficient enough, something? Enough?- that it just... was different.

He went through the Spraakfys, and came out a Shadow.

That... didn't fix everything. Some elder battle brothers still wanted nothing to do with him, but it changed his relationship with his peers and the younger primaris.

He thought it would make his squad happier- that he was finally more welcome again and they wouldn't have to be as on the fringes themselves for it.

It only made them more upset when it happened though- not that they weren't happy for him, they were overjoyed and they had meant every emotion of it.

No, Kaer, Brume, and Ten were upset at everyone else... And he didn't know why?

He'd tried asking about it, but it went much the same way it had when he'd tried to encourage them to spend less time with him and more time with the rest of the Ravens lest their own intrapersonal relationships suffer.

That is to say, Kaer looked at him like he'd shoved the wrong service equipment in an unpleasant orifice and that it was Kaer's job to fix it- and again Kaer bullied him into the space the brothers shared and it was mandatory enrichment time.

He didn't understand why those three got so upset, really. He liked the ravens and birds of the 'Spire, he always had. He doesn't remember why he started sleeping outside of the Spire proper or in the old cell blocks when circumstances permitted, or avoiding sleep in the rookery when it didn't. He never minded it. It was good practice for when they were in the field, or anywhere they couldn't sleep.

He liked the birds, and he'd long since policed the bolter shells his elder brothers had directed him to do on the way to exfiltration- he still did, even if it drew looks, but now it was for his hobby.

It wasn't exactly easy to break into- the shell casings were durable but Primaris strength meant he had to be gentle with his applied force and efforts to carefully cut the metal as he desired it.

He had plenty of time to learn, and habits formed were not so easily broken.

It wasn't like nobody knew where he was or cared- if Ten or Brume or Kaer wanted to find him, they could and would. If his Captain wanted to find him he would be there.

He just... liked the routine, perhaps? When the battles they fought relied so much on spontaneity it was easy to appreciate the mundanity for what it was.

Plus the birds knew him, and they liked the treats he brought them, often exchanging a shiny for a snack, or stealing the odd shell if he was too absorbed in his task for too long.

His sqaudmates were content in their own paths, and he was happy enough with his own.

And then their campaign brought them in contact with the blood angels.

He'd been putting off the problem he'd had, servos wearing out over time was a fix he could handle, but something was wrong around that, and while it hadn't cost them the careful ground they'd bought on the planet? He knew it was a matter of time, and that he needed to go lurk in the armory until someone could look at it. So he stood to the side- it's impolite to obscure yourself in the company of your cousins as he'd been chastised before- and he kept himself occupied trying to determine the precise sticking point-

And then Zorael was there. And he was kind, and he helped fix the problem, and while he teased it was... different. Nicer? And he didn't know what to do or say, his squad watching with a raptor's focus at how it went but not stepping in, so it was probably fine?

And he... he liked Zorael. For all he was the better part of a head taller than his primaris brothers and a head taller again than his Firstborn ones, he was still taller than Zorael.

But the Blood Angel had bantered with his own squad and left Cyn in peace after fixing the problem that would've taken most of his afternoon. Just like that.

And he didn't know the feeling that coiled in his chest, or made his face and ears feel heated- it wasn't shame or sorrow or anger, it was new but not a bad new?

And it was only after the fact that he'd seen he'd been left a gift, a little carved raven whittled with care and skill.

And then he panicked because you return gifts with gifts, right? And his wake encouraged it, and good relations were important- and what did you gift a blood angel?

So before they left the system he left a shell on the other marine's bed, chapter symbol and home world(s) carefully rendered with a small pen light as a hint to the purpose. He'd learned leaving shells on someone's bed could be considered bad taste after the first time he'd left them for Ten, Brume, and Kaer (it was sweet how they'd immediately asked him if he got one, and their relief at him when he explained they were gifts from him).

He didn't know quite what to do with it, though he wanted to keep it safe. It was Brume who suggested stringing it up with his Corvia- and the little whittled wood was easily tucked under the tiny skull so significant among the guard.

In hindsight, it should've been obvious from there- but he'd missed many things for all he tried to pursue the depths of vigilance as his next path.

And they went through the warp and it was on to the next campaign, and for all it was more of the same, in the time in his armor he couldn't help but ponder on the ease at which the problem he had was fixed, and outside of it he liked running his fingers over the careful carving.

Perhaps it was Ten, perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was rolling the odds after liberating worlds mired by chaos cults- but they kept running into the Daemonbanes of the blood angels every few years or so.

And he always... liked seeing the red of the angels - not sure why perhaps this company they suddenly crossed paths with so often, but he was happy to see them- even outside of the sign that it meant their own job was successful enough.

And they kept their exchanges going as their companies interacted: a box for his craftwork carefully carved and detailed, and in return he could only offer scrollwork based upon the victories sprawled across the man's own armor.

And Zorael was nice to talk to, for all Cyn's own voice hardly carried above a whisper.

It was enough, though, Zorael mentioning how nice his voice was- and it made Cyn acutely aware of his effects on baselines. How the effect was useful in keeping some rebellions running, certainly- a few encouraging words from him had kept a handful of crucial lines from crumbling when Ten made him speak up, after all.

But he didn't want his voice to effect Zorael, not the way it tended to sometimes.

Something about that concept made his hearts hurt, and when he'd asked Kaer about it his brother had once again shoved him into the doing some extracurriculars.

But he still liked when Zorael spoke with him, even if he hadn't realized the man apparently had fangs? Another oddity, but not one the Angels apparently minded, so neither would he. Though he did have to muse on how he'd managed to miss such a detail.

But the gift giving continued, and perhaps in an odd way.

Not from Zorael, who always got his gift ready and delivered before their paths diverged (he had to ask Ten if there were any games with dice he could learn now that he had some. At least when he asked they were already in hobby time and Ten couldn't push it when Cyn explained he'd never learned any), and it was in what he forgot that he'd realized what he could do next.

They had found a child to be a new aspirant among the population of rebels, orphaned like so many before, but so perfectly Raven Guard it was agreed of there were no protests from the civilians he would return to the Ravenspire with them.

Rare occurrence, perhaps, but they were scheduled to return home and for that they were pleased.

But in the corner the rebels had kept the children he'd gotten the idea to string multiple casings up in a row, the firelight twinkling off the casings one way, and against the walls of the ruined habs a scene of birds in flight through a forest.

It was nowhere near easy to pull off- lining up the casings just right, making sure the light plays nicely, that they don't obscure each other to the point of it being a moot effort.

But he knows what he wants to make next for Zorael, and he has the time to iterate on it to be perfect.

---XIX---

It's not often they're back at the Ravenspire for many, many reasons, but if Tenaebris Sixx can't stay asleep for visions of seeing too much of the past, he knows he can find Cyn.

If it's raining- and they would have rain, somehow, in their artifical atmosphere- he knew Cyn kept to the cell blocks as opposed to pretending to keep in any particular room.

It's easy enough to skirt the baseline population and find where his battle brother had made himself a bit of a crash pad- something to lay on, a light for his projects, shell casings he'd worked on, shell casings he hadn't, snacks for the ravens, and the man in question.

Lumen on, tiny tools looking even more exaggeratedly so in his hand, the odd few ravens perched around the room in various states of rest, and Cyn looking up at him with blue eyes flashing from concern to ease as he was recognized.

"Couldn't sleep," Cyn asked as he slid over on the foam that tried to pretend it was a mattress once, making room for his brother-sergeant.

"Could ask you the same," Ten grunted as he sat next to the primaris, "what is it this time?"

"I don't really sleep when I'm here anymore," Cyn responds like that's a normal thing to say when you're supposed to be in the safest place for your chapter, "but, uh," Cyn waffled, quiet voice even quieter as he felt embarrassed, "just. Stars? Trying to get them just right," he muttered as he looked back to the shell.

Ten raised a brow, "stars? Don't you have a pict or some recording of the night sky to compare back to?"

"Not for this planet," he whispers in reply, and Ten has to keep himself from rolling his eyes at that- and Cyn can't figure out why that Blood Angel is friendly. If this keeps up, he might have to consider sending his poor cousin the claws for his boots after all.

"Dreaming again," he asks instead, knowing part of the reason Cyn felt chased out this far.

The man doesn't even look up from his work, "you too if I had to guess why you're here. I don't mind the company," he puts one tool down and picks up a stylus, "but I'd rather only one of us had them if it's all the same."

On goes the little lumen, and Cyn turns the shell and the light over a particular segment of wall.

Ten notices the primaris line up the light with little dots of paint he'd daubed against the wall- if you didn't know to look for it they would blend in with the faint and faded paintwork completely.

Cyn scoured the little dots- star map, Ten realized, the sizes fluctuating just so to imply proximity or distance from one to the next- and sighed, clicking the light off and pulling the casing back, "not a complete redo," he muttered, "at least not unless this tweak goes awry..."

"Cyn," Ten's question cuts through the idle muttering, and he gets a hum of acknowledgement from the battle brother, "did you try sleeping when you got here?"

"I did," he confirmed as he continued his task.

"And what did you see?"

His tool stopped moving, then, hands frozen as he maneuvered the minefield of that question, "the usual," he tries to say with a forced calmness Ten knows him enough to know he doesn't feel.

"Illuminate me," Ten asked, propping his elbow on his knee and looking to the taller of the two.

Ten watched as Cyn very carefully put down his project, and in spite of his discomfort- perhaps because of it?- one of the ravens in the room hopped over to the primaris's arm and perched, waiting for him to start petting it.

Ten watched as fingers that could crush a baseline carefully stroked along the feathers, "Ravendelve," he began, his whisper feeling more hoarse and haunted than the usual subdued warmth it kept.

"There are explosions outside, the walls under attack? But why? I'm there in my armor, not as a neophyte but as the battle brother I am. I'm by the Apothecarium," he pauses there, getting a nut for the raven so it flutters away to consume its prize, "and if we're under attack I need to help them. If I'm there- what if Kaer needs me and he's in there? Or those too injured? So I go," he let out a shaking breath before taking in a more steadying one.

"I get there and it's," he clenches his fists, "it's Chaos. Battle brothers are trying to leave but there are... are," he sighed, "men the size of primaris, or what once were. They're mutated, eyes are red as blood and viscera. From there they all vary- beaks, tails, claws, fangs, talons, feathers- so, so many feathers."

He looks to the birds in the room, pensively before he continues, "they didn't have corvia, at least, they weren't armored at all, just... robes, if their mutations allowed. Our robes."

He's quiet on that for a long, long moment before he continues, "but I show up. I try to ask what's happening, I'm not armed, but the brothers in the Apothecarium do not heed my requests for knowledge or a tool to fight with. They flee the warp-touched and I go into the Apothecarium instead. The whole place," he scowls, "it- the lot is in ruins when I get in. Every soul that had been in it slaughtered to the last."

He looks back to Ten, "Some of the creatures pursue the fleeing Raven Guard, but... the rest? Come for me. And then all is smoke, is fire, the cries of the ravens, the screams of those damned."

Ten watched Cyn carefully to see if he would continue, but the man simply took a deep breath and held it before sighing, "just as it ever is," he trades his almost-done shell for a smooth casing, picking up his tools to start something new- that, and to not let the slight shake to his hands destroy his latest attempt at a clearly intensive project, "but did that answer your question sergeant?"

Ten's expression was grim, but he nodded, "it does. Thank you, Cyn."

The man nodded, and Ten knew he would get nothing further from his brother that night.

"You're welcome to try sleeping again if it'll help," Cyn offered at length, "I can move if it helps. Being out of the 'spire proper, it lets me doze, sometimes."

Ten does wind up taking Cyn on his offer, the younger of the two moving a bit across the space to allow his sergeant the option to recline a bit more with what they have.

He's again alone in the memories his dreams twist up, one battle brother only escaping by grace of some misplaced instinct to protect the youngest.

Vengeance achieved at a cost he would never forget.

Regret a mantle he would wear all his days.

The Trials

- Hunting

There is of course a trial of hunting. To see if any of the aspirants have a nascent ability to sniff out creatures of the Immaterium better than those around them. The method of hunting varies with each trial. As creatures of the Warp are hardly ever the same twice, which means that going after a quarry as an individual, tight knit group or a loose troop are all welcomed methods. 

- Survival

Similar to many other Legions from worlds known for their weather, one trial of aspiration is simple survival. 

Gene-seed

A relatively stable and yet not, the gene-seed of the Manticores has a host of problems that ends in mutations that are surprisingly stable. 

- Molossus Hounds

When the mutation takes hold and goes far enough, the mind shifts into a more primal state.

The forms these sons take are varied, but they all have a similar characteristic of quadrupedal canine shapes. While their higher, human thoughts and capabilities are gone, they still retain themselves. Looking into their too human eyes makes many uncomfortable, a shine of intelligence that is not that of a simple beast visible in their depths.

- The Hunger

Similar to the Blood Angels, the Manticores have their own issues with appetite. Only in their case, it is purely appetite. Created as hunters for things physical and immaterial, there is a pit of emptiness at the bottom of their stomachs that is always on the edges of their mind. With the enhanced biology of an Astartes, they are keenly aware that they can eat anything. Or anyone. 

Those who begin to succumb to the Hunger go through rigorous meditations and efforts of discipline in order to remain in control. Slipping further and a brother will join the ranks of the The Muzzled . Those who are beginning to become too dangerous to walk freely but not so far gone that they are unable to perform their duties. 

Learning of the Red Thirst it will be little surprise that a twin of Sanguinius has a similar flaw in its seed. The Manticores are hunters, made and bred to consume things that by right should not have that quality.

The hunger sometimes grows inconceivably vast. A black hole in the pit of a Manticore's stomach and soul, forever more hungry no matter how much he eats.

Tue XI legion has their own version of the death guard; the Muzzled. These are sons too far gone, barley hanging onto their sanity from m mind numbing hunger. Drooling, yowling beasts who are kept sequestered until they are unleashed upon an enemy. Only the Tyranids are able to match their hungry velocity.

In the back of Melanthios's mind is the knowledge that he, too, could succumb to this. That the occasional flicker of thought he has on eating friend or family could grow into a wildfire that would consume him just as easily as he consumes everything around him.

Abilities

Lighting

As hunters of the Warp, there is a need to be able to store and then expel that energy in a safe manner. This is where their electrical, and sometimes fire/other elemental powers, originate. 

As Primarch Melanthios has the largest capacity for such things. 

Nullification

A natural camouflage of oneself of their psychic presence.

Ranks

Numina: legion psykers. Due to conflict with their gene-seed, psykers tend not to develop. The ones who do. Their armor has the base burgundy of the legion but with vines as a primary motif

Vernants (Green with new spring growth, verdant): Something like the Sanguinary Guard? some would think it their neophytes but no.) Their armor is all greens and old growth.

Ovant (growing old): senior position. Silver is more pronounced in their armor.

Chapters

- The Muzzled

"Only through binds may we find ourselves."

The Manticores who are beginning to slip into the endless pit of their Hunger. These sons are bound and gagged for the safety of themselves and others. 

It is not an unusual sight to see a son of the XI th wearing a muzzle of thick leather and steel. These bindings are not a sign of one succumbing to the Hunger, as many will Wear one as a method of self soothing, meditation or control.

Behind closed doors, one may find a group of Manticores resting together, each wearing some form of restraint.

- Cloaked Ones

This Chapter is highly skilled in processing their kills into viable arms and armor. Particularly those of daemonic origin. This puts great strain between them and the rest of the Empire, as keeping such items close typically invites Chaos and mutations into one's life. With the Manticore's ability to eat Empyrean energy in a way that digests it like any other food substance, they are able to devour residual daemonic energy and make the materials more or less inert. 

There are those, particularly of this Chapter, that takes that balancing act even further and leave a subtle amount of daemonic essence in the materials. Particularly the hides and what is made into cloaks and armor that will become disguises for them to infiltrate and strike the enemy from within. 

Known Members

Ctesias: Lead Apothecary. Named after the the scholar who first officially wrote about Manticores. Been there, done that, a little full of himself, but thankfully not as bad as he could be

Anselm: Captain First Company. Scars, scars and more scars. Man of action and few words, he’s a living embodiment of a Manticore. Fiercely loyal to his Primarch, would without hesitation, follow Melanthios into Chaos.

Cupido: Techmarine. Dark skinned with long, thick hair in tight curls. Has something that looks almost like vitiligo that manifests in heart shapes, the most prominent ones being straight down the center of his face. Soft spoken, kind and loving, he is the type of doctor most wish to have, though it's all focused towards the mechanical and the machine spirits. Underneath it all, however, is a brittle emotion/psyche that is wounded easily. When he snaps it's severe and causes him a great amount of distress, leaving him nearly hysterical. Enjoys wearing pastel colored beads in his hair and similarly colored clothing when out of armor.

Heshmat Raad: Noble who very willingly chose this life to get away from the courts. Transmasc. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with what was expected of him as a woman. Doesn't remember hardly anything of his Before life except the terror of expectations. Does, however, experience the random bout of nostalgia when something pings off his memories just right. If pressed the most he can recall is the feel of other siblings. He does hope they are doing well for themselves.

Samandriel: Youngish. Apprentice under lead Apothecary Keeps his hair short to make his job easier. Tries to be cooly professional and logical but underneath it all he’s a very, very emotional boy. The hazards of being highly empathic in a medical field of an Empire. Totally doesn't have a crush on the ship's Navigator.

Evren: Lord Commander. Little baby puppy daddy's boy! He's as serious as a heart attack, asexual/fathersexual and follows Mel around like a frowning little soot ball. Was the child of one of the hunters who had initially captured Mel and feels horrendously guilty about it for the rest of his life. They meet again in the courts, where Mel is helping guide the future of their world and swears fealty there. Once the Emperor arrives and gathers Mel and others to be turned into Astartes, Evren immediately volunteers, determined to make up for the stain on his soul of having ever thought of caging such a divine creature as his father.

Despite the shopping bags in her hands, despite her little ones waiting at home, she steps closer to the screen.

"The adeptus astartes of the Lamenter chapter fight valiantly for YOUR safety. Now, you can pay them back!" the smaller text below the title reads, now in a much more subdued format. "By personally sponsoring one of our fearless Angels, you assist in providing ammunition, medical supplies and only the most premium Nutrient Gruel® the Empire can provide! Help our valiant warriors help YOU, and sign up today at-"

Lyanne blinks. The marine on the digital poster blinks back, the short pict recording looping on itself.

When Lyanne's oldest was about eight, she had taken him to a zoological display facility. He'd fallen in love with a particularly miserable looking example of an antierre lizard and, having been recently cursed with the ability to read, had noticed a poster offering the option to "adopt" the animal immediately. Even the information that he would not be taking the depressed looking creature home, only helping sponsor its needs, hadn't dulled his fervor, and after ten minutes straight of pleading, Lyanne had relented.

For the following two years, the family had received monthly updates on the lizard… right up until the miserly creature finally gave up the ghost, meaning she could stop paying for its continued struggle to cling to life. And-

Well. And the very thought of it is surely heresy, but, looking at this poster, Lyanne can't help but see… some notable similarities between those two situations.

Then the poster switches to a different recording, and- needless to say, the sight in front of her is miles better than a sickly reptile.

It's the same marine as before, still somewhat tired looking, but no longer appearing thoroughly crushed. He's photographed from further away, sitting on what looks like a medical table - medical slab? - while one of the red robes works on installing an augmentic hand over the stump of his left arm.

There is a tiny shadow of a smile tugging at his scarred lips, and he is clad in only what appears to be a casual robe, wrapping over one shoulder and ending above his knees. A robe which, Lyanne cannot help but note with absolute clarity, leaves the majority of his chest bare. His magnificently broad, heavily scarred, perfectly muscular chest. Combined with those thighs - and Throne preserve her, they each look thicker than her own torso - it makes for a very, very appealing picture.

The lizard carers sent them picts of it sometimes, she remembers then, twin spots of heat sitting up her cheeks. Lyanne wonders if whoever organized this campaign would be sending some too, by any chance. Especially of this specific marine. She would definitely not mind seeing more of him.

Despite a faint effort to talk herself out of it, she jots the sign-up information down on her personal data slate before moving on, trying to get home before the predicted rains catch up to her.

The yellow clad Angels - Lamenters, apparently - operate somewhat regularly in the sector, and she still remembers the xenos raiding party they beat back on her world. It may have been on the opposite side of the globe, but no matter. As the poster said, she thinks to herself, it's only fair to pay them back.

Her kids will love the idea, no doubt, and she-

Well. As she said, it'll be a much better sight than a mangy lizard, that's for sure.

-

The very moment their teachers give the go-ahead, Penelope rushes off into the museum's gilded hallways, practically vibrating with energy.

She's been looking forward to this for the entire year. Several years, honestly, but she knew her father wouldn't have taken her- meaning she had to wait for the fifth grade school trip like everyone else. Well, all except for Eurylocus, but that's just because his older brother was accepted for the Ultramarine initiate trials. The families of those get free attendance, apparently. Lucky!

But, at least she's here now! Konor Guilliman's museion of the Ultramarine Legion is hers to explore for the day- and that's exactly what she'll do!

A few hours pass this way, in a blur of exploration and occasional chatter with her classmates, jumping from exhibit to exhibit. The storied history of the Ultramarines is ten thousand years long, and there is a lot to go through. Armor variants, weapons showcases, even sculptures of chapter heroes- mostly replicas, but every now and then, a real weapon or piece of ceramite will rest behind the perfectly polished glasscrete, dragging excited ooh noises from Penelope and her friends.

But eventually-

"Aw, closed?" Penelope whines sadly to nobody in particular, staring at the sign sitting right below the giant 'Roboute Guilliman' painted above the closed door. She'd been looking forward to that! With the Lord regent now back from his long sleep, she wanted to know everything there was to know about him- and what better place to learn than here! "Why?"

"You came at a bad time, kid," a man polishing a nearby glass box says from a little further away, drawing her attention. "After the removal of about a third of our best display items, we're restructuring the place."

Penelope blinks. "Removal? Did somebody steal them?"

The man - a museum worker, she would guess - rubs the back of his neck. "More like the original owner wanted them back," he says, and when she stares, uncomprehending, he adds "the Lord Regent. We had the largest collection of his household items in all of Maccrage - plates, cutlery, casual clothing - but…"

"Oh!" Penelope says. That makes sense! It's a shame she can't see them, but she supposes it's better for Lord Guilliman to have them. It must be hard, finding utensils that big otherwise! She imagines the figure she'd seen on statues and paintings trying to eat with her childhood spoon, and snickers. "I understand!"

The man nods, making to turn back to his work, when Penelope spies the pendant handing around his neck and gasps. "Where did you get this?" she exclaims, pointing, and watches the worker step back, startled by her suddenly loud voice. Oops! "Sorry!" she whisper-shouts, and watches the man sigh, suddenly looking very tired.

"There's a gift shop by the exit, they sell all sort of-"

But Penelope is already gone.

"No running in the hallways, kid!" she hears shouted after her; she throws back a quick 'sorry!' then continues on her way, only a little slower than before. She'll be super careful not to hit anyone, so- it should be fine!

She finds the shop where the man said it would be, and Penelope audibly gasps when she sees what's inside- and only partly because she's winded by all that running. She feels like she may have died, and received the Emperor's blessing in person.

The shelves are packed with Ultramarine themed trinkets. She spies the necklace that worker was wearing immediately, but that's far from the only thing she sees. Posters, picts, figures- they have it all! Here's captain Ventris, posing heroically; there, a foot tall statue of chapter master Calgar, intimidating even in tiny form. Chapter heroes from all corners of history line the shelves, blue and gold bracelets and necklaces hang from wooden pegs and models of legendary ships hover in the air, held up by magnetic pads.

And Penelope wants it all.

"75% of all purchases go to the chapter's expenses," reads the sign above a rack of robes with embroidered Ultimas, and she beams. Even better! Once she grows up and becomes a pilot, she'll go join the Ultramarines and help them in person. But until then-

Counting out the thrones in her backpack, she starts gleefully pulling things off the shelves.

-

By the time they arrive at the market, Arihiro's son is practically dragging him along the walkway through sheer excitement. Though, judging by the gaggle of other parents and children clustered around one specific stall, he isn't alone in his eagerness.

He gently tells the boy to settle down, then leads him over to wait in line. No sense pushing, after all; they can wait their turn like anybody else, no matter their personal circumstances.

When the project was first brought up to the citizens of Nocturne, a lot of people jumped on it. Every larger settlement tends to have someone in the Salamanders, and even those who don't are only glad to support their brothers, uncles and elders in battle as much as they can. The way they are doing may be somewhat unexpected, yes, but… it makes sense, in its own way, And Arihiro can't help but find it endearing.

Though the wider Imperium often seems a distant thing, Arihiro is aware of some of its problems, ubiquitous as they are for any populated world. And money is always a problem; especially for a space marine chapter.

The solution their elders in the chapter have come up with?

Plushies.

Made by locals based on pre-established designs in the image of chapter heroes and important historical figures alike, the benefit would be twofold. Half of the proceeds remains with the craftsmen, and half go to the Salamanders themselves, to help sustain their needs, hopefully making their lives easier in the process. Arihiro thought it was a good idea when they announced it, and now, seeing the joy it brings, only serves to affirm him in that belief.

The family ahead of them in line walks away with their purchase, nodding at the two of them in recognition- a gesture which he returns, giving the mother and her two sons a friendly smile. And then it's their turn to peruse the contents of the table, Arihiro's son hopping up and down with glee.

The plushes sit together in groups, their steady poses speaking to some internal wire framing. They're made out of a variety of materials; some crocheted, some sewn, all made with such dedication and artistry it makes him smile. The little figures have name plates set beside them, accompanied by little plaques, detailing their lives' stories.

A tiny plushie of chapter master Tu'shan stands a touch taller than the rest, stubby hands formed into the Aquila. Beside him, a group of He'stans leans against one another, their red eyes rendered in some shimmering fabric that makes them almost look like they're glowing. And beside those-

His sons gasps. "Look, father!" he exclaims, pointing. "They have him! They have uncle Zeraua!"

Arihiro smiles down at him. "They do, yes," he says, examining the plush. Its creator did him justice. Zeraua Kamati's short-cropped curls look as they do in real life, the green and gold armor decorated with flame motifs across both gauntlets and his salamander skin draped over one shoulder. The plushie, unlike many others, is pictured with an amicable smile, And Arihiro can just imagine the man himself requesting it, wanting to come off as friendly to his people as he can.

"An elder of your clan?" the saleswoman asks, having noticed his interest.

Arihiro smiles. "My great uncle, actually," he says, and watches the woman nod respectfully.

"I assume you'll be taking that one, then?" she says, and he nods, then pauses for a moment.

"Actually, make it two," he says, and the woman laughs, his son soon joining in. Fourth company is said to be on its way back home, with an expected arrival in six to eight months. He can't wait to see the expression uncle Rau's face when presented with his own little mini-me's… and maybe this little purchase will help make his journey just a bit safer.

-

Captain Konstantine looks at the makeshift magazine, as comically small as all human-sized objects are in his hands. His own painted visage looks back, though it is… far from the usual portrayal of a space marine, to say the least.

Before him, two loud, racing heartbeats echo through the room for his enhanced senses to hear, the sharp, pungent smell of human anxiety filling the air. By his side, his young equerry, Catalina, takes one glance at the page and pulls a face.

Konstantin can relate.

Clad in what could only generously be called a robe, his painted double sits leaning backwards in a dimly lit environment, a large part of his abdominal musculature on display. His hair has been rendered in meticulous detail, his skin is so shiny it appears almost oiled, and the look in the figure's eyes is what his once-equerry's wife would have called a deadly smoulder.

Having zero desire to look at this any longer, he turns the page- but what he finds there is not much better.

it is unspeakably odd to see what is clearly supposed to be the chapter master Dante clad in only the bottom half of a ripped up bodyglove… though the fact that his body looks little like the real man does make it a slightly less jarring. Still, seeing what is meant to be a representation of his superior so exposed is- not something he wishes to linger on.

The following images continue in the same manner. One of his sergeants, pictured nude from the waist up in the showers. Lord Raldoron, staring hungrily at the viewer. Battle brother Adrios, draped only in a piece of crimson cloth, looking up at the reader from beneath unrealistically long lashes, with a tiny 'for Tarao <3' written underneath the artist's signature. Lieutenant Jaimes, entirely in the nude, the only thing preserving his decency being the long rifle held in front of his-

Konstantine closes the magazine, deciding he has seen enough. The heartbeats of the two humans stood before him skip a beat.

"So," he starts, watching the serfs - a man and a woman, both somewhat young if he's guessing right - startle. "You made this?"

The woman opens her mouth, but the guard standing beside her beats her to it. "We found numerous copies of this filth in their quarters, my Lord " he spits. "They have also been found in possession of an unusually high amount of thrones, slacking on their work to produce-"

"We do not slack!" the woman jumps in, then turns her gaze to Konstantine, bowing deeply. "My lord, we do our work, I promise! You can see the records for yourself- we would never do anything that would go against the ideal working of the chapter."

She speaks the truth, Konstantine can tell. These humans' devotion to the Blood Angels is clear in their postures, the fire in their eyes.

The guard moves to open his mouth, but Konstantine raises his hand, halting him.

"You make these in your spare time, then?"

The man speaks up this time. "More like we distribute them, m'Lord. We're no artists, but we help them get their work out to interested parties. We work together on it all, y'know?"

Konstantine nods, but raises a brow. "For a fee?"

"Well," the man flusters, "we do have to pay for the printing paper, and access to the copiers, and pay the guards to even let us access the floors with the copiers-" he pauses, realizing what he has just admitted to, sweat beading on his brow, but he is quick to talk over it.

"We- uhm, we could give you a cut!" he blurts out, and Konstantine cocks his head. "Yeah! However much you want! It could go to the needs of the chapter?"

From her place at his side, Catalina fights to contain her laughter, and even he himself has to breathe through the urge to snort. "And how, exactly," he says, evenly, "would you imagine we put that in the munitorum reports?"

The two humans look at each other helplessly, shrugging.

Konstantine sighs.

"I will make you a deal," he says, watching the two perk up. "I will not punish you, or any of your compatriots, as long as your actual work continues uninterrupted. Nor will I impede your efforts in producing these… artworks, under these same conditions.

"In exchange," he makes a step forward, holding out the dubious magazine for them to take, "you will make certain that I never-" he gazes into both of their eyes, "have to see this again. Understood?"

The two begin nodding so frantically Konstantine fears for a moment their heads might fall off.

"Good," he says. "Dismissed."

The humans are nearly out the door when he stops them, feeling the need to add on more thing. "The skills of your artistic compatriots are considerable," he says, and he does mean it, for all the subject matter is uncomfortable for him to look at. "Perhaps they would be interested in utilizing them in painting some of the middle decks, instead of only producing magazines of dubious repute?"

The woman brightens. "Oh! Meliana and Adrien will be glad to! But Angeline… ah…"

"Your friend would rather paint me and my battle brothers in various states of undress, you mean?" he says, tone flat.

She blushes, but her companion only shrugs his shoulders, agreeing with his words.

Beside him, Catalina loses her fight with laughter, and Konstantine drags a hand over his eyes, feeling as if he has aged another century in the past ten minutes alone.

-

Alright, that's that! This entire fic was inspired by an absolutely hilarious conversation in the Armoring room warhammer server, and it gave me such brain worms I had to write this. I hope you enjoyed!

The Rubricae are gone.

This is a fact. Sobek catalogs it the way he catalogs most facts in an engagement — with the specific detached attention of someone who has decided that feelings about a thing are a problem for after. The Wolves did what Wolves do. They hit fast and they hit hard and they hit with the righteous conviction of something that genuinely believes it is owed the outcome it is currently taking. The phalanx is dust. Nephthys is still standing, which is more than could have been hoped for. The Wolves are still standing, which is less.

There are not many of them left.

This is also a fact. Sobek notes it.

The Wolves are doing the thing they do when they think they have won. It is a recognizable state. There is a loosening, a recalibration, the body's way of beginning to process a fight as past tense. One of them says something. Sobek does not listen. He is looking at the dust.

He is thinking about the dust.

The dust is not nothing. That is the thing the Wolves have never understood, the thing that makes this particular war older and uglier than either side officially prefers to acknowledge. Dust is not loss. Dust is a format. The soul is still there — they are still there, whatever they are now, whatever the Rubric made them into and left them as — suspended and waiting and, critically, present.

Nephthys, he says, without turning.

The younger sorcerer makes a sound that is not quite a question. He gestures with his staff over the fragmented ceramite.

Yes, Sobek says. That.

He wants it noted — by something, somewhere, in whatever ledger keeps track of these things be it Tzeentch or something higher — that this is not a desperate act. Desperation implies you did not account for the possibility. Sobek had accounted for it. He had stood in the phalanx's formation and felt the shape of the engagement and understood, with the patience of a crocodile that has been sitting in the water since before the Wolves had a name for what they were, that there was more than one way to end this.

He simply had to wait for the right moment.

They begin.

The words are not words in any language the Wolves would recognize. They are older than the Chapter and older than the Crusade and older than the catastrophe that made the Thousand Sons into what they are, which is a catastrophe the Wolves authored, which Sobek does not think about right now because there is work to do. Two sorcerers. One purpose. The warp reads intent the way water reads an opening — it goes where it is invited, and Sobek and Nephthys are very, very inviting.

The dust moves.

The Wolves notice.

The loosening stops. The recalibration reverses. He can see, even at this distance, the exact moment the past tense becomes present tense again — the weight coming back into their stances, the weapons coming up, the slavering animal certainty replacing itself with something closer to animal doubt. Something almost akin to regret.

Good.

One brother. The first one is always the worst, the one that costs the most, the one you have to drag back across the threshold by hand. Then two. The phalanx has its own geometry, its own momentum — once it starts, the bindings know how to find each other, the souls know the shape of the formation they were made for. Three. Five.

The Wolves are moving now. Which is fine. They are late.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine brothers, standing.

The phalanx closes around Sobek and Nephthys exactly as it stood before, patient and lightless and utterly unbothered by the last several minutes, because dust does not experience the last several minutes. This is, perhaps, the only mercy in any of this and is not something Sobek is going to think about right now.

He looks at what remains of the Wolves.

He lets them look at what remains of the Wolves. He lets the regret curdle into frantic war-baying and growling. 

They thought that was the end of it.

Sobek had simply been waiting.

The phalanx advances. Sobek does not say anything. He considered saying something — there are things that could be said, things about Prospero and memory and the specific length of a Thousand Sons grudge — but the phalanx is already moving, and the moment is already speaking for itself. Sobek has never needed the last word.

+++

++Word Bearers Light Cruiser Key of Solomon++

+++03:34 Terran hours+++

Ihsahn sat in silence on the observation deck of the Key of Solomon, eyes closed and blood-hued Mk. IV helm resting in his lap. Over one green eye lens was the gleaming gold Serrated Sun, the light of the dimmed glow-globes on the deck slithering over its surface. Across his knees laid his sheathed power sword, Ecclesiastes Diabolica, the string of xenos vertebrae hanging from its hilt swaying gently with each lurch of the ship. He wore a cloak now, unlike the last time Argel Tal had seen him. Black as crow’s feathers, it fell over Ihsahn’s right pauldron and was clasped at his gorget with a silver chain. Its surface was subtly embroidered with silver thread, taking the form of intricately depicted Colchisian moon lilies. Argel Tal knew comparatively little of who Ihsahn was, but his strange connection and fascination with the flowers was obvious. The Crimson Lord leaned against the wall across from the bench where the other Astartes sat, helmed and with his arms folded across his chest, watching his brother through crystal blue eye lenses. The Carrion Flower did not open his eyes, his red gauntlets resting motionlessly on his helm and sword.

Ihsahn was thinking. He could feel his brother’s unease when he had come to rouse him from his quarters, claiming the primarch had requested his presence. Something clearly was not right, but Ihsahn was patient. He would wait for his father to explain everything. Nonetheless, he could not help but let his thoughts wander.

“The Sea of Souls is turbulent, brother.”

The voice of the daemon was always grating and unpleasant in Ihsahn’s mind. He never heard his Gal Vorbak brethren mention their own daemons speaking to them with any frequency, but Haakon seemed as though he liked to talk. The creature was very good at testing Ihsahn’s patience.

“I gathered as much,” he thought back to the Neverborn inside him, “I think whatever it is has been upsetting father.”

“He knows,” whispered Haakon, “Argel Tal knows.”

Ihsahn opened his eyes, blinking away the Warp-hues that swam behind his eyelids. He glanced at the Crimson Lord, who was clearly watching him despite the helm obscuring his face. Perhaps Ihsahn was not as patient as he’d assumed he was.

“Father is upset,” he said plainly, adjusting the position of his sword across his knees, “otherwise he would not have asked for me in the middle of the night.”

“I take it you want to know why,” said Argel Tal, studying the other marine’s face and body language. At first glance, he looked too kind, his soft hazel eyes those of someone who tended delicate things, not those of a killer. A lingering glance revealed tiny glints of violet within them, like the eyes of the savage Cadian cultists. Under his left eye a row of black Colchisian glyphs were inked in minute detail, forming a single line of text.

Each dream has jaws to crush us.

“Yes,” said Ihsahn, an odd tone leaking into his voice, “we are not simply meeting him here, I can feel the ship preparing for a journey. The Warp is turbulent, or so my passenger tells me. Why is our father upset?” “He awoke from a vision,” said Argel Tal, shifting his stance slightly. Ihsahn’s reference to the daemon inside of him as his ‘passenger’ was unsettling to say the least. What sort of relationship had he formed with the creature while it was supposed to be lying dormant? He knew next to nothing of the daemon inside himself, and yet Ihsahn was on speaking terms with his own.

“Like the ones on Colchis…” said Ihsahn, trailing off a bit, “the horror…”

“‘The horror’ is right,” thought Argel Tal, “what part of this has not been full of horror?” The Crimson Lord inhaled softly, pondering how his brother might respond to his next words.

“I suggested that he seek an audience with Ingethel,” he said, “perhaps the beast can provide answers.”

“Answers, maybe,” said Ihsahn, combing his armored fingers through his hair, “or lies borne on the tongue of a serpent. Even Erebus, wretched creature that he is, knows the Neverborn are untrustworthy beings.”

“No offense intended, Haakon,” he thought. The daemon was silent for a moment before his response pulsed through Ihsahn’s brain.

“I take none, Carrion Flower.”

Argel Tal chose not to acknowledge the comment about Erebus. While the First Chaplain had been his mentor, he had also been a source of argument and animosity. He brushed it off, choosing to focus on Ihsahn’s appraisal of Ingethel.

“There is little choice at the moment,” he said, “something is wrong and the primarch is desperate to know what.”

“The Warp itself is a fever dream,” said Ihsahn, looking down at the steel grate floor, recalling how the same floor aboard the Orfeo’s Lament had been so caked with layers of human viscera, “it does not, by its nature, know how to be straightforward regardless of a message’s importance.”

A third voice spoke next.

“That is why,” said Lorgar as he stepped onto the observation deck, resplendent in his gleaming crimson warplate, tri-horned helm tucked under one arm and Illuminarum clutched in the opposite hand, “I am going to wring the truth out of that foul abomination myself.”

“Father,” said Ihsahn, bowing his head in respect to the primarch.

Lorgar offered a smile to his sons, but anxiety still shone through his artfully kohl-ringed eyes.

“Now my sons, let us get Ingethel’s attention.”

+++

VEXATIONS

The second excerpt is from the same fic as last time, Vexations. This one corresponds to the prompt FRIEND. Are Angron and Areshkar friends now? Are their shared experiences and being forced to rely on each other drawing them closer? Is it actually deeper than that? In this excerpt, they explore an abandoned lab complex in which the Overseers, the wicked geneticists of the Ctenophoran Ascendancy, forcibly modify the slaves of the nobility. The horrors they encounter within bring back sickening memories for both of them. Excerpt has not yet been beta read so congratulations, you are now a (partial) beta reader.

CONTENT WARNINGS: extreme body horror, vivisection, gore, mercy k!lling, slavery, medical experimentation

+++

“I think this is a laboratory,” said Areshkar.

Angron’s lips peeled back from his iron teeth in a silent snarl, his left eye twitching. He knew what that meant; this was the site of atrocities and he did not need to see them to know that. He wondered if, in another life, he might have been able to sense the afterimage of the sheer amount of suffering within those walls, or anywhere else on Ctenophora for that matter.

“Calyxas was here then,” he said, pausing to push aside a swinging door and peer inside as Areshkar continued down the corridor. He could see nothing but the erratic flickering of sterile, blue-white lights and a hanging barrier cloth of semi- translucent bio-plastic, behind which he could barely make out the shapes of scientific instruments. The chemical-meat reek seeped out from behind it, assaulting his preternatural transhuman senses with its intensity.

“My liege, over here.”

Angron turned back, letting the door swing closed once more as he searched for where Areshkar’s voice was coming from.

“I… found something,” continued the mortal.

The primarch crossed the distance to him in a few titanic strides, pushing open the next set of double doors and ripping aside the bio-plastic sheeting.

Areshkar stood at the center of another lab, not too dissimilar from the previous, knuckles white as he gripped the pistol at his side, muzzle aimed to the floor. He did not grip it out of readiness, but hate. Angron heard the general’s dog-teeth grind against each other with a click as he set his jaw in disgust.

“Look at them. Look what that whoreson has done here.”

Angron approached, his eyes finally meeting what Areshkar was looking at.

A series of cylindrical amniotic fluid cylinders lined the far wall of the laboratory, the dying lumens casting their fulgurating ghost-glow over them. Shifting, strange shadows played over the wall behind as the decaying light slithered over their occupants. They’d all been human once, evident in what remained of the Homo sapiens bodyplan in their forms. An eyeless, senseless face bearing nought but a slack-jawed mouth pressed against the side of its cylinder, continuing into a limbless, hairless, but still discernably female human torso. A near featureless lump of pale, veined flesh floated at the top of its own cylinder, deceased with its singular eye clouded over, the fluid it resided in gone rancid and brown with exudation. A tangled mess of elongated bones and stretched flesh curled in on itself within another cylinder, its immensely long and spidery limbs folded at too many joints and its torso encased in thorny ribs that protruded through the tissue and gave the impression of a stinging nettle. In the cylinder beside it, a body that looked as though it had become a fractal set spiralled in on itself, its mutated face distorting into a row of teeth that lengthened into a nigh endless coil. Still others floated in yet more tanks lining the walls in several more rows, a legion of deceased genetic victims reduced to a preserved archive of past abuses.

Angron’s eye twitched. The Nails bit again, spurred on by anger and the fact that he’d gone too long without killing something. His own knuckles whitened around the hafts of his axes. The cruelty necessary to perform the acts that made these people into twisted aberrations was something he was painfully familiar with, and it rankled him to see it on such display.

It was quiet. Mundane. A hideously perfect display of the banality of evil. Forgotten lives sequestered away to collect dust like discarded sales receipts.

 It was rapidly becoming his greatest need to slaughter the Overseers wholesale with his own hands regardless of what fate was to befall the planet itself. All he could do for the time being was find the smallest shred of solace in the fact that these poor souls were dead. He tore his gaze away from the dead slaves, a tremor wracking the left side of his face as he counted the beats of his twin hearts to steady himself, to distract himself from the intensified ticking and searing pain of the Nails in the meat of his brain. Between the fluttering twitches of his eye, he studied Areshkar, finding the man frozen in place but for a minute trembling in his shoulders of barely-suppressed rage, and what he was beginning to suspect was the pain of some horrible recognition. In what few interactions they’d had up until that point, not once had Areshkar spoken openly of his past. Something about Ctenophora seemed a personal insult to him as well.

Once the tremor passed Angron made to speak, but was interrupted by a muffled moan of pain echoing in the next room. Areshkar turned sharply, gun up, and cast a glance over his shoulder at him. Another moan of agony echoed, this time louder. Angron gestured with an axe for the general to stay behind him as he made his way to the door with the slow, sauntering steps of a hunting cat. Fresh claret dripped from his nose and down his chin, leaving a series of tiny red droplets on the floor behind him. He squeezed through the doorway, pauldrons scraping the frame as he forced his way through, quickly finding himself in what had once been an operating room. At the center, on a cold metal slab, laid the source of the sound.

Carved open and pinned like a butterfly in an entomologist’s collection, a man still lived.

Though subtle in comparison to the dead floating in the cylinders, the man’s forced mutations were obvious in the prehensile tail that snaked from his spine and the size and almost batlike shape of his ears. Every part of him had been laid open by precise cuts, skin and subcutaneous tissue peeled back and pinned in place. Organs had been lifted from their cavities and placed on the slab, all still connected and visibly functioning despite their new location. His eyes swiveled frantically in their dry, red sockets, eyelids peeled back and pinned. All of his teeth were visible, his cheeks sliced and folded away as flaps of flesh. Every inner working, down to the tendons and ligaments in his limbs, was open to the air and visible, violated.

Areshkar entered, coming to Angron’s side and stopping, frozen in place. That horrible familiarity struck him again, his eyes wide and teeth clenched. The pistol dropped from his hand, clattering to the floor as the vivisected man let out another pitiful, wordless whine. Angron watched as Areshkar approached the slab, stiff as a Mechanicum automaton, and drew the surma tooth-blade sheathed at his back. His eyes full of miserable, mournful apology, he plunged the knife into the man’s skinless throat in a single, practiced motion, severing his windpipe and spinal cord.

Both of them knew it was the only mercy the man had ever been offered in his life.

Areshkar stumbled away from the slab, stuffing the bloodied surma back in its sheath and stooping to pick up his pistol. He avoided meeting Angron’s gaze as he shuffled over to a desk in the corner of the lab, clumsily digging through the abandoned and dust-coated skin-papers that littered its surface.

“I tire of this fucking planet,” he mumbled, as though he had simply run out of horror and only had exhaustion left.

Angron glanced back at the now dead man on the slab, scarlet cruor leaking from his severed throat and running in rivulets off the edge onto the floor. Another, smaller tremor peeled the corner of his lips back from his teeth and jerked his head aside as though something did not want him to look. His iron teeth scraped against each other as he forced his head forward again.

Angron remembered a slab. He remembered the restraints. The blades. The drills. The Nails pulsed sharply again as if to mock him. He could not look away from the vivisected man, as all he could see in him was himself.

But someone had offered that man mercy. Not him. Never him.

Areshkar reached the bottom of the pile of documents, finding spread across the surface of the desk what appeared to be a map. Any sense of satisfaction he might have felt was well drowned out by the mental fatigue quickly catching up with him, but he lifted it from the desk and held it out under the flickering glow of the lumens, doing his best to ignore the smell of freshly spilled blood and the bodily exudations of death in the room. While he could read precisely none of the repulsively alien Ctenophoran script, he did recognize the topographical details of various landmarks. Finding what appeared to his mind to be their current location, he noticed the Overseer’s sigil marked over it in red. He blinked, understanding coming to him as he spotted more of the sigils scattered over the map… and there was one scrawled directly over the heart of Leith Sae. Examining the rest of the locations, he realized that each of them had been located in places the World Eaters and Hellwalkers had already scoured of life.

Angron’s instincts had, regardless of his true intentions, led them to the only place Calyxas could have fled to.

“My liege, look,” he said, walking back to the primarch with the map in hand.

Angron tore his gaze away from the pinned corpse, his eyes settling on the map as Areshkar pointed to the sigils with a scarred finger. Herculean though the effort was, he forced himself to focus on the mortal’s words.

“You were right,” said Areshkar, “the only other lab complex belonging to Calyxas that we have not destroyed is in Leith Sae.”

“I should never have doubted you,” he continued, only in his mind. He would sooner fall on his own sword than let Angron think him capable of doubting him. He cursed the lack of intel the legion possessed on the Overseers, but at this point it mattered little. Without communication with the Conqueror in orbit or the rest of their forces, any more intel they may have possessed was useless anyway. Areshkar could not help but feel he owed the dead slave on the slab some morbid gratitude for drawing attention to the room with his cries. It made him sick to even think that way.

+++

Siegfried stares at the board. Once again, his eyes flit across the grid, over the blue and yellow figurines scattered across it.

“Are you going to make your move?” Uriel asks, not unkindly. “I am still thinking on it”, Siegfried answers tensely.

Cassius stares over his shoulder. The techmarine has been for the last fifteen minutes, with an increasingly pained expression. Evidently struggling with himself and now loosing, he draws in breath to say something. Without turning Siegfried snaps, “Silence.”

Cassius breathes out, defeated. With slumped shoulders he watches on as their apothecary ponders the massacre Uriel has committed on his pieces.

The door slams with enough force to shake the board. With a glare in Allcarius direction Siegfried adjusts one of his pieces. The assault marine stares back unimpressed. “You’re still sitting exactly how you were, when I left this room two hours ago”, he points out.

“Quiet! I can’t concentrate like this.” “You’ve been concentrating for two hours! Nothing has happened since I left this room. If you dedicated as much time to training as you did to wasting your time, maybe you would hit your shots sometimes!” Siegfried frowns as Uriel tries his hardest not to laugh out loud.

“I am not wasting time. This is practicing strategy”, he insists. Allcarius snorts. “What kind of strategy? Waiting until your opponent keels over from old age?”

Siegfried doesn’t dignify him with a response. Instead, he settles on staring at his pieces again. Uriel meanwhile has picked up his data slate and continues reading.

“Siegfried, please! I’ve calculated it!”, Cassius pleads, “There is not a single combination of moves that leads to your victory! This game is lost already! Give up!” “I will not”, he replies. Uriel looks up from the data slate.

“How about we play until three victories?”