P E R F E C T I O N · F A I T H · F U R Y
The strategium aboard the Merciless hummed with the low thrum of the ship’s plasma drives as the hololith flickered through displays of Beta-Garmon’s inner systems. Felix Andronicus stood with the posture of a duelist, his Tartaros plate enameled in the purple and gold of the Emperor’s Children, each surface polished to a mirror sheen despite the bulk of the ancient armor. Phoenix Guard heraldry gleamed on his shoulder—a mark of ‘honor’ earned in the killing fields of Isstvan V. He studied the data-streams with his quick, curious violet eyes. Beside him, Bael Ashur of the Word Bearers seemed almost drab by comparison, his armor inscribed with Colchisian scripture that writhed in the dim light. Kol stood apart from both, his chalk-white plate still streaked with promethium burn and dried blood from his last drop assault. His hands, as always, shook.
“The Nineteenth withdrew from Theta Station four hours ago,” Felix said, his voice carrying the refined accent of Chemos’s finest. He gestured to the hololith. “Pursued by our void superiority. Corax’s sons are… diminished. The Twelth shattered them on Nyctos VII—dragged them out of their shadows and into the red work.” He glanced at Kol with something resembling professional respect. “Now they harry our flanks but lack the strength to truly commit.” He smiled, and there was something predatory in it, something that had nothing to do with tactics. “Shame. I had hoped to test myself against their Furies before your brothers got to them. A challenge would have been… interesting.”
Bael Ashur’s eyes never left the tactical display, but his voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. “They flee because the gods ordained their defeat. The Urizen has shown us the truth—all victories are written in the warp before they are written in blood.” Speaking that last word too slowly, he turned his gaze to Felix, something moving behind his eyes. “Your hunger for perfection serves the Prince of Pleasure whether you name him or not, brother. All roads lead to Chaos. Even your-“ Kol’s growl cut through the theological discussion like a chainaxe through flesh. “Don’t care… about gods. Don’t care… about ravens running.”
His words came hard, forced past the Nails’ internal howl. The hololith shifted, and new data cascaded across its surface—intelligence from the frontier mining worlds, reports of Salamanders fortifying Forge-World Accatran after their mauling by the Thousand Sons. Vulkan’s sons, burning everything they couldn’t hold, scattered and wounded. Felix’s smile took on a darker edge. “The Eighteenth are however more problematic than the Nineteenth, even diminished. They don’t retreat. They fortify, burn, and die where they stand. The Fifteenth broke them in the outskirts of the Mordax sector, yet still they cling to Accatran like a limpet mine. Our forces have lost two companies trying to pry them from the southern continent alone.”
Bael Ashur nodded slowly. “Victims. Martyrs. They think suffering ennobles them, that dying for the Emperor grants them meaning. They don’t understand that suffering is its own god now, that every drop of their blood feeds powers they deny exist.” He paused, his augmetic fingers tracing the script on his vambrace. “Let them burn. Let them scream. Their faith is wasted on a dead dream, but their agony… that has purpose.” Kol’s trembling hand shot out and stabbed at the hololith, targeting Accatran. “Then send… me. Send us. World Eaters don’t… besiege. We take. We kill. Salamanders want… to die?” His teeth were bared now, blood running from his gums where he’d ground his teeth. “We’ll… oblige them. Show them… what martyrdom… really costs.” Felix regarded him with something between pity and fascination, as if Kol were a sculpture not quite finished—brutal in it’s edges and effective, but lacking the refinement and perfection he himself strove for. “Perhaps,” he said carefully. “The Salamanders fight defensively—bunkers, flamers, interlocking kill zones. They’ve turned Accatran’s southern continent into a fortress. Your strength is in the assault, brother, but what happens when the enemy refuses to meet you in the open? When they make you come to them, slowly, through prepared ground?” The question was tactical, pragmatic. Bael Ashur smiled, and it was the smile of a prophet watching prophecy unfold. “The gods care not from where the blood flows,” he murmured. “Only that it flows.”
I finished two characters for the Word Bearers and Emperor’s Children to lead some allied forces for the XII. Now they have names! :)