There was laughter on the wind here, out on the fringes of the Opphon plain, as the veil began to break down. Warpfire, re-entry heat and the cataclysmic death of titans had burned back the snow as far as the northern foothills, where the Iron Fists had died. The path of their retreat was marked by a trail of broken bodies and smoldering tanks, a fresh road stretching out from the wreck of the Cestus Relictor, to the ugly looking barbican that guarded the mountain pass. The broken ship squatted darkly amidst a forest of smoke columns; the first wave landing craft downed by its colossal guns, but even now, lesser warbands were no doubt crawling through its halls in search of prizes, plunder and prisoners.
The sons of Fulgrim had watched the battle from afar, like vultures waiting to see which duelling beast became carrion. There had been a pleasance to the ebb and flow of it, the way the line of grey bloomed and sparkled with muzzle flashes and detonations each time the infernal tide rolled in upon them. Each murder of a titan was a slow, graceful affair, punctuated by energy discharge that dazzled and slashed their way through the smoking air.
The dreadnought was not hard to find. They'd watched as the gunship was gutted as it tried to hasten survivors back to the safety of the mountains. The bodies had scattered like dark pollen from the riven craft, but the single fruit, the larger shape, had fallen faster, throwing up dust and soil as it bounced and rolled and ploughed its way across the plain. There was not much left of it at the end of the furrow such fall had carved, but there was still a sparking, guttering sense of life within the crumpled wreck. The golden gauntlet sigil of the Iron Fists chapter had been torn off along with its arms, but the name, 'Syrak', was still legible on the sarcophagus lid, in spite of the dark, viscous fluid that marred the lettering it as it trickled from the vision-slit down into the dark earth.
As the figures approached, there was a whine of broken servos and a series of unpleasant clunks from within the wreck. Slowly, falteringly, the mangled vox-modulator churned out a stuttering sequence of words, carrying neither emotion nor any sense of recognition of the figures that surveyed it.
"Cousi-i-i-ns. Do not. Lea-ea-ea-ea-eave me hhhhhere."
"Of course it's far from me to pass a verdict here … I'm not someone who needs to pass judgement on others …" A brief silence, then a harsh laugh at his own joke, which continues for quite a while before it dies away with a chortle. Accompanied by quiet words in a language that is more of a hiss than actual syllables. "… but in general, I wonder whether earlier intervention would not make for a much better harvest. Not to mention the fact that we are damaging other people's image here."
The person at whom the words are obviously directed due to sheer physical proximity does not reply. Instead, he continues to work on finding a good approach vector to the dispersing battlefield that won't cause the aggressive gunship to rebel too much if he denies it prey, while remaining inconspicuous.
Instead, an answer comes from further back: "And by better harvest, you don't mean select cruelty and silly new skin garments, do you?" - "Pah! I'm always fighting prejudice here." Waving it off and then ramming the midnight blue helmet with the bat wings onto his head.
"There's a very good reason why the Chief Apothecary didn't send any of our purple friends here. All tactical discipline falls out of their heads as soon as they see the opportunity to interfere in a battle and make a spectacle of themselves. Waiting and striking surgically - that really doesn't suit them anymore." - "Yes, yes, yes. Precision and boredom. When did that happen?" - "You can discuss it with him when we get back. I'll make some popcorn and watch this conversation from a safe distance."
For a while, there is only a busy silence as the three Apothecaries finish equipping themselves and force the angrily protesting gunship to land in a crater left by a Titan's footstep in the churned-up mud of the battlefield.
Everyone not only arms themselves, but also adds several extra canisters for Gene Seed to their belts. Then they open the ramp, taking advantage of a moment of distraction when the ship wouldn't shoot at them out of sheer fury and spite, and run crouched to the nearest remnant of wall. One shadow in scuffed black, one in well-maintained metal with yellow and black accented stripes, and one in midnight blue.
They orientate themselves and then start systematically scanning the battlefield. Their prize is what is always needed in the Eye of Terror. Harvested compassionlessly but not cruelly. The last mercy given without engaging in the maelstrom of mysticism that has spread tumour-like through the galaxy in the time since their rebellion failed so resoundingly.
None of the three believe in anything that could be called fate or predestination. And yet, after about half an hour, the small canisters full of dripping tissue, they find themselves almost simultaneously at what is, in a strange way, a burial site. The second time.
„Cousi-i-i-ns. Do not. Lea-ea-ea-ea-eave me hhhhhere.“
"Huh," Skalagrim mouths in astonishment.
"Look at that, a playmate for Diomat! Can I keep him?" laughs Duco, his rasping laugh once again making him so uncomfortably similar to his Sire.
Finally Skalagrim steps right up to the fallen dreadnought. Tilts his head. Looks to Tzimiskes, "Can you do anything with him?"
The Iron Warrior shrugs his shoulders, but nods. All three look at their Narthetica at the same time, check their readings and begin to stabilise the fallen old man. They don't have to coordinate much. Every move is perfect. After a while, Tzimiskes rises and disappears in the direction of the hollow, where Butcher Bird is bored and probably in an even worse mood than usual.
Duco injects several different sedatives and coagulants and says in a paternalistic manner: "Well, my old friend, now tell Uncle Doctor - where are we from and what year are we living in?"
