NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Ok, this is an open RP, but to join you have to go to the OOC thread (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=9311526#post9311526) and post which side you want to join on. Its never too late to join, even in mid-battle. My first post has been chopped into multiple posts. Now, no more OOC posts on here!

IC:

“Congratulations, it’s a boy,” said the kindly doctor. The weary mother stretched out her weak arms and grasped her newborn son, while the father looked on with joy dancing behind his eyes. The women started sobbing quietly in relief and happiness, and the gray, filthy bedroom seemed to melt away with the force of her emotions.

“I shall call him David,” she almost whispered. The father looked on joyously and placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. The doctor felt that to say anything else right now would spoil this magnificent occasion, so he snapped his worn synthetic leather bag closed and stepped out the door into the grimy passageway. Other people shuffled by, ragged clothes offering no protection against the armored Marines that shoved them out of the way of their processions. The doctor looked on with disgust, but kept it to himself. To question the government was to invite disaster.

He strode into the crush of bodies and began the long walk back from the couple’s single room house. Meanwhile, in the shadows provided by the various pipes and alcoves that lined the narrow walls on the corridor, a face watched greedily. As soon as the doctor had left, the man whom owned the face darted across the passageway during a lull in the human tide. The man was roughly 5” 4’, with a sooty black beard and piercing eyes. He was totally bald, and wore simple purple robe with wide sleeves and flat sandals.

The man approached the couple’s door and rapped once. The door remained closed for several minutes, until finally the father opened it with a dark look. “What! What do you want?” he asked sharply.

“My dear sir, my name is Jacobs, and I have come bearing a package from the good doctor, who only moments ago left. He told me to deliver this phial,” the man pulled a glass beaker from inside his robe and presented it to the father, “to you. It contains a special medicine that must be administered to your son.” The father took the phial and examined it closely.

“Why did he not deliver it himself?” frowned he. The man in the robe shrugged.

“I know not. Perhaps he was in haste to arrive at another patients abode, or perhaps he was merely absentminded.”

The father looked at the man carefully, and then asked “how did you come by it then?”

“Why, he thrust it into my hands as we passed in the street and told me to deliver it to this address. The only other thing he managed to say before the crowd pulled us apart was to have the child drink the contents down to the last drop.” The father still looked skeptical, but his wife called him.

“Just a moment,” said the father. As soon as the man left the doorway, the robed man hurried over to the window to watch. He couldn’t quite hear what was being said, but he watched in satisfaction as the father held the phial to his son’s lips. The baby drank the liquid, and the father removed the glass tube. Fool, thought the robed man. He darted back into the crowd and headed towards the nearest maglev station.

Meanwhile, the father had returned to the door to thank the man for the medicine, but he had already gone.

* * *

“My lord, my lord! It is done! The child has been marked!” cried the groveling man.

“Is it a boy, as we suspected?” asked the figure on the pedestal.

“A boy, a boy! The prophecy rings true, my lord!” came the reply, it’s speakers voice choked with reverence. The figure scratched his weathered skin and gazed down at his gathered congregation.

“Then we must complete our part.” With solemn grace he stood and pointed to a small knot of burly men kneeling on the right of the pedestal. “You men, go amongst my followers and assemble an army 20,000 strong. We will begin our raids as soon as you report back to me. You,” he pointed to the groveling robed man, “will return to the child and watch over him. If he is truly the chosen one, the sickness brought on by the poison will not be fatal. If he is not, he will die. Return to me with him when the boy has shrugged off the illness. Hurry, for He waits for no mortal!”

With that, the gathered worshippers dispersed to their duties and left the figure alone. How much longer, Lord Paulus? How much longer before the revolution? thought the figure

Soon, came the ghostly reply.

The men moved amongst the nearby neighborhoods swiftly, recruiting followers into their ever-growing army at each stop. Once you knew what to look for, it was easy it locate the homes of the followers of Lord Grant. The markers were subtle, but defiantly there: perhaps a faded pink doormat here, a dash of puce paint on a grimy wall, or a tattered purple curtain in a window. All were signs of devotion, and all were places to visit. At each home they delivered the same message: “You are to meet up with Lord Grant’s army in the Lair of the Lord. Bring any able-bodied faithful you can. Spread the word.” Then the men would move on to the next marked home, while the residents of the last began doing the same thing they were.

Within three hours news of the gathering was spreading by mouth all over the globe, for vox was far too risky. Loyal members of Lord Grant’s following gathered up what food they could find and herded their families onto maglev trains, to be taken to the Lair. The trains would speed off, unaware that they carried within their frames the makings of a secret army.

Once the followers had disembarked from the trains, they made their way on foot en masse to an abandoned section of the city-world deep beneath even the gargantuan factories that ceaselessly churn out the varied machines that keep Einhauser running. They gathered by the thousands, and the room stunk with the odor of 20,000 men, women, and children.

In the center of the massive amphitheatre that his followers had carved from the very rock of the planet and dubbed the “Lair of the Lord”, sat Lord Richard Grant. He resided over this gathering with his steadfast will and steely gaze. He basked in the knowledge that at his word, every eye in the room would be fixated upon him, and nobody else. That is how it should be, he thought, for what I have to say is very important. With the crack of his whip the room fell silent.

“Loyal followers, the time has come!”

* * *

The optical visor filled with static for a moment, and the robed man cursed. A quick smack against the bulkhead above him cleared the fuzz, and restored the image the man had been intently watching only a moment before.

The mother sat in bed clutching her shivering newborn son, while the father yelled at the cowering doctor. Although the distance between the home and the watcher were too great to permit sound to be overheard, the man could guess what was being said. No doubt the father was blaming the doctor for the “faulty medicine” he had prescribed and the violent illness that had befallen his baby. The doctor, of course, would fervently deny prescribing anything; let alone faulty medicine, which was true. Although the man said he had come on the behest of the doctor, he had in fact been ordered to deliver the phial of deadly reactor coolant to the baby by Lord Grant.

It was this toxic substance that now caused the child to convulse violently, and glow a puffy red. The mother broke out into more tears, and with faint amusement the man watched the father slug the doctor. Suddenly the baby jerker and fell still. The mother stopped sobbing and felt her baby. No doubt the coolant has finally done him in, mused the robed man.

The father and doctor put aside their argument for the time being and rushed over the limp child. With faint surprise, the man watched the doctor smile and hand the limp boy to his mother, who looked joyful once more. The baby was alive. Suddenly realization flooded over the man like a tidal wave. “He is the chosen one,” he whispered.

* * *

“How did it happen?” asked Carlos Nermburg, Einhauser’s Minister of Defense.

“Well, as you can see in the security videos sir,” said the weasily man operating the control console, “that they broke into the genetics facility sometime around 3:00 AM local time. They managed to get some 13,000 people into the facility before the emergency blast doors finally closed, and they apparently used captured C12 explosive to blow their way out with their prize.”

“What prize?” asked Carlos.

“Why sir, the genetic material, cloning vats, and training tanks! They also escaped with data on the creation of Marines before response teams arrived.”

Carlos furrowed his brow and clicked his mechanical left arm. “And where were the Marines guarding the facility?”

The console operator looked slightly embarrassed. “Sir, you have to realize that no matter how good a soldier may be, he can still be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. 13,000 rabid assailants were just too many for the 300 Marines guarding the facility to hold back. They were slaughtered, down to the last man. Some were mutilated so badly that we had to I.D. them via DNA. It was a brutal attack, sir.”

Carlos slapped him on the back of the head. “ I know it was brutal! I saw the same videos you did! Now, here are my orders. Bring every available Marine into guard positions around the surviving genetics labs, and send out regular search teams. I want this globe scoured until we find that equipment! If we don’t, ill have your skin flayed from your bones and made into a rug!”

The operator paled slightly and glanced down at the carpeted floor. “Sir, yes sir!”

They had lost over 6,000 men, women, and children during the suicidal charge that helped to take the genetics facility, but it was worth it. At least, in the eyes of Richard Grant. He stood in the secure room hewn from the granite below the Lair of the Lords, gazing at the sophisticated cloning machines in front of him. Some were sleek and filled with a viscous blue slime, and some seemed to be constructed entirely of bundles of wires. Still, as long as they fulfill their purpose, it didn’t matter what they looked like.

“Have you figured out how to make them work yet?” he asked a groveling enginseer, who was stripped to the waist. Bizarre glyphs were etched into the pale skin of his flesh, and a purple robe adorned his waist.

“No, lord, but we are working at maximum efficiency. If all goes well, we shall be able to complete the prophecy in time for the… the great revolution, lord,” reverently replied the technician. Lord Grant nodded approvingly, and noted with satisfaction as the enginseer’s chest swelled with pride.

“Good. Make sure they are.”

“Yes lord! Of course!” cried the man. Grant walked out of the room swiftly, and headed for his thrown room. According to the chronometer embedded in his left wrist, the ceremony was about to begin, and he had to prepare.

* * *

It was time to make his move. The robed man who had called himself Jacob descended from his perch like a slick of oil slithering from a slowly leaking pipe. With the utmost care, he dragged his body to the edge of the small embankment where he had landed ever so softly, and prepared to move.

He mentally checked off the various parts of his trap he had set up. Satisfied that all was ready, he turned his steely gaze to the chronometer he held in his right hand. 30 seconds to go, he noted silently. He briefly wondered what would happen to him if all did not go well. No doubt he would be arrested by the increasingly common Marine patrols, thrown into the proverbial black hole that was the Einhauserian prison system, and be “released from the physical” by a brother or sister already incarcerated. 20 seconds, read his clock. 14, 13, 12, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5. He sat up and hurled the two smoke grenades he had primed in his left hand through the open doorway. 2, 1, go! Thought the man.

He bolted forward and into the smoky room. Somewhere within the cramped confines of the home he knew that the parents were both unconscious from the semi-toxic gas that had pervaded their home for the last several seconds. The baby, however, would be fine.

Sure enough, the child lay wrapped in a tattered gray cloth, which he clutched like it was the last thing he would ever feel. In some ways, thought the robed man, it is. He grabbed the young couple’s son and ran for the door. The explosive bolts he had planted in it the night before had done their work well, and the door was impossible to shut. The residents had resorted to using a piece of heavy cloth, likely the only blanket in the home, to cover the hole. Needless to say, this didn’t stop the robed man.

He dashed out into the street and melted into the rapidly forming crowd outside the house.

* * *

“…and when the billionth one of you hath been brought upon this world, let mine followers gather up the devices that make more of one, but better. When this has been accomplished, bring forth the one to which all others bow and sacrifice the child he brings. Let my wrath flow as a river across a flat plane, and let mine anger smite those who dare raise their heads against me, for I am Paulus Dermokaites, and I will suffer no foe!” And with that, Lord Grant rolled up the scroll and replaced it within its Admantium sheath, to be protected against all who are unworthy.

The sacred right now complete, he placed the squirming newborn onto the stone alter and backed away. It was only a few moments before Lord Paulus would rise and wrest control of the cult from his hands, and it worried Grant. Press on! hissed Paulus’s voice in his head. Grant humbly told him to wait a little longer.

Lord Paulus’s voice hade been with Grant for nearly 1600 years, and it was to this strange occurrence that he believed he drew his extraordinarily long life from. And now, thought Richard, I am finally to meet my benefactor. “Begin the ceremony!” he shouted to the huddled forms of the Chaos sorcerer’s around his feet. They obediently began chanting arcane spells and making obscure gestures in the air. “Tzeentch! Tzeentch! Tzeentch!” chanted Grant with growing conviction. Hopefully the Chaos god of change would impart some of his strength and wisdom to Grant for this ceremony. After all, Tzeentch was ultimately the ruler of this cult.

The air around the baby began to writhe and shift, and glowed with an unholy miasma of power. The child was crying with increased magnitude now, and it seemed to spur the magicians on to a fevered pitch. “Tzeentch! Tzeentch! Tzeentch!” virtually shouted Richard. The skin on the child’s body began to turn transparent, and shifted and moved like some kind of syrup. With a startled gurgle, the neck elongated horribly, and the arms exploded outward. Where once was pleasantly rounded joints, there now was brittle, bony humps, and youthful skin gave way to pale, papyrus-like materiel coated with ever shifting runes and sigils. The head morphed into a grotesque orb, with no nose, eyes, or ears, only a mouth lined with hundreds of needle-like teeth that stretched from one side of the head to the other. Claws like butcher knives extended from the fingertips, and spines the size of crowbars pierced the sides of the shoulders. With a terrifying screech that could be heard ringing throughout the warp, the daemon known as Paulus came into being once again.

The sorcerers shirked and exploded into a trillion pieces, which seemed to flow towards the creature on the alter. There they mixed together into a cloud of viscera, which the monster drank of heavily. “Grant,” hissed the thing, “Grant, come here.”

Hesitantly Richard crawled towards the entity, mumbling praise to Tzeentch and the way of change all the while. “Yes, Lord Paulus. May I do your bidding?” The daemon took another draught of what used to be the sorcerers, and then dragged a claw across the alter. The intricately carved images of change embellishing the ancient stone slab turned black and began to sizzle. They peeled back to reveal what looked to be gold versions of the same images.

“Grant, our time is at hand. Marshall my forces and send the word for war.” Grant bowed so low his forehead touched the stone floor.

“At once, my master.” And with that, he backed out of the room, leaving Paulus to sip of his ghastly meal.

The word was quickly spread among the followers of Tzeentch. Within a day untold legions of men, women, and children were preparing for the war prophesized oh so many millennia before. Meager savings were withdrawn from underworld banks, homes were sold, and weapons were stockpiled. In less than a week, Paulus had an army numbering 500,000,000. And this, he thought to himself, is only on Earth.

“Grant, I want you,” said Dermokaites into a nearby vox system.

“On my way, Lord,” groveled Richard. It took him less than four minutes to reach the throne room of the Lair of the Lords, despite him having been roughly 10 miles away. He burst into the room and threw himself to the ground.

“I am here, Lord!” panted Grant. Paulus glared at him, and stepped over his prone form. His talons clicked as they rasped across the cement floor.

“Grant, I wish you to spread the word to my followers through out the system. See to it that they are all prepared for the great strife when I give the word. Now go!”

With a deep bow Grant rushed off. Paulus turned back to his dataslate and started reviewing his forces once more.

* * *

The room was bathed in red lights, and hummed with the noise of the warning klaxon. “North wall breached, atmosphere leakage confirmed. Sealing off section,” said the eerily calm security guard sitting at the desk in front of the room.

“Seals breached. Tracking movement in the area. Marines dispatched. Defenders at south wall have been routed. Falling back to secondary positions,” drawled a second officer. Things were not going well for Luna base. Already enemy soldiers were crawling throughout the compound and the Marines were steadily being beaten back.

“Order all units to fall back to their secondary positions, and then blow the outer demolition charges!” yelled the commanding officer from up on his ornate throne.

“Roger. Orders sent. Demolition charges firing in five, four, three, two, one, fire,” counted the first security officer. A massive explosion rocked the compound as the buried demo charges turned the outer walls of the facility to molten slag.

Hopefully that will slow them down, thought the commanding officer. “What’s the state of communications?” he asked.

“Comm. arrays are down sir. Unable to send any form of communiqué.”

The commander cursed under his breath and resigned himself to one final plan. “Very well, then we have no choice. Execute protocol 281-034. Authorization code Wilhelm-Jackson-Omega-Master.”

The guards input the code and then sat back to watch. The screens adorning the west wall that depicted the orbital minefields began to turn slightly darker as the mine’s activation lights shut off. One by one, the minefield was shutting down. It was a necessary precaution, so that the rebels could not use them against the Einhauserian fleet. A faint murmur in the ground announced the second part of protocol 281-034 was about to start.

“It’s been a pleasure serving with you,” whispered the commander to the guards. Just as the last word left his lips, a new, temporary sun erupted on the dark side of Luna. The shockwave from the detonation of the base’s fusion reactors was so powerful scout ships on the outer rim of the system picked it up. Giant cracks appeared in the crust of the moon, and a crater the size of Rhode Island was forever imbued on Luna.

On the other side of the moon, similar fighting was taking place at the aerospace fields. Rebel battled Marine amid the dense hangers and runways of the Incorporated Firm’s largest aerospace base. The explosive tremor from Luna base’s self destruction knocked both sides off of their feet and demolished seven hangers and thousands of lives. As they died they screamed their souls out into the cold, uncaring void of space. And Paulus loved it.

* * *

The amphitheater was lit with a bright purple light that seemed to emanate from everywhere and yet nowhere. The ground roiled and shifted, while human faces seemed to swim to the surface occasionally. In the center of this undulating, chaotic chamber sat the daemon prince Paulus Dermokaites. He was perched on a throne of puce stone that seemed to fold space around it. As Richard approached, he had to avert his eyes so that the horizon would stay in one place.

“You called for me, Lord Paulus?” asked Grant hesitantly.

“Yes, I did. I wish to enquire about our success so far. Specifically, is Luna ours?” Grant raised his head slightly, but had to slam it back into the stone because the throne hurt his eyes too much.

“Lord, Luna Base has been leveled, and fighting still continues among the aerospace fields. Roughly 30% is still held by loyalists. The minefield is also out of commission, sire, just as you wished.” Paulus rapped a claw against his bared teeth.

“And what of Mars and Jupiter? Have they fallen as well?”

“Mars is still hotly contested, with fighting among the streets. I do not believe…” Grant broke off as a face swam up out of the floor and began to mimic his words with a lifeless mouth. Paulus coughed quietly, and Grant started up again. “As I was saying, um, Mars is nearly 50% ours, while one third of Jupiter’s docks are ours. Every minefield in the system has been deactivated, although Mars’ and Jupiter’s could re reactivated if you so desire.”

“…if you so desire…” whispered the face in the floor with a hint of amusement.

“Very good. You are dismissed,” said Paulus.

* * *

Up until now, all the rebels had been made up of the weak citizenry who followed Tzeentch, but that was about to change. The cult of Tzeentch had begun to be beaten back by the determined, and well trained, army of Marines. Now, they had a new weapon. As Paulus looked on through the glassteel window overlooking the amphitheater, he could see a legion of soldiers marching. They were his soldiers, bred in just under a month by the tangle of machines he had stolen from a genetics facility.

They were easily the equals of any Einhauserian Marine, but these had a secret advantage over their brethren. These were already consecrated enough to be suitable daemon hosts, and anyone of them could be taken at any time.

As they were, of course, they were deadly. Their blue armor, trimmed with purple, belied the power hidden in their muscles. Scenes of death and destruction in the name of Tzeentch filled Paulus’s mind for a moment, but he dismissed them. There was work to be done.

“Grant, fetch me mine armor!” commanded Lord Paulus of his obedient slave.

“Yes, master.” Grant retreated out of the room and off to the armory under the amphitheater. Hopefully the armor was done by now, but you could never tell when the person making it is a daemon.

Thankfully, it was, and Grant returned with a group of slaves holding the immense wait of his armor on their backs. Paulus walked over, his talons clicking of the faux marble floor. As he approached, the armor quivered, as if it was excited to be near Paulus. He smiled, and stretched out a hand to pet it. The armor jumped and through a piece of itself towards it.

It landed on his outstretched arm and immediately melded to the surface with a sigh of glee. The rest of the armor was not long in following. In only a moment, Paulus was encased in a metal shell. The armor writhed with power, and the surface never held the same shape for more than a second.

Spikes adorned every joint, and a brilliant yellow and blue striped effect had been painted onto the trim. It made the purple of the armor stand out, Paulus noted with satisfaction. However imposing the armor was, an outside observer would tell you that the helmet was the true eye-catcher. It resembled the helms of ancient Greek warriors, with a mighty plume of blue and yellow feathers on the top, and a narrow slit in the front to allow the wearer to see.

Of course, since Paulus did not have any eyes, this feature was moot. Instead, Paulus chose to magically create a set of glow red eyes that floated about an inch in front of his helmet. The overall effect of the armor was one of barely restrained power.

“You weapon, lord…” offered Grant. He held out a swathed bundle that he had been carrying with him the whole time. Paulus took it in his mailed fist and willed the wrappings apart. In amongst them lay a glistening artifact. It seethed with raw power as it sensed his hand approach. Gently, he picked up the weapon and held it aloft.

It was a sword, and mighty one at that. The blade was easily four feet in length, and sharp enough to slice through admantium without even trying. The crosspiece was a twin set of bird heads, and the handle was a gold-inlaid masterpiece of artisanship. It was all topped off by a pommel shaped like a crow holding a magnificent red jewel in its beak.

To test it out, Paulus turned on the armor-bearers and cleanly sliced them in two. The blade glowed and seemed to absorb their souls. This could be useful, thought Paulus. The severed halves of the humans on the floor did not even look surprised; death had come to them so fast and cleanly.

Paulus smirked and turned on his heel. Almost jogging, his talons jutting from the boots of his armor, he threw open the glassteel doors and strode out onto the balcony. Holding the sword aloft, he bellowed to his corrupted Marines. “For Tzeentch and Change!”

Tag

Silently, the hundreds of black fleshy ships floated their way through the utter black abyss of space. The ships' pulsing veins had stopped flowing and beating, and came to a rest, millions upon millions of clawed and toothed creatures slept, dormant until the need arose to ransack a planet, infest it, then devour it.

Normally, the ships would float until they found the first habital world with abundant life, but now, now there was somthing different, somthing called to them. It was not the call of a genestealer colony, nor another hive fleet, no, it was that taint of Chaos.

The Swarm knew it well, their allies, the first species they had met, where the insidious chaos, now another chaos forced called to them, they sensed it, they knew it was out there.

Slowly the black behemoths shifted their courses, and picked up their speed with bursts of organics. Time for the Swarm to be unleashed.

The drop pod shuddered and the scream of tortured metal was nearly deafening. Still, Paulus Dermokaites stood out of his seat and glanced around like nothing was happening. The other five passengers of the pod, all battle-hardened Marines straight from the killing fields of Australia, were not doing so well. Paulus's warp vision allowed him to see the sinister souls of his troops, and they were afraid.

It disgusted Paulus that these weaklings were his fellows, but they had their purposes. With a gigantic crunching noise one petal of the drop pod tore away from the hull and fluttered up into the air. The Chaos Marine that had been sitting behind the door was sucked into the atmosphere with a startled yelp.

Paulus could feel the other's terror now, and it sickened him. Tired of these pathetic beings, Lord Paulus drew his sword, which he had named Ragnarok, and cleft a gap in the door in front of him. Air streaked in with a might roar, but Dermokaites simple leapt out into the void.

Air hurtled past his head as he plunged straight down to the ground. He could see the drop pod accelerating as it sped through the incoming loyalist AA, but he just kept his eyes down. With grace only a daemon prince possessed, he flipped himself so his legs were down, and he bent his knees into a crouch in anticipation of the one mighty impact ahead.

When he was about a thousand meters up, his ultra-sharp vision picked out a loyalist company of Marines in the process of destroying a traitor platoon. Paulus grinned beneath his helmet and shifted position once again. Now he held Ragnarok with both hands above his head. He also shifted direction so his head was to the ground.

To a casual observer, it would look like a madman in blue armor had dropped by the window of their plane cackling with insane laughter. Actually, that was not far from the truth. Paulus shifted his legs ever so slightly, and Ragnarok pointed at the center of the hulking, six-legged Assault Walker providing backup to the loyalists.

* * *

Sergeant Billy "Bud" Weiser grinned happily as he swept his plasmatic halberd though a knot of traitors, and was greeted with a horrible scream from them as the searing weapon burned through their intestines. A nearby group returned fire, and a withering blanket of energy washed across the Sergeant's personnel shield. He grinned once more, and charged towards the enemy emplacement. Death spit from his Pulse Pistol, and bodies flew everywhere.

Suddenly an incredible impact shook the ground, and the Sergeant was thrown from his feet right into the arms of the traitors. Luckily, they were all just as disoriented as he was, so Bud slaughtered them like the dogs they were. He looked up from his grisly work, back in the direction of his squad.

They were not there. Bud was stunned. The entire bunker where they had been holed up was gone. Just, gone. In fact, the walker was gone as well. And 3rd Company. 300 men had just died. With a start, Weiser realized he was probably the last man alive within a five-mile radius. Well, last loyal man.

Then something leapt out of the crater that used to be 3rd Company. It was tall, thin, and seemed the have an aura of menace. Bud realized that this roaring giant was what killed his men. Weiser roared in defiance and charged the apparition, who casually glanced in his direction. It raised its left hand, and Weiser stopped short.

He felt like his legs were melted to the ground, and he couldn’t move any part of his body. The daemon strode over to him with cool grace, and raised its sword. Weiser couldn’t move, breath, or even blink. The sword came down, and Bud's head left his shoulders. Instantly his world filled with pain, but he was not dead. His head still lived.

The daemon grinned beneath its mighty helmet, and spitted the head on the end of its sword. It shrunk with a hideous frothing noise, and disappeared into the warp.

The massive ships slid through space steadily. A fleet of black ships, all emblazoned with the familiar white eagle of the Parlimian Empire, a terrible sight to behold. The vessels- horribly beweaponed and sinister, displayed their scars of battle like trophies, and, at the same time, a grim warning to all that might oppose their wrath.

The enormous ships, however dark and forbidding, were nothing to the massive mothership around which they were all centered. Easily sixteen kilometers in size, each one of the massive turrets on its surface kept a watchful gaze. This was the Monarch class, the most infamous tool of destruction ever employed by the Empire. This class alone was solely responsible for the annihilation of over thirty planets and stars, and the deaths of countless millions who'd stood in their way. This vessel, long twisted by the evils partaken upon it, carried marks of its achievement, in the form of large painted stars on the hull- for every system destroyed. Below these trophies was emblazoned a name, which read simply, PEV Judgment.

But however evil the Judgment was, it held no candle to its near satanic captain- a man crazed for blood, yet cool and calm, cruel and malicious to the core.

Zacchaeus Demonfury stood on the bridge, peering out at space, and the fleet around him. He grinned twistedly, imaging the carnage to come. Somewhere within him, a beast growled happily. The Sol System neared, but not soon enough. His lust for blood could not be controlled much longer by any simulation, or the occasional unwitting crewmember... No, he need prisoners that he could torture for hours on end, take heart in their screams for mercy or death. He rubbed the blood red hilt of the sword handing from his belt and continued pondering.

Not long after, he heard footsteps behind him, and a man walked up besides him, watching the others as Demonfury did for a moment, then turning and facing his captain.

“What news, Cyrus?” asked Zacchaeus, only mildly interested.

Cyrus Mills, the first officer, ignoring the indifference of his captain, spoke in a monotonic voice, “The final ships have entered formation.”

“So few?” queried Demonfury.

“Control reported that these ships should be enough for the mission,” announced Cyrus, shrugging. “Either way, here's the ship roster.”

“Speaking of which, has Control brought to light the specifics of our mission just as yet?”

“Not that I know, sir. Just the original orders. Aid the rebellion in the Sol System, then, once they have won-”

“Eliminate them, and claim the planets for the empire,” cut in Demonfury.

“Aye sir,” responded the first officer smugly.

“Very well, continue on present course.”

Cyrus nodded, and left his captain in peace. Zacchaeus peered down at the datapad his officer had given him, listing the classes of vessels assigned to him. It read:

x1 “Monarch” Super Battleship
x4 “Lonestar” Battleships
x2 “Plague” Battlecruiser


It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

The hulking masses approached the Sol system, going ever faster. They sped to the planets, the psi shroud starting to encompass the system, blocking all psi messages sent across space.

Space itself rent and tore as blood called to blood; the insane magicks of Tzeentch unleashed; the servant finally able to truly serve its black Master. At the headed of the near to 2000 ships that tore free on the edge of Sol, waiting, anxious and eager to join combat, there sat the Storm of Tzeentch Personal Flagship and battlecruiser of Severino Jeriacor; Primarch of the Black Hand and servant of the Sorcerous God. It was he who focussed the will of Tzeentch within Chronosia; and he who had answered this direst of summons.

"All ships full stop" His cold hiss seethed from the mask, his tainted voice oozing with power and charisma as he looked out. "At last...Sol, once again" He chuckled softly. "The beauty of the cradle never ceases to amaze me. Engage communications."

Great antennas shifted upon the hulking vessels of ancient intent; blasphemous prayers to the Master of Magick echoing through space; the dark whispers of Tzeentch, that machiavellian manipulator of life and destiny; spinner of fate's web.

"I am Severino Jeriacor; Servant of Tzeentch; Lord of the Sorcerous arts. I have travelled far and learned much; and now I bring that wisdom here; to serve Tzeentch, if it should be his will. We shall not stop until the wishes of our God are fulfilled; If there should be war for the Sorcerous Master; then there shall be war. We pay the price of our stagnant souls as forfeit for true servitude. We are coming..."

ENSS Judgment Day, a Firebat-class battlecruiser, was not doing well. It alone had not turned traitor, while the other three ships, all Mercury-class strike cruisers, had. A fierce battle had taken place, but in the end the sheer size of the Firebat won out. Now it limped, a gash a hundred meters long billowing fire and air from the port side. Half the naval railgun tubes were crippled as well, and somewhere in the belly of the ship a kill team of Chaos Marines was wreaking havoc.

Captain Marco Guiles would not give up on his ship, though. He was making best speed back to Jupiter, to report the mutinies. Normally, he could have just voxed them in, but his comm. arrays had been destroyed by a direct AS missile hit.

"Captain, I am picking up a fleet of... something approaching from out-system. I can’t get any readings sir. Possibly hostile, though."

Captain Marco grimaced and ordered the engines to overload. He would be damned if some mysterious whats-it stopped him from warning his country.

*snip*

Paulus leapt down from the shattered building onto the Martian soil below. A great quail of fear rose from the hearts of the Loyalist Marines in front of him as he slashed and chopped towards the center of the formation. Drop pods were falling like the rain now, dispatched by the thousands from the Chaos flotilla above.

Suddenly his warp-sense twitched and he glanced towards the sky. He focused back on the battle long enough to gut a Marine walker, and then gazed back to the heavens. There were new allies joining the fray by the dozens.

Paulus grinned madly, and his needle-sharp teeth danced independently from his jaw. "Grant, there are new allies arriving. Inform the men," said Paulus over the psychic link they shared. Richard seemed distracted, perhaps by combat, but he eventually replied.

Once more Paulus grinned and hurtled back into the fray.

The ships had slowed themselves down drastically.

They now seemingly floated in space, even though they were going thousands of miles a second.

For some reason, they knew what their targets were, and hurled towards them, immediatly jumpong into the fray and space battles.

The ships had no offensive weaponry, but the same couldn't be said for the ships themselves. As they approached the first fuel refinement center, ships started to break off, and launched themselves at ships and defence satellites. Bad mistake.

Many of the smaller hive ships were ripped apart by the volleys of fire, the larger ones crippled and left to die.

Need revision in tactics

It was too late to pull out now, so they still kept coming. LArge and small ships hurled themselves with determination at the satellites and ships, while the carriers tried to get close to the refinement center.

In the first moments of the war, a quarter of the decoy ships were lost, a very bad start.

The satellite shuddered as another volley of railgun shells blasted out of their cavernous maws. Crews immediately pulled open the breaches, and another shell was loaded in each gigantic cannon. Hundreds of men, stripped to the waist, toiled endlessly to load the massive guns, while yet more were tracking the incoming alien ships.

The traitor vessels had been bad enough, but now they had to deal with a new menace. The echoes of the Marine's orders bounced around the cavernous space, which still reverberated with the last volley.

The breaches closed, and a countdown was overlaid on the ceiling. When the timer hit 0, the light from the central power core dimmed, and another thunderous round of fire exploded out into space.

As the cannons were being readied again, the observation workers screamed and ran from the viewports. The Marine masters shot the few that fell over the rusty handrail, but simply whipped the rest. Curious as to what made them run, the Commander of the satellite peered through a viewscreen. What he saw made him void his bowels in his armor.

A Tyranid hive ship was headed straight for them.

Tag

The Fleet was readied. Although not a true example of a fleet, it was sufficient. Comprised of many large warships, a severe lack of fighters, and a huge amount of elite marines, it was the best the ailing nation had been able to construct in time.

It had ripped through countless obstructions and annoyances to get here, and many ships were damaged, and a few had been destroyed. The fleet was equipped with the finest anti-xeno weaponry known to man, including bio-degradors, and Artifacts of Law. It would arrive directly after the Azaha Fleet, whom it had been pursuing for some time.

Upon arrival, they noticed the Azahan Fleet fiercly engaged with some brave defenders. Upon noticing this, they sent a message. "Greetings, denizens who are obstructing the Azahans. We are here to eliminate these... these abominations. You may be assured of our help against such enemies that serve Chaos and abominations such as these."

OOC: Note I can't really think of a reason for my ships to be here, other than I want them to be here, so I had to think up of some plausible reason. This is the best I could come up with on short notice.

IC: The impatient commander tapped, then tapped again, and, infuriated, hit his display. He had been given a faulty power supply, and the fleet display took more than ten seconds to load...

Fleet Numbers:
5 Irrimas Cruisers : Standard cruiser-class ships, used for many applications of warfare. Hold one thousand marines.
2 Takishini Destroyers : Anti-xeno destroyers, carry bio-degrading weaponry. Not heavily armoured, and only carry anti-xeno marines.
1 Ikimas Carrier - Carrier containing one-hundred and fifty fighters, one-hundred and fifty interceptors, and one-hundred and fifty bombers. Heavily armoured and shielded, little weaponry.
17 Scythe Frigates - Heavily armed and armoured frigates,
2750 Radeon Fighters - Essentially very basic armour, propulsion engines, kinetic weaponry. Cheap and easy to destroy. Criminals are forced to serve in the military, and are set free after a successful battle. Survival rate in one of these easily compacted fighters is 7%.


The commander sighed, and gave the order to attack. He hated battles, but had no choice but to attack. He put his feet up, and waited for his underlings to conduct the tactical side of things...

Tag for future reference.

The hive ship screamed towards the satellite, its thick boney chitiny prow taking the brunt of the cannon hits.

With extreme force, it smashed into the bowels of the defence platform, wrenching its way past thick metal and bulkheads. Because of the force, there were no seal breaks between the hive ship and the steel, keeping the platform from losing its air.

In space, carrier ships screamed at the fuel refinments center, while a few carriers went after larger loyalist ships, to try and smash into them, and release their brood.

Unfortunatly, the Tyranids were using makeshift tactics for space combat, as they had prepared themselves for major land offensives, not spacebourne ones.

The men gradually pulled themselves up from the rubble-strewn floor. The impact of the Tyranid vessel had knocked the observation deck to the ground, and most of the guns were out of alignment, or worse. Still, the most notable change in the warehouse - sized defense satellite was the bony prow jutting halfway inside. With a slick, moist noise the nose split open and gushed a horde of darkness.

Men died by there hundreds before they even realized what was happening. The chitinous tide swept all before it, even the ones that had hastily armed themselves with pieces of metal.

There was no stopping the sea of aliens, and the Marines knew it. Even as the enemy engaged the small perimeter of Marines, the Commander was communing with the power core. In under a minute he was ready, and good thing too. As the leading Carnifex closed its massive jaws around his head, the core exploded.

A ravening surge of power erupted from the bowels of the station and incinerated the Tyranid host onboard. Roiling tongues of flame caressed the hive ship, which was even at this moment pulling back. The front end was scorched blackened, but at least the ship was intact.

The satellite groaned and split into a million pieces in one almighty explosion.

* * *

The ENSS Apocalypse fired another salvo of naval railgun rounds into the side of the heretical vessel. This was followed by bolts of energy from the ship's many Lance Arrays. Burning, scorched lines of slag decorated the traitor Firebat as the two titans of the void struggled to best one another.

The Apocalypse rolled onto its side to help deflect the incoming return fire, and emptied its torpedo tubes of their deadly cargo. The fighter-sized self-guided constructs arced towards the enemy, and upon impact burst into flame. Other plasma torpedoes followed, and the Chaos vessel was wreathed in flame.

The crew of the loyalist starship cheered as the traitor broke in half, and bodies started flowing out of the hull like water. With a lurching burst of movement, the Apocalypse moved forwards, towards the attacking hive fleet. With any luck, they would be able to join the other starships circling the alien fleet before the Tyranids were forced back.

The Hive mind screeched in pain as over a million of the swarm's lives were extinquished. This was going to be a very costly war, and a bad choice of first targets, especially targets that were already battle ready and hardened.

Smaller hives ships shot at loyalist battleships and cruisers. Beaked and claws prows again smashed through thick starship armor, two small hive ships carrying about 100,000 creatures each smashed into the first battleship, one ship boring right into the ship's bridge, the second mashing into the midsection. Both ships carried all genestealers, human sized beasts, lightning fast, and claws able to rend steel. At the command was a number of Brood lords, much stronger genestealers, able to rip through the strongest metal like it was silk.

One slightly larger hive ship collided with a loyalist cruiser, driving in deep before it finally stopped, and released its deadly payload. This one was all gaunts, hormogautns and termagaunts. Fleshborer symbiotes flared, and claws flailed.

Two of the largest hive ships found their way to the first jupiter refinment center. But instead of smashing into the large installation, one ship seemed to "dock"(Meaning get close, shoot out a portal and rip a door open.) on the top, and a second at the side. These ships were full of the larger beasts, carnifexes, lictors, and a multitude of gaunts, aswell as a Hive Tyrant. Nearly 3 million of the swarm tried to squirm their way into the center.

Outside in space, decoy hiveships tried to cover the carriers that were docked, by aiming themselves at the ships' weapons, and trying to disable them with ramming tactics.

Captain Wallace of the Firebat-class battlecruiser Hartford swung his plasmatic axe with great force, cleaving through the tough hide of the genestealer that had tried to eviscerate him while his back was turned.

The body had not even hit the ground before two more genestealer's attacked. They lashed out with lightning speed, only to be met with a blade of the axe, coruscating with raw power. Again and again the aliens died, but they just kept coming. The crew, although all were Marines, only 4,000 had weapons with them.

Still they fought, filling the corridors outside of engineering, the armory, and the bridge with blood and alien viscera. Glowing blue blade met bony claw in a shower of sparks, and the tortured voices of the dying rang through out the hull.

Finally, Wallace succeeded in killing the last 'stealers on his bridge, and he picked his way carefully over the dead and dying Tyranids. He walked carefully over to the security consul and pulled the dead bridge officer off of it. The buttons were slick with blood and ichor, but Wallace was an expert.

He commanded the systems to seal all bulkheads, and then turned on the decompression klaxon. After three rings, he yanked a large lever on the top of the panel, and watched the viewscreens in satisfaction.

Aliens were dying in droves as the air they breathed was savagely torn from their twisted lungs and hurled into space. The Marines, being encased in armor, were saved from the same fate. Their suits switched over to their emergency three-hour tanks, and they continued to butcher the alien horde.

This strategy was not effective everywhere, however. Engineering could not be "voided" for fear of upsetting the already unstable reactors, and neither could most of the other rooms. The medical hall was still being beset by alien forms, and there was nothing the captain could do about it.

A thumping noise made him turn. The Marine who had been standing out in the hall was now pinned to the wall, a spike jutting from his forehead. Wallace readied his axe once more, and crept through the bodies to the door. He peered around the edge, but could see nothing.

Suddenly a bone cracked behind him, and Wallace whirled. Somehow a massive creature had snuck up on him. Just before the thing pushed a spike through his head, Captain Wallace remembered the form as that of a Lictor. After that, of course, Wallace recognized nothing ever more.

A gentle breeze swept over the field, causing the fallen standards to wave gently in the wind. Nothing moved, nothing lived. A gentle dripping noise could be heard, but it was not enough to disturb the utter solitude of the place.

On a small rise at the north of the field stood a ragged band of people, surrounding the Daemon Prince Paulus. They were breathing heavily, drenched in blood and sweat, and grinning like maniacs. Paulus gazed levelly down at the field, and relished the sight.

Broken bodies lay so thick as to obscure the ground, which was muddy from the blood and vital fluids spilled on it. Here and there small fires burned within the hulks of dead tanks, and flies buzzed undisturbed among the corpses.

Paulus's keen eyesight even picked out what looked to be crashed Halcyon gunships in the distance, their sides scarred with lasfire. He grinned even wider. It was time to set to work.

He started forward, and his bodyguard of possessed Marines followed at his heel. They strode out to the center of the massive field, and stood in an exact circle. The coming ritual would draw energy from them all, perhaps to the breaking point, but if it succeeded, the field would become a miniature portal to the immaterium.

Through the half-mile thick layer of stalwarth plasteel separating unnumbered galleons of acidic seawater from the dishevelled industrial hab complexs below, the sky glowed a vague, poisonous green.

The short, sullen-looking man who for the better part of the last hour had been standing in the entrance alcove of block 14 D dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his dilappitated workers overall, and cast another weary look up and down the small ally. This time however, as opposed about half a dozen other times, his beady little eyes fixed on something. A man roughly a head taller than himself was striding purposefully down the allyway, a tattered pair of robes of some sort adorning his lanky frame.

"Do you have it?" the robed man asked, stepping into the gloom of the alcove beside the short figure. "Yes, I do" came the reply, the short mans voice fraught with impatience. "And my credits?". Dipping a swollen-knuckled hand into the folds of his robes, the newcomer handed the worker a credit slate. "It is all there" he rasped, his face a mask of solemnity. "Now the files. Let me have them". The worker, his face momentarily cracking with glee as his eyes scanned the figures on the slate in his possession, handed the other man a small datapad without a word.

The transaction was complete, a silent testimony to the benefits of the espionage and covert operations carried out by the right people at the right time. The files, or more specifically - the computer virus - which had now come into the hands of the robed cultist of Tzeentch, should be able to send most of the mechanised security systems surrounding the south pole shield generator into a state of High Alert. With any luck, it would recognise any previously friendly units as dedicated attackers, and spread a jumble of death and destruction around the premises which would make a grown man cry motor oil.

The reach of the cyber-minded mercenary is long indeed.

OoC: I'm not quite sure if what I'm doing is this post is alright with your world and everything Einhauser. If it isn't feel free to ignore it or whatever. I'm just laying down the groundwork. Nice posting so far everyone.

The Imperium's fleet struck like a serpent as it slid towards Jupiter, weapons readied as it advanced upon the Gas Giant, the great crackling cannons of the Imperium hungry for souls and blood, to fulfill their purpose; to kill, to destroy. Severino chuckled slightly as he cast the black Tarot. Death, Madness, Chaos...All these things would come to pass. The weapons were targetting the great tubes that descended towards the ravenous and immense gas giant; and now they opened fire with long missles.

Explosive warheads and energy weapons roared across the cold void of space, snapping at the yawning void as they hurtled towards their targets; the fleet moving so as to envelop the world; reradying for a second volley; aimed at the great stations and their essential lifelines; speakers crackled once again into dark and blod existence.

As Jupiter is the lord of the Heavens, so we are the Lords of the Universe; the Lords of Chaos. We bring divine death to all who oppose us; know that we existed long before your wretched kind; who still cling to bastard Terra. We bring a message from the far Umbra; messages from the Machine-God; from the very ancestor of your world...

That which is risen may fall; that which is fallen may rise again...Let the fallen remain fallen.

And again the weapons rang out, as the fleet encroached upon Jupiter...

The bridge was red with warning lights, and decompression klaxons sounded through out the hull. Bulkheads slammed shut with a clank, and the rushing wind of escaping air slowed to a trickle. Still, the huge gash torn in the side of the Mercury class strike cruiser Agamemnon was a crippling blow. It had been placed there by a lucky hit to the starboard missile racks, administered by a formerly loyal battlecruiser.

Captain Mikhail Illyonev reflected that they were lucky the torpedo hit had not gutted them, but kept the thought to himself. Moral was rock bottom after the recent Chaos boarding action, which was only barely repulsed by the on-board anti-intruder weapons systems, and there was no sense trying to drag it lower.

"Weapon's status report," ordered the Captain. One of the officers to the left of his command throne pulled up a report from the damage control teams, and began to read. "Starboard missile racks destroyed. Port racks at 50% efficiency. MAC batteries destroyed. MDD Fully operational and ready for firing," said the officer in a surprisingly monotone voice.

The captain cursed. It was worse then he thought. With only the Molecular Detachment Device and a half operational missile rack, there was not much his ship could do to the pursuing battlecruiser.

"Continue the evasive maneuvers and head for the nearest concentration of loyalist ships," ordered Illyonev. The helmsman obeyed and manipulated the controls in front of him.

"Engines at critical sir; we cant keep up this speed for much longer," came the voice of the chief enginseer over the vox system.

"You damn well better keep those engines running or-" The captain was cut off as the ship lurched violently to port. The Marines through out the ship were thrown to the decking, not even their genetically engineered sense of balance could keep them upright.


Bulkheads cracked and air began to seep out again. The captain stumbled to his feet and demanded a status report. "Large explosion to aft, sir. I believe it was the pursuing vessel's reactor exploding," the calm sensor operator supplied. What the hell happened to it, thought the captain?

"Sir, a loyalist ship is hailing is. He reports that he destroyed the enemy vessel, and that we should follow him at best speed. Apparently they are massing some kind of counter attack on the far side of Jupiter."

The Agamemnon pushed its engines to full power and rounded on the battlecruiser behind them. In the single working forward viewscreen, the hulking mass of the loyalist starship was perfectly clear. A surge of heat was detected from the engines, and both ships sailed ahead.

The void was aflame with burning wrecks and the strobes of energy weapons. All around reactors exploded, men died, and souls were sent screaming to the warp. By now most loyalist ships were slowly making their way in their general direction, probably for the same reason the Agamemnon was.

Contrails marked an approaching wave of missiles launched from a pursuing strike cruiser, and a chorus of railgun rounds and torpedoes replied to the Chaos vessel. Its nose caved in under a direct torpedo hit, and gouts of fire erupted from the rear of the vessel. As more and more rounds struck from the retreating loyalists the vessel snapped in two, before its reactors exploded.

Captain Mikhail paced the bridge impatiently, every so often stepping over the buckled grating where a stray bullet had landed when part of the crew had tried to mutiny.

He didn’t like this; the Chaos-loving scum were letting the ships get away too easily. Perhaps the sight of so many loyalist starships in one group scared them off, but he doubted it. Whatever Chaos was planning, it wasn’t going to be good.

Deep below the surfaces of Mars and Earth, farther than man has ever dared delve, miles from sunlight, there dwells a swarm, and they are sided with the defenders in this, for they support order, and the current order is under attack, the Swarm moves.

From a dozen mountain chains, and a dozen more points on Mars, there erupt deadly biological weapins, creatures bred to battle and war, designed to kill, they move to take the weakest sections of the defense, broadcasting their allegiance to the forces holding the lines.

Paktu Defense Station, Hiigaran Empire

A large vessel of curious design exited slipspace and hailed the space-traffic controller's office over comms and, upon realizing who the ship's transmission came from, was immediately approved for long-range comms with the Diamid. The ship, horse-shoe shaped in nature, and enscribed with ancient writings and symbols along the dull-copper colored hull, was none other than a Bentusi trade ship. The Bentusi had long been the eyes and ears of the Hiigarans, providing them with always-valuable knowlege and goods for millenia. The ship moved, rather quickly for one of such great mass, towards the Defense station, and a dock made especially for the Bentusi was readied, and the great ship slid inside the docking platform, reversing its drives and coming to a halt as the sides of the dock latched on to the ship to hold it. The Bentusi, however, desired no trade with the Hiigarans today. On this day, they were the bearers of awful news. News that wuld bring the hiigaran empire to war. The Bentusi immediately boosted their transmission signal to be powerful enough to reach the Diamid, the ruling council of Hiigara, at Neo-Tiir, its capital. The Diamid, hotly debating the production of another offensive task force, which would make three that year, unheard of offensive spending for their empire since the exile wars, would soon be put to rest.

The diamid were shocked when, in the middle of the debate, the face of a Bentusi formed the main view-screen. Immediately, the debate quelled to not even silent murmurs as the Bentusi began to speak. They spoke of the terrible hive-ships in Einhauser's space, of turmoil, of death and of mutiny. And then they spoke of the terrible being that had shown it's self on the face of battle: the Daemon Lord. The Bentusi spoke of this as if this Daemon Lord would bring about an end to their existance, and end to existance it's self. They spoke of his immense power, and of his doomful plans. How he would raise pillars of restrained and evil in the face of all, and the resulting death that would ensue in his wake. He spoke of this lord as if he was worse than Makaan himself. The Bentusi ship spoke of the Hiigaran's need to protect Einhauser not only because of his small alliance with the Hiigarans, but also because of the evil that would follow in the Daemon's wake. And, it was no suprise that an Agamemnon-Class Task Force was sent to help.

Sajuuk's Keep,an Agamemnon Class Carrier (http://well-of-souls.com/homeworld/hws/hw2/images/display.htm?concept_flagship07.jpg), as well as several Battlecruisers (check the link in my sig), and multiple frigate classes were lined up outside the Defense Station Paktu, and prepared to be wrenched into Slipspace by an awe-inspiring Pride of Hiigara Class Mothership. The Mothership stood more than fifteen kilometers in height, dominated the viewscreen of ever ship near it. It was a sight to begold, a testamont to the Hiigaran's ingenuity and their pure resolve to cross the galaxy and reclaim their throne, which they did nearly a thousand years ago.

The ship then dissapeared. And so did everything else for that matter. The multitude of ships had been wrenched into slipspace by the awesome power of the Mothership's core, and in an instant, they had crossed countless tracks of space, and were in the local space of Einahuser's planets. The AIs aboard the Agamemnon class Carrier came awake, and calculated their position relative to the stars.

Inside Sajuuk's Keep, a fury of men were moving about, keeping to their task at hand. It seemed only one man was sitting calmly at the moment, waiting for the main AI to tell them their position, and this was Vice-Admiral Elson. Admiral Elson was a tall man, coming in at 6'4" and weing in at just over 180 pounds, a fit man as well, despite his long 58 years of existance. His short grey beard accentuated the hard lines of hs face, which was one of the most battle-hardened in the fleet. He was hoping for a promotion to Admiral, and have the disgusting Vice- torn from his rank. And this mission, he knew, was a perfect way to do so.

"Vice-Admiral Elson," excalimed the ship's main AI, Melphina, "we are in local Einhauserian space. All systems are nominal, and no irregularities exist inside our ship or the battlegroup. Your orders?"

"Fine, fine," he said, brushing off the status report casually. "Get into contact with Jason Green via known narrow-bandwidth and encryption code C, trade classs. They know that one."

"Yes sir, hailing Einhauserian Earth Space Forces now," Melphina said in as calm a voice as always. In a few moments, a link was established, and soon the Vice-Admiral would be talking sirectly with Jason Green himself, provided he was in his office at the moment, that is.

The swarm had been getting mauled, and that was not a swarm initiative.

Hive ships started to pull towards mars, leaving any wounded slow ships or critially damaged ships behind. They had already lost carrier ships to enemy fire, and boarding actions, so now they headed towards their strongpoint. Mars for a large offensive.

snip

Suddenly he was running, running for his life. The ground was erupting as shells spat from the maws of traitor artillery impacted, and dirt fountained into the air like so much water. Tracer fire ripped past him, and the whistling noise could just barely be heard of the screams of the dying.

The blood-soaked Martian ground made traction perilous, but he made it to the safety of the foxhole. Barely. As he slid down the steep, slick embankment, he noticed that the defenders of this hole were marinating in their own fluids at the bottom. With a grimace of disgust the man turned his attention back to the war.

Enemy forces had surrounded them, cut them off from loyalist defenders. Now the city, and the troopers guarding it, was surrounded. The man snapped off a few pulses with his rifle before flinging himself back into the hole. The return fire of the heretics was swift, and the leading edge of the foxhole became nothing more than ionized particles.

“All Marines, fall back to position 281-736. I repeat, fall back!” said a voice in the comm. bead. Obediently, the man clamored up the banks of the hole and sprinted towards the bombed-out buildings rising like a mold. As he did so, the ground beneath his feet began to roil and churn. The man picked up his pace, willing his armor’s servos to go faster.

Suddenly, three steps behind hi, the ground erupted, spilling out a chitinous horde of death. Fangs, spines, and blades jutted from the sea that boiled from the earth. Something else had arrived on the surface. “Hold your fire! I repeat, do not shoot the creatures coming from the ground!” ordered the voice. Apparently, thought the Marine, there was a new force to contend with on Mars…

* * *

snip

The office was in utter chaos. Orderlies were everywhere, checking starcharts, reading from dataslates, and brewing coffee. Men shouted at each other, arguing over who knows what and demanding to speak to the bloated man/machine hovering in the center of the room. Still, the hover-chair did not even stir, and the man seated in it did not either.

Suddenly the viewscreen on the northern oak-paneled wall changed from the depiction of a pie chart to the head of Vice-Admiral David Elson. The floating figure’s face brightened immediately at the sight of the Vice Admiral.

“Ah, David! So good to see you again! What brings you to Einhauser? And at such a terrible time?”

“Hello Jason,” said Elson. “Its good to see you as well.”

* * *

snip

The gentle glowing of the orbital auspex arrays changed hue from blue to red as they sensed a disturbance in the void. Something was coming to Mars. Something large, and crawling with life.

They immediately sent a message to the loyalist defenders on the surface, their machine spirits hoping that the humans got the message before the enemy was upon them.

The Chronosian fire continued to tear at the stations orbitting Jupitor; fighters dove and roared in the void, one screaming as its cannons aimed at the void shielding about the gas that rose to the stations; bracing itself, it prepared for an upwards impact; hoping to tear up and into the station, igniting the column of gas...

The pilot roared in black and terrible worship; screaming his prayers as he activated his retros; and rocketed forward and up...

Sajuuk's Keep, Einhauserian Space
"Well, Jason, you see, we've heard some troubling rumors of an uprising and an invasion. And I also hear of a Daemon Lord ressurected. This troubles the Hiigaran Empire, and we wish to subdue the unruly foes that challange your throne. If, of course, you let us. Where will we be of most use to you? We have an Agamemnon class Carrier as our flagship, twelve Battlecruisers, twenty-four Destroyers, sixty Flak Frigates, and a host of other Strike-craft. Remember, we do not leave our allies in the dust. Bring our empire to war."

snip

The fighter was pulled up into the jaws of the station, which continued to process the atmosphere of the gas giant below into the precious fuel that drove Einhauser's starships.

The errant starfighter entered the initial chamber, and great compression blades began to tear the insanely dedicated pilot to shreds. Unfortunately, the big blades were designed to compress gas, not solid armor. The blades dulled as they bit deeper into the doomed craft.

That is, at least, until they hit the reactor. The explosion rattled the crystal goblet of the refinery manager all the way up in the heavily shielded main spire. The second explosion however, rattled the blast glass of starships on the other side of the planet.

The void was filled with a harsh light as the fuel deep within the refineries belly ignited in one unholy burst of heat, and for a brief moment there was a second sun in the Sol system.

Ships disintegrated in a wash of flame, the power of hundreds of millions of atomic bombs unleashed upon their hulls. Men died by the thousands, their voices screaming into the warp to meet their dark gods.

The upper atmosphere of Jupiter boiled away in the face of the extreme heat, leaving a noticeable crater in the gaseous planet.

snip

"That is quite the fleet, but I fear it may not be enough. Fully 1/3rd of my fleet of 5,000 have turned traitor, and several additional fleets of unknown origin joined them. Still, if you wish to help, the defenders of Mars could use a hand."

The blood ran like water along the glittering blade of Ragnarok. Paulus lashed out again and again, and killed and killed and killed. It seemed there was no stopping the Daemon in the Marine’s midst, but something had. A small voice in the Daemon Princes helm, and he was gone. In the wake of his teleportation there was only a cold wind, a blow of ash, and a psychic message implanted in every mind within five meters; a bizarre side effect of teleportation.

The message read simply, “to Earth.”

* * *

Deep beneath the surface Earth, below the habitation units and the workshops, below even the mighty factories and mines, there is a massive chamber hewn from the semi-molten rock of the planet’s outer core. In this chamber the laws of nature cease to exist. The horizon is up, the walls are down. Objects float in mid air, and lines seem to go nowhere, and yet everywhere, all at once.

Standing near a river flowing uphill are two men. One is short and covered in mechandrites. The other is tall and wears armor. The short man is the Princeps Maxmimus of Einhauser. The tall man is a Daemon Prince.

“Soon you will see our great accomplishment, Lord Paulus,” says the Princeps, his voice like grinding granite. He shuffled over to the edge of the stream of blood red water and gazed off into the distance, beyond the mountain range clinging to the ceiling, and past a copse of purple trees growing at right angles. If one were to follow his line of sight, one would perceive a faint cloud of dust rising in the distance.

‘Let us hope it is as magnificent as you claim, Gaius,” said the Daemon Prince, addressing the Princeps by his first name, “for your sake.” The cloud of dust grew larger and the ground began to tremble with the shock of many impacts. Shapes began to loom out of the dust cloud. They were huge, and even at this range the two men could see they were easily 35 meters tall.

Trees were crushed under vast metal paws, and great gouges were torn in the bedrock by gleaming metal talons. As the things drew nearer, more detail could be discerned. There were nine of them, the first of their kind. Each was subtly different than the others, but they bore a few things in common. Most had the same armament; a Vulcan Mega-Bolter for the left arm and a Plasma Blast Gun for the right. All nine bore the blue and gold paint scheme that Paulus favored, and were covered in the sign of Tzeentch and prayers to the Lord of Change.

“Are they not magnificent, Lord? Warhound titans, built and corrupted here on Terra,” said Gaius with a note of aw in his voice. Paulus nodded.

“Indeed they are, Princeps,” said Paulus in a low voice. “So these are Warhound titans (http://www.games-workshop.de/home/veranstaltungen/games_day/bilder/chaoswarhound.jpg)…*” The onrushing horde of titans barked and snapped at one another, driven towards the two figures on the riverside by something behind them. As the last Warhound cleared the trees, an immense tracked vehicle ground into sight.

“A herding tank,” said the Princeps, noticing the look of confusion in Paulus’s coal-like eyes. “They are used to move the herds of titans before they are fully possessed. The Daemons that inhabit their hulks cause the Princeps in the titan’s command throne to go insane and a little bit feral until the possession is complete.”

Paulus looked at the tank again. It was much larger than the titans it drove before it, but it seemed to be unarmed. “The bulk of the tank is armor, to protect the crew from vengeful titans,” spake Gaius once more. By now the herd was much, much closer. One of them, a fine specimen, took notice of the two men and turned away from the pack. It lopped towards them in bounding strides, its whip-like tongue lolling out of its fanged maw.

It cleared the stream in a single leap and landed with a graceful slide in the mud. Without hesitation it launched its long tongue out at Paulus’s head. In a flash of motion, the Daemon Prince caught the bewildered titan’s tongue in one hand, holding the slick pink organ inches from his faceplate.

“Why did it not try to shoot me?” asked Paulus of Gaius. The Princeps Maximums stared levelly into the single eye set in the ridged forehead of the titan for a moment before replying.

“We do not bestow ammunition to them until the possession is complete. It prevents…accidents.” The titan strained against the immovable daemonic muscle of the Archfiend of Einhauser, and Paulus grinned. He gave a mighty tug on the long, drool-covered tongue, and the titan came crashing down to one knee. Its single bloodshot eye was locked on Paulus, trying to see some weakness to exploit.

Failing, it lowered its head submissively. “Amazing,” breathed Gaius, “you just tamed a Daemon!” Paulus slowly released the quivering Daemon/titan from his iron-hard grip, and began to examine the monster in earnest. Spikes jutted from every conceivable angle, and organic musculature and bony plates could be seen growing amid the pistons and tubes of the joints. Twin blades extended into the sky from the prominent shoulders, and at the tips of each was the impaled form of what used to be a cultist.

Through some wicked spell, the men continued to live in agony, despite the gigantic blade jutting through their gut. An unnatural amount of blood flowed from their bodies to wash over the hulking frame of the Warhound in a never-ending stream.

“This pleases me,” said Paulus quietly to Gaius, who looked on like a proud parent. “When can we begin mass producing them?”

“As you as you require, Lord. Factories are standing by.”

“Give the order then. Begin production…”

* Please note that the titan in the picture is not quite corrupted to the same level as the ones in the story.

Suddenly he was running, running for his life. The ground was erupting as shells spat from the maws of traitor artillery impacted, and dirt fountained into the air like so much water. Tracer fire ripped past him, and the whistling noise could just barely be heard of the screams of the dying.

The blood-soaked Martian ground made traction perilous, but he made it to the safety of the foxhole. Barely. As he slid down the steep, slick embankment, he noticed that the defenders of this hole were marinating in their own fluids at the bottom. With a grimace of disgust the man turned his attention back to the war.

Enemy forces had surrounded them, cut them off from loyalist defenders. Now the city, and the troopers guarding it, was surrounded. The man snapped off a few pulses with his rifle before flinging himself back into the hole. The return fire of the heretics was swift, and the leading edge of the foxhole became nothing more than ionized particles.

“All Marines, fall back to position 281-736. I repeat, fall back!” said a voice in the comm. bead. Obediently, the man clamored up the banks of the hole and sprinted towards the bombed-out buildings rising like a mold. As he did so, the ground beneath his feet began to roil and churn. The man picked up his pace, willing his armor’s servos to go faster.

Suddenly, three steps behind hi, the ground erupted, spilling out a chitinous horde of death. Fangs, spines, and blades jutted from the sea that boiled from the earth. Something else had arrived on the surface. “Hold your fire! I repeat, do not shoot the creatures coming from the ground!” ordered the voice. Apparently, thought the Marine, there was a new force to contend with on Mars…

* * *

The chitinous shells and grafted plates of the swarm reduced their casualties from the shrapnel and spalling, but a few fell nonetheless, cut down as they breached the surface and advanced on the attackers, they were armed with heavy bolters and lascannon, along with a few larger units bearing Gauss Flayers and Splinter Cannon, they would push the traitors back wityh their massed fire, breaking them up and shattering their formations in a sudden onslaught. The defenders fled before them, but they were unaffected by their erstwhile allies mistrust of them, their purpose was to defend this world, and they would, to their dying breath they would fight, and in death they would drown the enemy in their blood, none survived a battle with the swarm, victor or fallen, all were devestated by the fight, and the deadly acid left behind by the fallen.

The hive ships sped towards their target: Mars.

They made no attempt to slow down as they approached defence ships and platforms. Decoy ships flanked the carrier ships, speeding towards shops and stations to draw fire, while the carriers just tried to ram their way to the surface of Mars.

Jason Green was not happy, and for good reason. Luna was in rebel hands, as well as great portions of Terra and Mars, and the space around Jupiter was a killing ground. Even now his viewscreens depicted the desperate massing of loyal starships behind the gas giant. On the other side, the void was awash with the burning hulks of both Chaos and loyalist ships. Amid the wrecks there lay the massive form of the Chronosian fleet, and the occasional hive ship.

The screens depicting Mars showed a slightly more cheerful image; that of millions of aliens slaughtering Chaos. Perhaps this war is winnable after all, thought Jason.

Fighters whirled and dove over and under the gas giant; their objectives; killing runs upon the stations near to the desperate loyalists. Tearing forth in killing glory, to destroy those ships that threatened their fleet; and maul Jupiter and her space in bloody and terrible ruin. With parting blows of long range missle fire; the fleet tore through space; their destination....Mars.

The Sorcerous Primarch rallied his servants; powerful sorcerors in their own right, and gave them their black and terrible orders...Bring the enemy Death.
The blips of light as they teleported brought a wry smile to his face.
"Let us begin..." Came the cold hiss of the sorceror, as his ships neared Mars. "Begin the infection; cleanse the heretics..."

Drop pods slammed from the ships, tearing though the atmosphere and hurtling into the fray; marines poured forth, bolters roaring, flamers gouting in firey ruin. The Sorceror's faded and shifted amongst their foes; slamming their great spiked staffs against the enemy, and hurling bolts of warp fire at their foes...

it had begun.

The Chaos vessels fired a barrage at the Azahan's; drop pods filled with plgue marines violated flesh, viral bombs slammed into carapace...As the Chronosians let slip Nurgle's Rot.

"That is quite the fleet, but I fear it may not be enough. Fully 1/3rd of my fleet of 5,000 have turned traitor, and several additional fleets of unknown origin joined them.

Still, if you wish to help, the defenders of Mars could use a hand."

To that statement, the Hiigaran Vice-Admiral simply grunted, and offered a calming, reassuring statement. "Jason, it is not numbers, but our lethal weapons, and our skilled tactitians that win our wars. We have had over four-thousand years to perfect the design of our ships. We have brought, I can assure you, more than enough to do the job. In any case, we must be off, as it seems the surrounding martian defenders have their work cut out for them."

He saluted, and cut the link. "Melphina!" he bellowed.

"Yes sir?"

"Make a jump to Mars. And put us a suitable distance away; say half a day. We can accurately asses the situation in that time."

"Yes sir. Making calculations now." Melphina, the more than capable sentient AI of the Hiigaran Navy, was an AI crafted from cloning a human brain, and encoding the most complex AI system into it, and then having nueral links to most ares of the ship as well as the vast nano-computer that was her main source of storing and calculating information. Chemicals made errors; machines didn't. So her calculations were sent to a computer to compile, and when the computer came up with an error, she was sent in to correct it. The system was, quite simply, brilliant. It allowed for a devoted AI with the perfection of a computer, and the inginuity of a hiigaran. Utter genious. However, utterly epensive, as well. This level of AI was found only on Flagships of the Hiigaran empire, and not even the might Battlecruisers possessed such an AI. In any case, she made short work of the calculations, sent them off to the fleet, and ordered the jump. In a matter of seconds, they would be there, sending out preliminary scouts to see what the plan of the defender's was, and how to repel an invasion of Mars.

The ships dropped out of Hyperspace, half a day's steam away, more than far enough from the lethal gravity well that Mars created, not to find bolstered defenders preparing for an attack, but to find the Mars battlenet in utter despondency and disarray. The Mars fleet was attempting, badly, to rally the fleet together and make a single strike against the attack force that had beset the planet only hours ago. Apparently, they didn't take Napolean's lessons to heart. 'Why be weak everywhere? Just be strong somewhere and hope that they go there.'

However, this was no time for reflection. This was time for action. Shortly after exiting hyperspace, long-range sensors came on-line and noticed the war, and now, the invasion of Mars taking place. Mars forces might hold against the Daemon Lord's rebellion, but not with Chaos Marines into the fray. So, they were left with but one choice: exterminate the invading force, and occupy the planet. However, with a mere 80,000 combat-capable Marines, and only 15 mobile fortresses, they were no match for the invading powers. They would need a Marine Carrier, and they'd need one fast. The Vice-Admiral quickly noted this, and sent a Hyperspace communication back to Hiigara.

"Sajuuk's Keep landing on Mars. Need Marines. Hurry."

While they were no match for the invading forces, they did, however, realize that they could clean house with the enemy that was orbiting the planet. While they wouldn't reach them in time to stop the invasion force from landing, they would wreak hell on the ships that had sent them in. The Hiigarans were outnumbered and out-gunned in terms of number of guns, but their weapons possessed far more firepower than anything that the enemy had sent in, at least their preliminary long-range sensors had said. And it was unlikely that the enemy would bring in anything that could match a Hiigaran Battlecruiser or even a Destroyer until it was too late. So they moved ahead, full steam towards the enemy, and prepared to meet them in battle.

(OOC: While my ships are few in number, they are large. This is an evener in my navy; larger, fewer in number ships. My ship's weapons are also based on that principle: Fewer, much more powerful guns. Take my Battle Cruiser for example. It has Five Double-'barreled' turreted Mass Drivers on it. For Five Kilometers of Ship. This is a sickly small ammount of mass-drivers for such a large ship. Why? Because it means that I can devote an enormous ammount of power and space to increasing the calibur and speed (not Rate of Fire, but projectile speed) of these weapons. While other ships are littered with weapons that fire rapidly, it takes several salvos for them to wear down the shields and armor of an opposing ship; my ships are lethally fast in their engagements. While another ship pounds away, my ship can fire usually 2-6 rounds (which can be done in a single salvo) based on the strength of the ship and take a ship's shields down, and punch several, rather large holes in a ship, cracking it in half, usually. Or setting off the engines, which is just as lethal. Now, this isn't a GodMod, as I am vastly outnumbered, and my ships, by comparison to most, have the most piss-pore strikecraft defense in the galaxy. Which is why they rely HEAVILY on their strike-craft brothers purely for guard duty. I'm fielding a 10 km long carrier (which is only called a carrier because it lacks the abylity to make Capital Class ships; it can only repair them), BCs are 5 km, Destroyers are 1 km, and Frigates are usually about 200-250m. Also, my strike craft posess NO shielding of any nature except the electron shield, which only stops anti-matter weaponry and negatively-charged ion cannons (which most are). This is also a vice of my navy. Exploit it. But, I must warn you, my flak frigates are nasty against strikecraft, and I've brought a large number -- 60 -- of them. Which gives you a target to kill first. You can wear down my navy, but unless you've brought a rather large anti-ship force with you (which it seems the force at mars is concentrating on invasion at the moment) you'll probably lose this battle. BUT, these ships can't do shit about your ground forces, and I have only a small ammount of forces I can field on Mars. And, it's going to take quite a while for the Marine Carrier to get here. There's going to be some debate in the Diamid as to wheather or not we want to commit two of our armed forces to this, and the Diamid is notoriously slow in its decision-making. I'm granting you a losing battle, but a winning war. Please take this opportunity.)

:sniper:

Sergeant Jeffrey Vindicaer stomped through the reddish mud towards the squat form of the command bunker. His armor was caked in the Martian mud after a good night of rain a few hours ago, and the fact that he had been stopped seven times by security details did not improve his mood.

He stormed down the stone steps, careful not to let his hand stray anywhere near his gun, which was slung across his back. The guards looked thankful for this, but kept their weapons on him anyway.

There had been reports of Marines entering a command bunker in other sectors, and then killing the entire staff because he was tainted by Chaos. Obviously Vindicaer's commander was a bit smarter than the other lot rampaging across this mudball.

The base of the stairs led out into a long hall with a thick blast door on either side. Jeffrey walked up to the door on the right and entered his code into the yellow painted keypad.

As the door slid back, the guards on either side of the door and the door behind him relaxed slightly. Vindicaer stepped into the bunker, and the heavy door moved with surprising rapidity to seal the gap. He ha to jump out of the way as the metal tried to scythe him open, and the orderlies and secretaries of the various officers stationed here smiled behind their hands, trying to at least preserve his dignity where he had failed.

"Do you have an appointment sergeant?" asked one of the secretaries. Her treatment of him startled Vindicaer, who reflected that this was a warzone, not an office building. Apparently someone forgot to inform the women here, he mused.

"Yes, I'm here to see Major Dunlaw please. Verification code eight-nine-two-zero-zero-six-seven." The secretary looked down at a hidden screen and frowned. She seemed to be searching for something, but the masses of documents piled throughout the otherwise orderly room obscured her face.

"Alright, I have you scheduled for 0800 hours. You are 15 minutes late." Vindicaer shifted uncomfortably as the women vaguely motioned in the general direction of a hallway to her left. He thanked her and began to move forward once more.

As he moved deeper into this maze of hallways and rooms, Jeffrey realized that he had not gotten the room number from the secretary. Then he realized that there were no room numbers. Then he realized that if he closed his gauntleted hand around the wrong handle, the automated gun turrets in the floor and ceiling would kill him.

Just as he was backing out of the latest hall a hand grabbed him from behind. "Ah, Sergeant Vindicaer. So good of you to join me. Come along," said a hulking giant in powered armor. The man stood eleven feet high if he was an inch, and for a moment Vindicaer was confused. He didn’t even know they made armor that large, let alone Marines.

Still, he shuffled after the man, who he had come to the conclusion that he was Major Dunlaw. The various medals and pins next to the rank of Major on the front of the giant's armor seemed to support this, but the man still seemed to need to ram it home.

He turned and thrust out his armored hand. "My name is Major Dunlaw, by the way." Jeffrey smiled didn’t really notice the warm smile from the helmet less Major, mostly because he was trying desperately to remove his augmented hand from the iron grip of the major.

He regained his composure not a moment too soon, as the hulking officer released his hand from a death grip. They continued their way down the hall, occasionally opening a door and peering in. The Major constantly mumbled about being new at the facility, and not exactly sure where his office went.

"Left it here last night. Seems to have gone and walked off on me," he mumbled. The sergeant tried to give an affirmative whenever one was required, but otherwise stayed silent.

After about half an hour of wandering, a secretary from the front room came and politely showed them to the Major's office. Inside sat another Marine, his weapon sitting idly on the desk.

"Ah, there you are! Sergeant Vindicaer, this is Private First Class Charles Calvin, the man you came here to meet." The Private nodded his head slightly and resumed to staring at the floor.

"He's a friend of a higher-up," said the major, leaning in really close so even a marine's super-sensitive ears could not hear him from across a room. "Try to stick him in with a group of veterans, and give him a big gun." Vindicaer nodded, and the Major turned away.

"Now, PFC Calvin, you will be assigned to Sergeant Jeffery Vindicaer. Follow him and he'll give you your equipment and probably shift you off to some other squad." Even as Major Dunlaw said that, he shook his head slowly.

"Right, well then, you had better follow me, I guess," said Vindicaer to his new soldier. He rose from his seat, and the pair, guided by several secretaries, left the building.

"But it makes no sense!" A fist pounded on the table of a small room inside Eshirian Command. A slight blueish haze appeared around clenched hand. The very way the light moved radiated a sense of anger.

"I know sir, but there's no way we could've known..." Responded another voice, this one with a bit of hesitation and a clear sense of fear.

The fist opened and went up to the person's hair, brushing it back, revealing a pair of piercing, blue eyes that shot forth into the nervous officer's very soul. A sweat drop beaded on his forehead. His eyes dipped down from her gaze, and lowered to her desk. A HoloDisplay pronounced the name of the women: C'te Riene, and in bold font under the name read the words, "Diplomatic Core Prime."

"There's not much else we can do sir, the current Einhauser Government is on the verge of losing control of it's own home system. There's already been some criticism from the General Assembly, claiming that we've made a pact with weaklings, idiots."

"I've seen the HoloCast." C'te sighed, and leaned back in her chair. What's the Sov'Forces doing about it?"

The man looked down at his DataPadd. "Uh, they've got authorization from the High Command to mobilize a few fleets, the uh, Hellion, and uh, Far Fleets have got a few deployments. Plus the regional Marine units are being prepped."

"What are they waiting for then?" asked C'te with a slightly annoyed voice.

"Well, they know that we have an envoy out there, right in the Sol system. After the planned negotiations seemed to just vanish, they've been held up there from all the fighti-"

"And they need help getting out? Well, that doesn't answer my question. A rescue would be the Military's concern, and it sounds like they're all ready to go."

The easy conversation had lightened the air in the room, and reporting officer was noticeably more relaxed. "Yes, sir, but they need word from us that the Einhauser Government will let us send military units in there to get them."

C'ten responded simply, "Tell them we'll have word in an hour, dismissed."

"Yes, sir." replied the officer, and he made his way out.

(OOC: Ok, basically, you can assume that an inquiry has been sent to you Ein, and we're waiting for a reply.)

The screen crackled into life in a shower of sparks, motivating Jason to float back a few feet and hurl a wall of curses at the enginseers in blackish blue cloaks huddled together in a mess of wires.

They cowered and adjusted a few more wires, and the screen stabilized. Jason moved into position, using several of his many mechandrites to put out the various fires the sparks set.

"Just got your message, David," Jason paused to insert a wire in one of his cheek nodes. "As much as i appretiate the offer, I think I can hold out down here for awhile. Earth still has a ful orbital defense, and has more ground troops than all the other planets combined. If I need anything, ill call. Okay?"

OOC: I've posted in the OOC thread as Bipedal Apes explaining a bit about this nation.

IC:

“What is that noise?”

The Prefect of Grtelsbourg stalked about his tiny grotto-keep trying to figure out what in aerie blazes was buzzing. The sound had awakened him from hibernation early, much too early, months early, and he was royally-- make that Royally, for he was royalty, was he not?-- pissed.

No one else was about. Sleeping, the bastards. His wife, curse her soul, the Prefectress, could sleep through anything. He’d personally observed her dozing during a concert of the Grand Concertmaster of Bretltown, back when that esteemed position was held by Dingo Metalclanger himself, and no one but no one falls asleep during one of his performances.

So he hardly expected Ignatzia to be dragged from her slumber by a mere constant buzzing that WOULDN’T FREAKING STOP!!

But where were the courtiers? Where the servants? Where the seacows? Even as the Prefect pondered and sought, the buzzing evolved into more of a rumbling, a thudding, roarish sort of rumbling that seemed to come from the ground. That did it. The Prefect swam rapidly to the First Assistant Courtier’s chamber and tossing protocol to the current, kicked open the door.

He needn’t have been so rash; Blitzgarg was awake. Groggy as aerie blazes, but awake. “Wha...? What’s that noise?” The courtier blinked and blonked, looking about as if he’d just been dragged from a three-months’ sleep, which he had, in fact, been. It took him a full half-minute to recognize the Prefect’s presence and remember his place. ”Oh! Your Lordship! My apologies! Is it Eventide already? I should have attended to your awakening...”

“No! Not even close! It’s half past Winterdown at best!”

“Ah,” hedged the courtier, confused. “Your Lordship, if I may venture to ask, what is that--”

“I don’t know what that noise is! But I want to.”

“Yes, your Lordship.” Blitzgarg began dragging himself from the bed, swimming upright and trying to remember where he’d stashed the ceremonial robes before tucking in for the season.

“Seems to be coming from underearth,” the Prefect mused, more or less to himself. The thudding rumblings had receded somewhat, though they occasionally redoubled, as if metallic beasts of monstrous proportions were dancing beneath the ground.

“Underearth?” repeated the courtier. “How could that be?”

The Prefect fixed him with an angry glare. “That’s for you to find out.”

“Yes, your Lordship.”

With a whirl, the Prefect darted through the door. “I’ll be in the throne chamber,” he called as he departed.

Blitzgarg wondered how he was supposed to get beneath the seafloor, and whether it was appropriate to wear ceremonial robes while doing so. Probably best to don them, he decided. If there was digging to be done, it would be by the proles-- and they’d never respect a courtier in his nightclothes.

OOC: Thank you for this opportunity Gremlin dude, this is perfect.

IC:

Deep beneath the sea, farther than man ever dared delve, farther than even the most bizarre outsiders had ever dare go, there was the hive, it had been increasing in size exponentially recently, now they were expanding upward, and while the swarm ran amok on the surface, beneath the sea, there was simply expansion.

Blitzgarg dragged himself into the throne room, looking filthy and bedraggled. “I have come to report,” he said, wondering whether the stains on his robes would ever come out.

“So, what news, courtier?”

The musical voice of Ignatzia caught him by surprise. He had not expected the Prefectress to be awake, and it was a worrisome development; her beauty, acerbic wit, and ability to sleep through anything were equally legend.

“Um… the digging proceeds apace, milady.”

“Meaning what?”

“We have tunneled several miles into the rock, and the sounds become louder the deeper we go. In fact, the reverberations within the tunnel are so great that several proles had to be retired to sickbeds with cases of severely bleeding ears.”

“So send more proles down,” said the Prefect, looking annoyed, irritated, and in a generally foul mood. “We have enough of them.”

“Yes, your lordship, of course. We continue to send fresh proles into the tunnel to continue the digging. But they are becoming restless.”

“Whip them!” shouted Ignatzia. The Prefectress loved nothing so much as ordering a whipping.

“Yes, milady, of course. But you understand, to whip them, while they are digging, would require descending into the tunnel….”

“What are you saying, Blitzgarg, are you afraid of the darkness?”

“No, milady, certainly, no, it’s just that I’d prefer not to be confined to sickbed with profusely bleeding ears, if it’s all the same to you, madam.”

“Hmm. Well, there’s no point in wasting a trained courtier. Here’s what you must do, then. Whip the proles before you send them down. Also, promise them that you will whip them again if they don’t work harder.”

“Yes, milady. I shall see to it immediately.”

“Fine, fine, you’re dismissed,” the Prefect interjected.

Blitzgarg retreated hastily, counting himself lucky for a quick dismissal that came before Ignatzia’s wrath could work itself into a full head of steam. He’d been personally whipped by her on any number of occasions, and it was not an experience he’d enjoyed. But her advice, to whip the proles before sending them into the tunnel, was not likely to have the desired effect. He knew enough from a lifetime of directing the lazy commoners. They were not intelligent enough for so abstract a whipping to be effective; the only way to make it work would be to whip them while they dug. Somehow, Blitzgarg knew, he would have to find a way to venture into the tunnel himself.

“Your lordship?”

“What is it now, Blitzgarg?”

“Not Blitzgarg, your lordship, Grugsmax.”

The Prefect looked up. Indeed, the sniveling cretin groveling before him was not the First Assistant Courtier, but the Second. “I have a headache larger than your entire ego,” the Prefect warned. “So this had better be important.”

“Yes, your lordship. A rancher on the outskirts of Grtelbourg reports something strange above.”

“Above?”

“Above, your lordship.”

“What does he mean, above?” Ignatzia asked.

“I believe, milady, that he means from the aerie blazes.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the Prefect. “There’s nothing up there. That’s like saying something came from beneath the sand.”

Just then, a particularly massive crashing thud from beneath the sand made the entire chamber vibrate.

“Yes, well, dispatch a squadron of tridentiers to examine this new curiosity,” he said, wondering where else things would start coming from today.

“Yes, your lordship, immediately,” groveled Grugsmax, retreating from the room.

It seemed as though something was coming to meet them, so they changed the direction of their tunneling, going towards the sounds of the other workers, not knowing exactly what to expect, but prepared for trouble anyway.

Thud. The sound made Sergeant Jeffrey Vindicaer turn on his heel. The noise almost drowned out the tiny metallic crack, and he would have missed it, had be not seen it flying through the air. Time stood still as the Frisbee-sized metal object came to rest behind their position. Vindicaer’s blood ran cold.

“Move!” he screamed into his vox with all his might. There was no time think about where to go. The only clear option was around the corner of the cramped, low-ceilinged tunnel his squad was in, which was currently controlled by the very same heretical force that had just flung the weapon at them.

The Marine squad reacted instantly, rushing the corridor and galloping into the stream of Chaos ordinance. What awaited them in their old position was far worse then dieing. They ran as fast as they could, ignoring the direct hits being scored against them.

Vindicaer launched himself into the air, rebounded off a crumbling metal wall, bounced off the ceiling, and landed behind the enemy. The rest of his squad joined him. 1.6 seconds had passed since he had told them to move. And that was just barely good enough.

For a brief instant, the world ceased to exist. All sound, light, and feeling were stolen from the members of Vindicaer’s squad. They were thrust into a world of utter nothingness, with absolutely no sense of being whatsoever. But, just as quickly as it had come, the flash and nothingness were gone.

The squad’s old position no longer existed. The thrice-damned mini-thermal detonator had seen to that. The accursed spells cast upon it during its construction, no doubt in a violated factory in the heart of this blemished world, had allowed the device to litteraly rip a gash through time and space, allowing the Empryeon to flow into the materium.

Had Vindicaer not spotted the detonator, they would all have been dragged into the obscene layer of madness where unspeakable horrors lay awaiting, only to have their souls raped and consumed by the Chaos deities that reigned within.

As it were, only one of the heretics, who was stupid enough to be close to the detonation, was devoured by the blast, sent to meet his eternal masters. The other six cultists remained behind the makeshift barricade, temporarily stunned.

The squad never gaze them a chance to recover. After the bloody mess was finished- 0.8 seconds after the blast, Vindicaer noted with satisfaction- the men of Ripwing Squad, and their leader, Jeffery, mentally thanked Jason Green for providing their genetically engineered bodies the super-fast recovery skills of a Marine.

“Resume sweep of habitation block 8C. Pattern Delphi,” commanded the sergeant. Ripwing squad moved as ordered, following the Delphi pattern of movement and covering lanes of fire so well that it looked they had done it all their lives. Which, in fact, they had. They advanced down the halls, deeper in heretic-held territory

PFC Calvin charged over small hill straight into a group of attacking chaos marines. The rest of his squad had been wipped out by a grenade volley that appeared out of nowhere and he had been left with two choices. Try to hold their meek defensive perimeter and be killed eventually, or rush the advancing chaos forces and try to kill as many as he could before dying. He prefered the second option. So, he had grabbed several extra clips of ammo, five grenades, and a plasmatic saber.

So, here he was, charging a group of chaos marines, probobly to his death. He would worry about that later. He slammed his armored shoulder into the first marines face, and feeling things break, he left him. He dropped down to one knee and blasted a spray shots all over the marines in his path. He ejected his spent clip and smacked a new one into place with a satisfying *click*. Perhaps he would live through this after all.

The air was so thick you could cut it with a plasma sword. It clung to the greenish glassteel of the spaceport like some kind of evil fog. It limited visibility to a few meters at best, and made moving an extreme exercise. It was deadly, if you were to breathe it in, but thankfully the Marines stationed at Hartford starport had extensive filters in their powered armor.

As PFC Njord “Jarl” Ericsson paced through the mist he reflected on said good fortune. If that’s the only good thing going for us today, we’re in trouble, he thought to himself. They had lost contact with the advanced scouting force that had been sent into the gloomy tunnels leading down into the surface nearly an hour ago.

Out of habit he keyed his vox once. There would be no answer, he knew, but apparently someone forgot to tell that to the person on the other end. The vox crackled into life the moment he released the key, and a low hissing moan grated over the line.

Jarl’s heart skipped a beat. “Hello?” he asked tentatively. This time there was silence. Slightly confused, Njord paced over to Sergeant Hakon, who was reclining against the flank of one of the might anti-aircraft guns that ringed the strategic position.

“Sir! Message just came across the vox, sir!” shouted Njord, his spine ramrod stiff. The Sergeant looked at him with what might have been boredom. Jarl couldn’t tell beneath the armored faceplate of the TAP armor.

“What was the message?” he asked.

“Just a hiss, sir. It sounded like a very large Naga,” said Njord. A Naga was a deadly creature accidentally bred by Einhauserian scientists a few years back. A cross between a venomous snake and a bear, Njord seemed to recall.

“Can’t be. Sure it wasn’t static?” he asked the private, who nodded vigorously.

“I am sure, sir! The communication had all the signs of being keyed into a vox unit, and the tags that accompanied it were in the possession of an Einhauserian squad.” The grizzled sergeant nodded thoughtfully.

“Must be one of the jokers in second squad. Guess we had better go meet them at the mouth of the tunnel, eh Private?”

“Sir, with all due respect, should we not notify HQ, what with all the heretics running around lately?” The sergeant laughed; a scrapping, joyless sound, scrubbed clean of all emotion by the speaker system in his armor.

“Now why would I do that? It’s just one squad; they don’t need a parade to welcome them home.”

“That’s not what I meant sir. I meant-"

“I know what you meant, but I don’t care. Now come on, let’s go meet them.” With that, Sergeant Hakon strode off into the mists. Despite his misgivings, Private Ericsson followed. They found their way over to the gaping hole where the maglevs used to emerge onto the surface. The magnetic fields that had once powered the mighty trains had been extinguished in this sector, and so now the extensive tunnel system was traversed on foot.

The two Marines nodded to the other guards that manned the barricades around the mouth, and settled in to await their comrades. After a few minutes of tedium, Njord thought he heard a slight sound. Apparently none of the others had heard it, so Jarl went back to being bored.

A few minutes later, the sound came again, only louder. This time, however, the others seemed to notice. “That’s the same noise that came over the vox, sir,” said Jarl. Sergeant Hakon nodded and stared intently into the blackness of the tunnel. Despite the several vision modes available to the Marines via their helmets, nothing could be seen in the tunnel.

The noise came again, but sounded as if it was right on top of them. The hissing stopped short, as if something was taking in a deep breath. “Huh… wonder what tha-" Sergeant Hakon started to say. A long, flailing piece of something shot out of the tunnel and wrapped around the burly Marine, dragging him with ease into the darkness.

As the terrified guards watched, the screaming man was pulled into the jaws of a massive nothing, and invisible jaws at least six feet long bit him in half. The screams abruptly stopped, only to be replaced with the sounds of gunfire. The Marines had finally reacted, firing blindly into the tunnel mouth. Something within barked and dropped its cloak.

Jarl gasped. No more than ten meters down the tunnel stood a hulking daemon, its jaws slick with the blood of a fallen Marine. It barked again and pointed its stubby left arm at them. A chittering boom echoed down the corridor as shells the size of Njord’s forearm ate the thick glassteel from under the very feet of the defending Marines.

Several screamed as they were torn in half by the mighty Vulcan Mega Bolters evaporated their cover. Others tried to flee, only to meet the same fate. Suddenly there were four more of the monstrosities in the tunnel, which soon added their firepower to the uneven fight. Jarl realized that he would die any moment now, if he did not do something. Anything.

Coming to a snap decision, he fired off an entire battery of pulse rounds, and as the deadly shells screamed towards him, he feigned a hit and fell backwards. His body joined those of the rest of the defenders, awash in a pool of their own vital fluids.

The monsters roared and thudded out of the cave and onto the surface. Their mega bolters decimated a nearby building, shattering its walls and flaying the inhabitants. An anti-aircraft gun swiveled and depressed to try and get a shot off, but the lead daemon pointed the barrel of its right arm at the gun. Moments later there was a flash and the entire section of wall was gone. The beast lowered the Plasma Blast Gun to its side and continued the slaughter.

Njord saw his chance when one of the daemon machines moved close to his position. Throwing caution to the wind, he tugged a grenade from his belt and ran towards the titan. He knew that if he could get the grenade into the knee joint, the creature would fall. All titans had to have knee joints, or so he had been taught.

As he ran, another nearby Warhound noticed him and casually sprayed a hellstorm of shells his way. They passed clean through the armor, flesh, and bone of his legs and continued to shred the surface of the starport beneath them. Njord collapsed and screamed in shocked pain as lances of jagged glassteel pierced his armor.

Blood poured from his wounds, and for a moment he blacked out. His armor’s undamaged upper torso knew that if he were to black out for long, he would die, so it administered a slight shock to his heart. That woke him up.

Njord’s vision swam, and for a moment he could see nothing. Then, like a golden arrow pointing him in the right direction, the leg of the titan reappeared. Suddenly Jarl had purpose; a last thing to do before he succumbed to his injuries. With a supreme burst of will, he clawed his way towards the beast, digging his fingers into the ground so hard the armor cracked.

As he neared, however, a problem arose. There was no knee joint. Where there should have been, sickly green flesh had grown, preventing him from placing his grenade. “No!” he shouted. He realized now, just before the Warhound took a step back and crushed him, that the Chaos machines now had the spaceport. They were free to roam the system. And he knew they would.