Editing Republican Commando (section)

===(24) From the Beyond===

<div class="mw-collapsible-content">Above Nebraskus, the brightest minds of the Solar Sect work to plot a path to the Isstvan System, overlaying modern warp maps with Thexus's 10,000 year old printouts.  An Inquisitorial Frigate has been dispatched, alongside a frigate of the House, to supervise what is needed for repopulation, as well as assist in transferring any supplies off planet for the journey. 

"I've never heard anything about Isstvan since the Betrayal. Do we know anything about... well, the planet?" Brynjol asks.
"I thought it was uninhabitable," Cortain wonders.
"That's what I'd heard... but to what degree?" Brynjol insists, "We can manage a scorched surface with suit seals alone, but did they employ cyclonics? Magma lakes, brimstone and such?"
"I heard Virus Bombs," Cortain offers.
"What would be the sense in that?" Brynjol retorts, "They deployed those on Isstvan III, and there was nobody left on the surface after the massacre on Isstvan V."
"If that is true, most likely the virus would have long broken down by now," Cortain declares.
Brynjol consults a scratched and worn looking dataslate from one of his voluminous pouches. This one appears to have an ice-blue casing.
"Must be something in here..." he mutters, flipping through medicae records, "The virus would not be an issue even if it were the cause. Banerot's half-life is incredibly short - you'd be fine to walk around a few weeks post-bombing, let alone ten thousand years..."

To put the argument to rest, the two Commandos reference ancient legendaria in the Librarium, as well as bother Thexus who blasts his opinions on things, desired or not.  Isstvan III was virus bombed and back. Nothing lives there now. Even today, the surface is blasted and uninhabitable. Isstvan V, however, was not as heavily damaged. On Isstvan V, after the Massacre in which three loyal legions were nearly destroyed, the world remained in the hands of Chaos, its ancient fortifications of unknown xenos make hosting traitor legions. In the 31st Millenium, the Desert Lions, a successor of the Ultramarines, purged the remaining traitors with Legio Cybernetica Support. After this purging, the world was left alone, abandoned by the living.

Nothing has called that place home in 10,000 years as a result.

"Good news, we will not be needing Terminator plate," Cortain shrugs, "Bad news, there is possibility of Chaos taint lingering."
The sound of a hack and spit, coupled with muffled Nixarterian cursing, echoes through teamvox.
"Troubled?" Cortain posits.
"...ilthy, 'bominable trait'rs..." Cyril hisses.
"Long gone now, Cyril," Brynjol reminds him, "All that is left is memory."
Cyril grunts and heaves at something. "And what of the Sorcerer we purged? Was HE 'just a memory?' Too many of the filthy bastards are still around."
"I'm not saying the traitors aren't still there, and their judgement will come - and that right soon," Brynjol sighs, "But Isstvan is... a tragic reminder of a betrayal best lost in the mists of time."

The Commandos decide to focus on preparation for the vast trip. A course has been plotted, and entered it into the Void Abacus. A direct route is impossible, as cross-referencing Thexus's Crusade-era maps with modern warp storm positions means detours must be taken. Even arc-charging the warp drive, something never done before, it will take at least a year outside, a month in the warp.

Cortain decides to hit up O'Malley's, to mentally prepare for the mission at hand. The incredibly ancient Squat nods, and prepares his normal request of WD-40 mixed with sacred unguents.
"This worries me, beardling," O'Malley sighs, passing him the processed drink, "There are some things that are better off forgotten."
"I am having many suspicions about what just might be in there as well," Cortain notes, "Never mind that a Kroot is the one who advised it, but to bring us to a graveyard is giving me the worst sensations of a trap."
"The Ancestors of our great holds are treated with respect. We feel their presence in everything we do, but we acknowledge they are at rest," O'Malley states, "The Shaper, he actively communes with his. Heretical in my eyes, but if it can help ya out, I won't complain. The sooner we return him to his Genetor handler, the better."

Rockfist, in the meantime, begins compiling the supplies offloaded.
"Right, lads, we've tied down the supplies the House sent up. Whenever yer ready, we can depart."

The Commandos perform final checks - all is well on their end. They inquire into the repopulation efforts of Nebraskus, and learn that while the Inquisition will handle selection, it is Korst'la who is contracted out to move everyone. Assurances are given that the world will look almost no different from before. This still concerns the Commandos.

The Blade is readied, and all personnel are placed on high alert. Disengaging from Nebraskus space, not a single squat says a word, as the warp engines are arc charged, and the Blade enters the Warp.

"The die is cast," Cyril begins.
"Let's just get this over with, aye?" Brynjol interrupts, "I've no desire to remain on that blighted world for any longer than necessary."

Aboard the Blade, the Squats spend their time in prayer and contemplation, while essential personnel perform their duties wordlessly. Even O'Malley's, normally raucous, is silent. However, not all is well. Less than four days into the journey, the Everything's Not Okay alarms begin blaring.

"Sound off! Something's awry, lads!" Brynjol yells.
"Awake and active. What is wrong?" Cyril presses.
"Lad, we're picking up heavy damage in the Warp Engine," Rockfist states, "It's...overheating."

The Commandos rush to the Warp Drive. The Squats on station, all in heavy reinforced voidsuits, are terrified. "Commandos!" an Engineer salutes the Aquila, "Seals are holding, but if we keep going at this speed, the runes of protection WILL melt."

Brynjol turns to Cortain. This is his thing.
"Is there any way to reinforce them?" Cortain asks.
"I...don't know, m'lord," the Engineer explains, as Squat failsafes kick in and the Blade is forcefully ejected from the warp, listing dangerously above a strange, scarred ocean world. 

"Realspace... Bridge, what do sensoria tell us about our surroundings?" Cyril asks.
"Lad, we're above an ocean world," Rockfist explains, "I'm not detecting any signs of li-"
"DO NOT LAND ON THAT WORLD, CONSULS."
Everyone pauses. Executor Thexus has never given such a blunt demand before.
"...right, well, we're in no danger here, lad," Rockfist offers, "At least there's that."
"Do not say such things, Rockfist!" Cyril insists, "It tempts the universe."
"We're not detecting ANY hazards, lad," Rockfist wonders, "I don't know what's got the toaster worried. Regardless, he's stormed off, but if he says not to land there, I'm in agreement."

Brynjol ponders, checking the map Thexus provided, before realization dawns on him. He rushes off to chase Thexus, who stares out a reinforced porthole.
"That world is..." Brynjol begins.
"TWENTY-EIGHT THREE, WHERE THE ILLUMINATOR BEGAN HIS LEGION'S DOOM. DO NOT GO TO LAER, CONSUL. IT WILL NOT END WELL."
"The planet where the seeds of the Phoenician's end were sown..." Brynjol hisses under his breath, "Do we carry cyclonics? I'm almost tempted, just for what it represents."
"THE ACCELERATOR CANNON IS SUFFICIENT, CONSUL. HOWEVER, THE WORLD IS ALREADY DEAD. THE ADMINISTRATUS BELIEVED THEY COULD BE MADE AN IMPERIAL PROTECTORATE. THEY WERE FOOLS."
"I'll be honest, my curiosity is piqued," Brynjol shrugs, "But I cannot think of a good reason why we would go down to that blighted world."
"DO NOT LAND ON THAT WORLD, CONSUL," Thexus merely repeats.
"Then we do not," Cortain states with finality, "Even an Orbital Strike, as fitting as it sounds, makes me worried about some unholy retribution. "
The ocean flows, the scars amongst its islands and archipelagos still visible after 10,000 years. Brynjol merely folds his arm in, his eye never leaving the world, staring down from behind his inscrutable wolf helm.

With the Warp Drive cooling down, Cortain studies the runes. Most of them are basic squattish runes of sealing, to prevent whatever is inside the warp drive from getting out. He takes a moment to think on the problem, and rushes to the armory. Aurorans are masters of vehicles and their characteristics, and he is immediately drawn to the Land Raider Achilles. Cortain studies the Ferromantic Runes of Invulnerability, and rushes back to the Warp Drive. 

"If these wards are failing... what others can we add?" Cyril asks, "Brynjol's armour is proof against the machinations of the Warp, yes? Inquisitorial Hexagrammatic runes."
"The issue is not Warp based," Cortain sighs while working, "The issue is that the Arc Charge is overloading the Warp Drive. Even if I apply these runes, the trip will be taking several months."
"Unfortunate. Would more runes help?" Cyril posits, "If the first batch can hold while you make more, we might be able to make better time."
"While this may work in some cases," Cortain looks up, "Not all runes can stack like that."

It takes Cortain a full day of prayer, sanctification, and engraving, stretching his skills as a Forge Lord to the limit, but he finishes engraving the runes along the Drive. This will not allow them to make the trip in a month as was intended - even with Ferromantic Runes that guard against the heat and energy of lance and melta, the arc-charged strain is too much. However, he can turn the trip into an 8 month one, at equal passage of time in the Materium. Given it is a matter of travelling across the galaxy, he deems this acceptable.

"That should hold, lad," Rockfist suggests, "Our apologies for the delay. We can re-embark when you are ready."
"Take us out, Rockfist," Cyril commands, "Away from this accursed rock."
"Aye, lad," Rockfist whispers.

The order is given, and the Blade returns to the Warp. Thexus and Rose stare at the quickly-retreating world.
"It is rather beautiful, though," she sighs. Thexus says nothing, merely considering the ancient Laer - four armed snakemen with a variety of odd weapons, and resolves to investigate the Dark Eldar's four-armed snakelike associates on his own time.

Cortain and Brynjol, in the meantime, decide to pay Rose a visit.
"That is what the Primarch of the III said when he landed," Cortain states. 
"The...III?" Rose asks, "You mean one of your Legions."
"The master of one of them," Cortain nods.
"What did he do so wrong that concerned even the Executor?" Rose asks.
"He... was possessed," Brynjol explains, "And he took part in the Heresy. Do you know much about the Heresy, Rose?"
"I have heard you all speak of it every so often," she explains, "And this world, Isstvan, seems to have everyone on edge."

"The Heresy was the death of a dream, Rose," Brynjol begins, "Where the Great Crusade was corrupted and turned on its head, and all hope of a unified humanity was lost to Chaos."
"A time when Astartes fought Astartes, Brother against Brother, and has sundered mankind ever since," the usually-reticent Temur adds, "A shame we will ever live with."
"In the Great Crusade, there were twenty Space Marine Legions - the Legiones Astartes. And they were led by twenty Primarchs," Brynjol begins, "Glorious, incandescent beings wrought from the firmament of science and the power of the Emperor."
"Why did they fight?" she asks, "Was unification not a worthy goal, as it was in my time?"
"Because Chaos got its claws into them," Brynjol states flatly.

"Chaos, the ones Executor Thexus calls Noncompliant Recidivists," she notes, "You said they were possessed. We did not believe in such things. Are you saying that such stories bear truth?"
"Yes, unfortunately," Temur nods.
"You must have heard stories even in your day, of psykers who delved too deep into the Warp and were changed?" Brynjol insists, "Changed into monstrous forms of pure bloodshed, lust, disease and change."
"We...did not," Rose explains, "When I underwent cryosleep in our colony ship, the gene to create a a being called a Navigator had only been just finalized..."
"In the days of the Crusade, empirical truth reigned supreme in the Imperium. Nowadays, we know all too well the dangers of sorcery," Brynjol states, "It is the risk every psyker takes. And it was introduced to the Primarchs."
She laughs, kind of sadly.
"We had chronomantic weapons, genetic customizations, great machines that could pacify entire sectors, our servants and allies of unbreaking metal, but we did not believe in...sorcery."
"By the time the danger was apparent, there were only eighteen, but fully half of them fell to Chaos, and they tore the nascent Imperium apart in civil war," Brynjol concludes, "They were led by the Warmaster Horus, mighty Horus, First Among Equals."
He pauses a moment.
"They took the war right to Terra... and were repulsed. At horrendous cost."

"The one truth to the Heresy was that there was no meaning to the bloodshed," Cortain states.
"If he was as great as you say, and even he fell," Rose whispers, "Then I am beginning to truly understand why no one trusts each other, why everyone fears one another."
"Now you begin to understand the tragedy of our age," Brynjol whispers.
"And it is just so," Temur declares, leering at Rose, "The single greatest lesson in the Heresy is that no one save the Emperor, is above corruption."
"Everything you see is but the fallout of that war," Cortain gestures all around.
"From what you say, some scars never really heal," she begins to walk out, "From your fear of what you call the "Men of Iron," to suspicion in every corner of this Heresy...I think I need some time. I should dwell on this..."
"Ten millenia, and the scars yet remain," Cyril voxes.
Cortain nods. "Should you need any additional guidance, do not hesitate to call any of us."
"Of course..." she says quietly, walking off.
"I fear you might have to face the worst thing of any of your people," Temur shakes his head, "The horrible reality of naked truth, stripped bare by ravenous time..."

The Commandos decide to make the best of their eight months of uninterrupted training. Cyril attempts to surpass every training regimen Thexus sets him against, while Temur continues to hone his mixed ranged-assault style. Brynjol resolves to spend time with Rose, educating her on the horrors of the Heresy, while brushing up on his own knowledge of the Great Crusade in preparation for the mission. Cortain begins addressing the piles and piles of "Ask the Commandos" fanmail for his news-missive, even promising an xenos-blood autograph from "Fightin' Felleye Brynjol" himself to a number of lucky winners. He also takes a moment to study Wiseman's daggers - they appear to be equivalent to power swords, but in a much smaller package. Though he's not sure how Wiseman did it, he notes that he can manipulate the blades at a distance, maybe 5-10m, using his own electoo conductors. Weird.

The rest of the 8 month trip goes by remarkably quietly. Rockfist never lets an eye off the Warp Drive, while Rose spends her time meditating or with the Squat Engineers. Thexus is working on a Mastodon, but lacks the finishing touches due to not having the datasheet. O'Malley continues to tend to the Blade's supplies, even though rationing for such a small crew is really unnecessary. Finally, the Everything's Okay alarm goes off, and the Blade begins the transition to realspace.

"Drive status, Rockfist?"
"No problems, lad," Rockfist says, "Runnin' nominal."

A day of travel on plasma drives, and the Blade of the Long Watch enters the cursed Isstvan system. passing asteroid fields, cold dead lumps of rock, and virus-bombed hulks, the Blade reaches stable orbit. The dull grey rock floats lifelessly ahead.

Isstvan V.

"Lads, we're preparing a full landing party as an escort for ya, just in case. We're ALL going down," Rockfist explains.
"I don't know if that's a good idea Rockfist," Brynjol starts, but relents, "Fast strike teams on standby for sure, but we should be the first ones to set foot on the soil. The first legionaries on Isstvan V in ten thousand years. No offence to you."
"I advise ya grab what ya need as personal gear," Rockfist advises, "I dunno where Thrax is sending you, nor what you'll be takin' with you..."

The Commandos arm themselves with what they deem necessary. As a freshly-minted Consul Delegatus, Cyril passes a Diplomacy test to generate additional Requisition, the Rite of Command, which helps immensely. The Commandos all take jump packs, to stay mobile against whatever they may find, before branching off into their chosen weapons. Brynjol picks up a Thunder Hammer, while having Cortain upgrade his Crozius temporarily with Razor Sharp. Cortain decides on a Volkite Culverin. Temur selects upgrades for his grav cannon, while Cyril upgrades his weapons as well. Just in case, he orders a Lightning Primaris Wing on standby.

A full wing of Stormbirds are prepared. One for the Commandos alone as requested, and many for the Squats, Automata, and Support Crew getting ready to deploy. Thexus has transmitted landing coordinates and maps from his cortex archives. They all point to an open area, a large depression, called Urgall.

"The Urgall Depression..." Brynjol sighs, "Site of the Drop Site Massacre." 

The launch bay crew evacuate, as the doors are opened, launching the Commandos out of the landing bay, There are no cheers or well-wishes - all are preparing for their own deployments. Brynjol stands, steady in the rocking troopship, walking to the middle of the bay.

"Stand with me, brothers."
"Stand? I was thinking of charging," Cyril laughs, "I am with you."
Brynjol walks to each seated legionary in turn, attaching an oath of moment to their shoulders and intoning in guttural Fenrisian.
"All I can say to you today is the same thing we say whenever we take our swords and bolters up for mankind, in defence of those who need defending."

"For the Emperor."
Cyril nods. "And - for the Primarchs. We are the bulwark between Humanity and the Terror."

The Stormbird begins to break the thin, dead atmosphere. The Commandos can barely tell that they have broken the upper layers, as the Stormbird levels off. The two Urists twirl the Stormbird around, circling in immense crater, before landing. The door opens to sterile, tan-grey sands. The two Urists piloting are ordered to take off once more and circle, as the Commandos step forth. In a few minutes, the rest of the support crew will be here. For now, though, the four Commandos are...alone.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F3mF1KHtUIE

Brynjol steps out, sand crunching beneath his boots. He shivers as he kneels, scooping up a handful of sand, letting it run through his fingers. He pours some of the dark sand into a small leather pouch at his belt, before standing and surveying the surroundings.

"Spread out," he commands, "We know nothing of this place."

Cyril drifts out on foot, stalking fluidly from a half-crouch. Temur and Cortain raise weapons, and face different directions, unsure of what they will find. Astartes boots sink into sand untouched in nearly 10,000 years, power armor respirator filters processing the same air. A chill wind blows across. Auspexes picks up various signs and shards of metal, ceramite, and other materials. Indeed, there is still the occasional spent bolt shell half-buried. The walls still bear the scars of energy and ordnance.

Brynjol kneels again, sinking his hands deep into the war-torn land. He closes his eyes, and lets his other senses expand to fill the void. He inhales deeply, letting the smell of ages fill his lungs. He can still smell the chemical reactants in the air, taste the blood all around. He can hear the gunfire again, hear the screams of anguish, of betrayal, as echoes on the wind. Brynjol forces himself back to wariness.

"All I smell is pain. There is nothing here," he states flatly, "A great dream died here... or rather, it finished dying here."
Brynjol shrugs.
"It started to die on Colchis."
Cortain makes an amused snort.

After a few moments, as the Commandos wander amongst the shells and a large armor shard of what was once a Sicaran, they can see the rest of the Stormbirds begin to land, disgorging Squat Warrior Brotherhoods, Battle Automata Maniples, and more. The Urgall Depression is rendered clear, as everyone heads over. Rose in her armor, Rockfist in regalia, O'Malley in simple robes and respirator flanked by Hearthguard, Thexus...Thexus, and Dr. Angkor Thrax in his cowl.

Rose shivers. "I..don't like this place. Can you feel it?" she asks, "I can't see it, but I sense...a thirst for blood, looming all around us."
"Probably the psychic remnants of the death of hundreds of thousands of Astartes," he explains, "Likely enough to linger, even after ten thousand years."
"There was a Massacre, an Extermination here," Cortain reminds her.
Brynjol steps away, ahead of everyone else. "Unless you think it's more active? Rose?"

"I...watch out!" she says, as a wall of flame erupts, surrounding Brynjol. He hisses, dropping into a predatory crouch.
"Legionary! Let us..." a voice behind him says, "Wait, you are not a fellow Son!"

Brynjol is in a circle of seeming warpflame. A few meters ahead lies a shadowy legionary, his translucent armor a dull green. Brynjol is immediately on the attack against the Legionary marked by a red eye.

"REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" is the mighty Consul Chaplain's battle cry as he charges, his Crozius drawn midair, swinging as the Legionary Shade raises its bolter. Brynjol brings the crozius around and slashes deep into the Son of Horus Legionary Shade, forcing him backwards. It sinks to the ground, its translucent form already fading.

"What... what is going on?!" Brynjol yells.
"You who come to this world of death..." the Legionary Shade states, "Who beckon the spirits of the fallen...we know what you seek. You will find your answers...from the battlements of the Warmaster, loyalist scum..."

The shade fades away, and the fires dim into nothing. The Squats have raised their weapons, unsure of what they have seen.

"Are you well, Wolf Priest?" Cyril presses.
"I saw a Son, Cyril, the Warmaster's own," Brynjol spurts, "We... must find the battlements of the Warmaster." 
Cyril gives him a steely glare.
"Thexus, how good are your maps?" Cortain asks, considering the goastly hint.
"MY ARCHIVES ARE FLAWLESS, CONSUL. WHAT DO YOU REQUIRE?" Thexus yells.
"Bryn requests locations of the Warmaster's Battlements."
Thexus pauses a moment, his mechadendrites twitchin as his arms raise.
"ACKNOWLEDGED, CONSUL. THE TRAITORS' BATTLEMENTS ARE CLOSE, THEIR FORTRESS EMBEDDED WITHIN A LARGE CRATER. IT IS NEARBY."

Taking a moment to explain the Sorcery to Rose, the Commandos press on, Thexus acting as macabre tour guide. The targeted Fortess is a little off in the distance, but within reach.

"Thees ees good," Thrax hisses, "Thees world weel serve well. You weel be cured of your feear, Commandos..."
"What do the ghosts of legionaries past have to do with fear?" Cortain asks.
"I AM BEGINNING TO UNDERSTAND THE FILTHY XENOS' POINT. THE LEGIONARIES OF OLD DID NOT HAVE THE SAME LEVEL OF MENTAL GUARDS - THEY COULD FEEL FEAR. AND THEY OVERCAME IT, EACH IN THEIR OWN WAY..."
"...as you must," Thrax rasps. 
"The Astartes of today feel fear. We simply cannot afford to let it rule us," Cyril disagrees, "The Hellstar demands... additional measures to ensure that. Today marks the next stage of the beginning of its end."

Moving along the dusted plains towards the coordinates Thexus revealed, everyone moves cautiously behind the Commandos. Rose releases tiny floating spheres from her hands, which surge out in all directions, much to Cortain's and Cyril's intrigue. The Squats, lasguns raised, are quite uncomfortable, but nonetheless follow. All around are the ruins of battle, half buried by the weak wind. A drop pod here, a land raider there, a long-rusted contemptor hull on more than one occasion. Scraps of rotted vellum, banners, blow from the ground. Cyril sings a quiet, solemn dirge for the doomed and the damned to help pass the time and calm the Squats. 

Travelling along the dusty route, the ground suddenly gives out, the sand collapsing into a great pit, which Cortain ends up sliding into. A bit annoying, but no damage. All about can be seen pieces of ancient armor.  Surrounding Cortain, however, the wall of warpflame rears up once more.

"Traitors...traitors must burn..." the Legionary Shade that manifests whispers, raising a heavy flamer.

Cortain waves everyone off, as he is unharmed. However, his attention turns to the Legionary Shade before him, armored  in bright green similar to his own chapter colors, but accented with orange. Hanging off him appear to be the scales of some sort of lizard or reptile.

"Halt. I am Ultramar," Cortain blurts, before charging forward with the Gladius Invictus. The Shade dodges, returning the attack with an ornate power axe, though Cortain barely manages to parry. Cortain considers a command test to calm him down, before he remembers HE was the one to initiate hostilities. Not his brightest moment. However, he calls upon his solo mode ability, Favored Son, to auto-pass the horrifically-penaltied command test.

"traitorous...blackshield..." the Legionary Shade gurgles.
Cortain lowers the Gladius and salutes the ghost.  "Well played."
"Blackshield...of Ultramar..." the Legionary Shade wonders, "The Ultramarines...were not summoned...lies...Traitorous blackshield..."
"I am of the XIII Legion. I am no more a traitor than you," Cortain states, "Apologies for the assault.  An ally ran into a surprise ambush before. But now I must ask you to lead."
"Ultramarine...the traitors routed...I see you...truth..."
The Legionary Shade sinks to his knees.
"Planets turn....Stone erodes....Fire burns eternal. Only from the highest point...may light burn brightest, brother..." 
The Salamanders Pyroclast fades.
"Rest in peace, son of Vulkan," Cortain says softly. The wall of flame fades as well.
"Loyalty beyond death," Rockfist whispers, "All we can ever really hope to aspire to."

Cortain engages his auspex, but the only thing he picks out of this sand pit is a scarred shard of chest armor. It is a worn and weathered green. He picks it up reverently.
Cyril looks up, "Another ghost?"
"Yes. Salamander," he states, ""En route back now. Let us move on."
O'Malley chortles.
"The lass was right, beardlings," O'Malley states, "This world, and its dead, they do not rest. They merely linger."
"Thankfully, this one at least was able to listen to reason," Cortain explains, relieved, "We forge ahead."
"We can hardly expect traitors to hear reason ten millenia after their fall," Cyril nods, "It is good that a loyalist saw the light."

The grand caravan passes by a number of sulphurous pools of water. The ground is slightly bumpy now, the scars of 10,000 year old artillery strikes. Occasionally the clang of long-buried metals strikes armored boots. The Commandos pass by walls, once great, now rusted, as they begin to reach the edge of the Urgall Depression. Carved into the wall itself is a mighty bastion, its decaying towers reaching high.

"Here be Traitors," Cortain sighs.
"CONSULS, THIS FORTRESS...WAS NOT BUILT BY THE HANDS OF MAN. ENSURE YOUR AUTOSENSES ARE NOMINAL," Thexus advises. The Commandos briefly wonder, before agreeing and performing final equipment checks.

The squats and automata are ordered into defensive positions. Ahead of the Commandos is a large opening in the rock, the doors long since blasted away. The Commandos tactically space themselves, moving forward.  Entering the door, all hear the rush of warpflame once more...this time around Temur.

The Legionary Shade ahead of Temur is in polished black and grey, his arm a shimmering cybernetic.
"Destroy...DESTROY!" the Legionary Shade yells. The grey Legionary Shade seems to have a plasma weapon of some kind, which Temur decides to charge in to mitigate. The duel between Temur and the Iron Hand draws on, as the Legionary Shade draws an Omnissian axe and swings wildly, as if enraged.

"Legionary, snap out of it, we are not your enemies!" Temur yells, remaining on guard and not wishing to attack a fellow superior Astartes, "I am a son of Chogoris, not traitor scum like you fought here! Know that the imperium lives on for your valor!"
This oddly seems to make him angrier. The Legionary Shade's attacks get more erratic, and begin to force Temur back to the wall of warpflame.
"...So be it then," Temur resigns, counter-attacking the grey and black legionary, forcing him backwards, onto the ground.
"You live, and you seek answers," the Legionary Shade hisses, "Our only regret was that some of you escaped. Only by facing your past, our past, may you survive your present, loyalist filth..."
The Legionary fades as readily as the wall of flame.

Temur takes to a knee as the shade fades, processing the weight of the information.
"What...what legion was he?" Cyril demands, hoping against hope he did not see what he thought he saw.
"An Iron Hand," he coughs, "Turned against his own brothers. Could there have been others, even in the brotherhoods?"
"CONSUL, THERE IS ONE THING YOU SHOULD REMEMBER."
Thexus pauses.
"THERE WERE NO SUCH THINGS AS LOYAL AND TRAITOR LEGIONS. THERE WERE ONLY LOYAL AND TRAITOR LEGIONARIES."

Temur gets up again, now grimly determined to ensure nothing interrupts their mission.
"Let us continue," he sighs, "And find what we came to this hateful place for."

The Support Crew form up once more with the Commandos. Within the ruined battlements, there are numerous paths. There are some down, and some up. One of Rose's small spheres floats up from the lower levels, and returns to her. 
"My scout probes have picked up nothing nearby," she explains, "This place is empty."
"Would they be able to detect psychic phenomena?" Brynjol asks.
"No, they are merely pict...recorders," she states, fumbling for a word familiar to the commandos, "I built them on the Blade."
"They do not detect through walls, then. Auspexes, Brothers," Cyril commands, "Thrax, what exactly are we looking for?"
"Wee are looking for a suitable plaace to commune together," Thrax states, "We weell know such a place when wee feel eet..."
"Brynjol said the battlements," Temur points out, "That should be our destination."

Cyril heads up through the xenos ruins, passing by many rooms cleared for Legionary supplies once, now scarred and empty. Ever higher he goes, until he can't go any further. Only then does he realize he has found his way to the top of the highest surviving battlement.

"Yeesss...thees weel do perfectly," Thrax coughs, "Commandos...this is a suitable place..." 
Thrax reaches into his pouches, burning a small object and creating a rather off-smelling smoke. The Commandos order a tighter defensive perimeter.
"Commandos...are you ready to face what your ancestors are willing to show?" he asks.
"Aye," Brynjol nods.
"No. And that is why I must." Cyril doffs his helm.
"As I will ever be, I think," Temur sighs.
"As always," Cortain affirms.

"Sit together, yesss...." Thrax rasps, "All of you, must face the other. Miss Rose...pleease, the Center..."
As everyone pops into formation, all facing Rose who stands in the center, Thrax begins chanting, an alien, guttural chant under the dull shine of the midday sun.
"Remember Commandos...I know not what you will seeeee...the Ancestral Dreamlands my people call upon takes a different form for everyone," he states, "But know thiiis - what you see, you can only rely on yourseeeelves. Now, close your eyes, and open your minds..."
Thrax's chanting increases, Rose begins to levitate as she surrounds everyone in her psychic sphere, and the Commandos' visions go white...

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)~~

The Commandos awaken upon the same battlement that Thrax began his ritual. It's just the four of them - there is nobody else. Looking up in the stars, everything's completely different - the constellations are all wonky, and then they realize the battlement is less decayed as well. To their side, a small mote of light sinks down, into the Fortress once more.

"How...quaint." Cortain notes.
"I bloody hate psykery..." Brynjol sighs.
The stars above shine brightly, the clouds of the galaxy visible amongst the backdrop.  It's middle of the night, and the Commandos can see lights within the Fortress below as well. It makes them wonder - it was daytime when they landed.
"I hope this is just a... vision," Brynjol sighs
"It seems quite quiet for the Warp," Cortain offers.
Brynjol stands up. "Let's explore a little. "Squad formation, on me."

Descending into the Fortress, the Commandos now realize that the layout is completely different. Motes of light float about aimlessly, and as they approach the main area of the Fortress, they can hear voices, a dull bustle. Ahead is a sturdy door of metal. Oddly enough, it seems to be partially overgrown with a translucent blue plant. Cortain immediately begins to worry.

Opening the door slowly, breaking the plant matter away, the Commandos open their way to a large...librarius.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vbxk7E3vvdA

Motes of dust and light float amongst the books, as the hall stretches forward. Lit by candelabra and fire, the great hall feels warm, as opposed to the cold outside.
"I don't bloody like this at all," Brynjol says, drawing his weapons, idly rotating the thunder hammer to keep its great weight in motion.  As he passes by many different shelves of books, the hammer making a swoosh through the air, he hears a voice, a familiar one, off near one of the fireplaces.

"Welcome."

It's the voice of Rose.

Standing by a fire are...Rockfist and Rose. "Welcome," Rockfist says, "You've been expected. No doubt you have a lot of questions."
"You share the vision as well," Cortain states.
"How..." Brynjol stammers, "Why?"
"I suppose we should begin in honesty - what you see before you is not yet the truth. We appear in a form the viewer always feels comfortable amongst. Perhaps these forms, you care for them? Even this very librarius is assembled by your minds. Our true forms, well, you cannot quite perceive them yet," the Rockfist-form starts.
Brynjol takes a single step back. "I distrust those who hide behind a mask. I will listen to your words...for now."

"Tell us, you have to yourself the Materium, the Warp, even the Webway," the Rose-form continues, "In your words, what would you call these?"
"...what?" Brynjol asks.
"Planes of reality?" Cortain posits.
"Very good," the Rockfist-form says, "Or, Dimensions to others. This Dreamland you walk, a product of the Kroot. The nowheres of Subspace, where the Chroma reside. There are many that you are and are not familiar with."
"Which led us to your next question, 'Why are you here?'" the Rose-form states, "You have come here for a reason, have you not?"
"The Kroot told us that what we need, we would find here," Brynjol spits, "A tool to help us resist the power of the Hellstar."
"It would cure our fear," Cortain adds.
"Yes, the Hellstar," the Rockfist-form states, "In a way, you wonder why your indoctrination against fear fails."
"We are to confront and understand our past," Cyril states.
"Then let us begin at the start," the Rose-form continues, "Fifty of your years ago, there was a great collapse. An entire of your sectors, drained of energy, an entire area of space ripped and wounded."
"Is this familiar to you?" the Rockfist form asks.

"A... warp rift?" Brynjol offers.
Cyril shakes his head, "The Scar."
"Very good. This weakened area of space was opened when its energy was ripped away," the Rose-form continues, "It was opened to a dimension your Imperium has experienced before."
"It was first known as the Harrowing, where creatures impossible to your physics swarmed through, thwarted only by the expenditure of many lives and weapons," the Rockfist-form adds, "It was followed by the being you named Cacodominus, which hybridized itself to your Materium, and surged and destroyed an entire sector upon its death."
"And now..." the Rose-form concludes, "You have opened yourself to the creature you call Hellstar."
"The Howling?" Cortain asks, for clarification.
"The Harrowing of the Echoing Vault, the Howling of the Cacodominus, now the Hunger of the Hellstar," the Rockfist-form states, "The method all used is the same - peer into one's mind, and understand their fears, terrors, anguish, horrors, and use them as powerful weapons."
"How do we fight this?" Brynjol asks.
"We can show you one half of what you desire," the Rose-form states, "You must confront the lingering curse that resides within your geneseed. Even now, you are shackled, chained, controlled by the traumas 10,000 years past."

"Explain," Brynjol insists, "How does a trauma imprint itself on genetics?"
"To fight an enemy that does not follow your rules, you too must break free," the Rockfist form states, "Before the Hellstar, thrust upon you, can find the key to opening a permanent scar to its source, and break down your very existence to sustain its own source."
"You must release yourself of the horrors of millennia past," the Rose-form points, "You must cleanse your heart and mind, until there is nothing the Hellstar can take from you, and to do that..."
Rockfist-form points to a barrier of fog leading out, where the front gate of the Fortress once was.
"What you will see beyond the Fog is unique to you," he explains, "But overcome it, and there will be nothing that will hold you back."
"So...in there is our answer?" Cortain insists.
"Take as much time as you require to collect yourself," the Rose-form states, "Beyond the fog lies your answer."

"Show us," Brynjol demands, "Show me your true faces."
"Your minds do not yet have the strength to see such things yet," the Rockfist form explains flatly, "You would damage yourself beyond recovery until you have, to put it in a way you would understand, the eyes necessary to see."
"And that is what worries me," Brynjol sighs, "You don't sound like beings who would want to help us."
"You are correct. We are not. You see and hear only that which you expect to, want to,  see and hear, Brynjol," the Rose-form bows, "When you see the truth, when you gain true insight, only then will the truth be revealed..."

Cyril kneels, calling the Commandos around.
"There is only the Emperor. He is our light and our guide, our purpose and our saviour. We are his will made manifest." 
The Commandos nod in affirmament.
Cyril rises. "I AM READY," he rumbles calmly.
Brynjol sighs heavily,  "Bollocks to it. Let's do it."
"All mental warding circuits operating at 150%," Cortain nods.
Temur wordlessly stares at the door.

The four Commandos stand ahead of the Nightmare Fog, as one. Pushing through, it feels...cold. 
"This feels wrong," Brynjol whispers.
Eventually, however, they break through. Under the starlit night, the Commandos find themselves amongst the sands of Isstvan once more. There is no sign of the fog or building they came through. However, there is an enormous form swirling in the center, 30m away.
"Is this...?" Cortain wonders aloud.

The translucent black shroud composes itself, swirling about into the shame of a man, a featureless, faceless man in towering armor and unbelievable weapons. In its chest, a single red eye opens, its black iris focusing. The Commandos all finally see it - the shadowy form that haunted them every time the Hellstar stared. The trauma of 10,000 years back, the geneseed memory of sins 10,000 years past.

Horus, the Warmaster.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A9MR3r_DWrA

The Commandos are forced to make an Insanity test, staring at this genetic memory of the greatest threat to the Imperium. Surprisingly, Brynjol, Cortain, and Cyril all hold fast, their hearts hardening with hatred and beginning the process of overcoming. Temur, however, is not so lucky, and in a panic begins to flee for his life. Brynjol, thanks to his lightning reflexes, is first. He takes a moment to consider the archives for anything that could help him. Horus's skill in combat was legend, though he greatly enjoyed attacking the weak in Cthonian style. He wielded a monstrous mace, Worldbreaker, and his signature Talon with heavy bolter embedded within. He was known for keeping fleet assets on hand at all times, and his defenses were second to none.

Brynjol charges the Warmaster Shade, but his attacks bounce off the Serpent Shield's potent shields. The Warmaster responds in kind, swinging Worldbreaker and the Talon. Though Brynjol's shields hold against Worldbreaker, he fails a Parry, and the Talon rips deep, triggering its Disabling Strike. His WS and Strength damaged, Brynjol wonders where everyone else is as he howls backwards, clutching the rent in his front.

Cortain fires his Volkite Culverin, while Cyril flanks with his storm bolter. Both bounce effortlessly against shields and armor, and all eyes turn to Temur. After running away for a bit, Temur unfucks himself and turns his grav cannon on the Shade, turning his own armor against him. It is one of the few advantages the Commandos can claim - in the time of the Primarchs, such "graviton imploders" were rare and experimental. But now, everyone and their sarge seems to pack at least one in a squad.

Brynjol and the Warmaster's Shade continue to trade blows, their attacks bouncing off each others' shields. Brynjol does get a good hit or two in with his Razor-Sharp'd Crozius. Cortain and Cyril continue to provide covering fire, though their shots are doing markedly little. Though the rest of the Commandos cannot feel it, Cortain looks around - there is an audience, countless Legionaries watching the Commandos, some recognizable, some not. With their geneseed ancestors watching, he resolves to make them proud.

Cyril, however, is beginning to lose it.

"YYYOU...KILLED..." Cyril gurgles.
"Hold... hold it together, Cyril!" Brynjol commands.
Cyril spits, "WHY?" 
"You lose yourself, you become the same as these ghosts, Cortain explains, "This is the accumulation of hate and despair.  It will feed off it."

Cyril charges, nonetheless, as the Photonic Blade bounces off the Shade's shields. In his last moment out of the Black Rage, he calls Tactical Finesse Squad Mode. Now things get interesting, as Tactical Finesse allows one to perform an attack and then move away. While Temur uses this to move closer with his Grav Cannon, Brynjol uses this as an enabler. As the Commandos have just entered Rank 5, Furious Charge can allow him a Lightning Attack on a charge as a free action. He decides to Furious Charge in, Tactical Finesse out as a half action, Furious Charge back in, Tactical Finesse out as a Half Action, and Furious Charge one last time as a free action before he runs out of actions, expending ~9 cohesion to do so. Despite nearly 14 attacks going against the Warmaster's Shade, Brynjol only manages two hits, which nonetheless do a respectable amount of damage. Sadly, this enrages the Warmaster's Shade.

While Cortain and Cyril charge in to assist Brynjol, the Warmaster's Shade now slams down Worldbreaker repeatedly on the Wolf Priest, pummeling him and forcing him to burn fate to manmode through the pain. With so many around him, the Warmaster's Shade raises Worldbreaker, slamming it into the sands. While the Commandos duck and shield against the resultant energy wave, they note the Shade beginning to float and glow. Light shines down on the Commandos, before they begin to spread out. The Orbital Strikes rain down on the sand, and only through lucky shield and dodges do the Commandos make it out.

It's now or never, as Brynjol continues to wail down, Cortain attacks with his Gladius Invictus, and Cyril continues to swing the Photonic Blade. The Warmaster will soon turn his attention to Cyril and Cortain, so Temur takes careful aim, and fires a final salvo from his Grav Gun before running out of ammo. His grav-beams hit the Warmaster's Shade, raking across the Serpent's Scales. The shade seems to shudder, twitching and contracting, as only an ear-piercing shriek is heard as the Shade finally fades.

The ground itself falls away as well, leaving the Commandos all floating in the darkness.

Cortain raises his sword. "We are the Chosen sons!" he yells, as the Legionaries all around bow and fade away.
"Sanguinius... Vos vindicatur..." Cyril coughs.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OrfEn1_hssg

Then an eye opens. And another. And another. The Commandos are surrounded by thousands of eyes. As the eyes rush at them, and they feel themselves flooded with Insight, their world goes white -

05:42, 13 June 2016 (UTC)~~

-only to hear the closing of Thrax's chanting.

"Ahh...Commandos, did you find what you requiiiired?" Thrax asks.
To the Commandos' private wonderment, it is still noon on Isstvan V.

Cyril coughs as he returns to wakefulness and spits out a mouthful of blood and cheek tissue, before rushing to Brynjol. Brynjol drags himself painfully to his feet, leaning heavily on his crozius. Bits of his armour fall to the ground.

"Armour... compromised..." he gurgles through a mouthful of blood, beginning to choke on the thin atmosphere.
"What the miiiind and soul feels...the body miiiiirrors..." Thrax states.
"If that means seeing a ghost of the worst thing to ever blight the Imperium go down to this blade, a Crozius, and a Grav weapon in embarrassing scale," Cortain mutters, "Then yes."

Rose is somewhat unconscious. Thexus is tending to her. It is clear the strain has gotten to her.
"Lads," Rockfist sighs, "When yer ready, we're ready to go. Jus' give the order. The throngs'd rather not be here longer than they need..."
"Brothers. What have we learned? What have we gained?" Cyril asks, "Is our purpose here fulfilled?"

The Commandos nod in affirmament, and summon Stormbirds to pick everyone up. Brynjol needs serious medicae attention from the Serfs and Chirurgeons, and the rest of the Commandos need time to dwell on what they have seen.  Rockfist summons the Stormbirds near on the Commandos' order, and everyone hops aboard after a few minutes, ready to travel back to the Blade.

"So be it. I had considered retrieving the armour and relics left here for the Chapters, but..." Cyril muses, "They have been left here for so long. Perhaps they should rest here forevermore."

The Blade has never been a more welcome sight. Its mighty Accelerator Cannon, its rows of macrocannon and lances, the large translucent-white slug creature hanging off the prow, the armored bridge, already a number of Squats and Serfs have been ordered on standby to provide assistance. The Stormbirds approach the landing bay, the troops within eager to get back to safety.

Cyril begins to supervise return efforts, with Cortain monitoring the incoming Stormbirds, but Brynjol slams his fist against the window.

"What... is... that..." Brynjol coughs.
"What...is what?" Rockfist 
"That seems unusual," Cortain states.
"The... the ship... that thing..." Brynjol swallows a mouthful of blood.
"Hmm?" Cyril asks, before realization hits him, "No...no, that cannot be..."
"The Blade? Lad, you'll be okay..." Rockfist insists.
"Oh good, everyone else sees it," Temur hisses in anger.

The slug-like creature kind of hangs there, right in front of the Accelerator Cannon, wrapped snugly around the prow. Landing in the bays, the Squats rejoice at being back and getting ready to leave the place, oblivious to the danger that had accompanied them the entire time. Cyril and Cortain rush through the halls, overgrown with translucent blue weeds, to the bridge.

"What... is... happening?" Brynjol moans as he sees the true mess the Blade is in.

"Our minds are open to the full extent of the horrors," Cortain states. 
Brynjol begins to chuckle, wheezing. "ROCKFIST!" he shouts into the vox, "FIRE THE ACCELERATOR CANNON, NOOOOOOOW!"
Brynjol is brought back to the medicae deck. He can barely see the ground under all the weeds.
"At...what, lad?" Rockfist asks, "I have no target."
"Cortain, Arc Charge it," Cyril states flatly, "I will see to the firing."

While Brynjol continues to beg Rockfist to fire the Cannon, Temur helping him to his Medicae Deck, Cortain calmly intones the Arc Reactor to output all of its energy into the Accelerator Cannon.  As the Blade enters the warp for the 8 month journey back to Tiji, the Accelerator Cannon unleashes its full force of impact, burning away the titanic slug. It begins to shrivel and dissipate, to the Commandos' relief as the warp portal closes. While the crew of the Blade stare, wondering why, the Commandos, at least, are relieved.

"We got it..." Brynjol sighs before the morpha and medicine begin to work, "Could you all me a favour while I try to move my lungs back into position with a medicae servitors?"
Cyril smiles warmly as he sits back from the gun, "Name it, Brother."
"Take a flamer to these hallways, please," Brynjol insists. 
"Consider it done," Cyril nods. 

Brynjol begins the long and painful process of directing medicae servo-automata to operate on his fucked-up chest cavity. Cyril calls up Notomok and retrieves a pair of heavy flamers, and a retinue of robots with similar equipment. Together Cyril, Notomok, Cortain, and Temur begin a systematic purge, to cleanse the halls before arriving back to Tiji.
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