Chapters

'Ere we go
Feasts of war
Treads and Stones
Lunam suprema
Xenophobia
Wooded Iron
Weighted words

'Ere we go
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Lament and an emerald tide

'Ere we go

The stars are off, the usually perfect celestial ballet has been disrupted by a set of several objects, having emerged into the sky in unnatural, short-lived nebulae. A tightly bound cluster of various sizes and shapes on one side of the sky, and a far more consistent and measured group of shapes on the other. The real worrying thing is the approach of the ragtag cluster, a dozen clumps of what are thought to be large stones. The four princesses have come together to confer, numerous large stones coming at high speed towards the world is pretty good grounds for a crisis state.

Princess twilight has already pulled out astronomy books, records of millennia of celestial movement and shifts by a hundred different authors. So far, these had been determined to not be a recurring pattern, at least one that occurs more often than two millennia prominently to be noted. The four royal ponies had already reached the point of frustration. Celestia’s initial attempt to push the rocks away had failed, not due to her not having enough power, or it being repulsed or countered. Her magic just, didn’t work, period. That was what concerned her enough to call the other Alicorns. The best mathematics accessible to the ponies said that these objects will arrive at equestria in around a day. At this point, the four are silent, busy thinking of their own solutions. Eventually, Luna broke the silence.

“If we are to stop these stones, we must come up with a solution at some nearby point! what if they strike our lands? what if they strike Canterlot?!” She stomps her hooves on the table, rage and frustration flaring behind her teal eyes. Two days without sleep have made her speech far less elegant than usual. The others remain quiet, after a moment Celestia volunteers a response.

“Luna, if it were that easy, we would already have cast those stones away. And even if they get to our world, we believe that they will miss by tens of thousands of miles. We’re only trying to prevent the worst possibility. Unless you have a useful suggestion, please keep it to yourself, we’re thinking the same thing, regarding the need for rapid action.” Luna leans back, still grumbling. Twilight then picks up the slack.

“I personally think that we should address the elephant in the room” All eyes turn to the youngest among them. “Why were these stones immune to Celestia’s magic? Could it be that they are influenced by some sort of great power beyond our knowledge? Perhaps another ploy of Discord’s?” The young alicorn never really grew to trust the entity whose entire being was by nature, chaotic and unpredictable.

“He’s strong, but not so strong as to render my magic irrelevant, in short, if it’s magic, it’s too strong to be him. That, and since when would discord meddle in this subtle a fashion?” Celestia replies, keeping her voice level in spite of the displeasure building behind it, like a solar flare kept in check by a strong magnet. SHe continues after a few moments. “I suggest we call it a night, and allow our minds to rest, we have all of tomorrow to figure this out.” With that, the sun princess exits, flanked by two of her guards, and followed by dagger-stares from Luna and Twilight.

The other three look to one another. Cadence, whose expertise was governance and diplomacy silently retired, leaving the princess of night and the princess willing to forgo sleep in favor of study to work on a potential solution. Twilight sighs, looking over the many thousands of pages still to go over before a definitive conclusion could be reached. Luna looked through the telescope, staring at the cluster of stones. The other set of objects were still too far to discern what they were, except that they were behaving a lot more predictably than the rocks, and will arrive in orbit above epona in around a week. She thinks of what these could bring, other than a spectacular show as they skim above the surface, or a mighty set of craters if they were to strike, which is the worst possible thing.

Luna looks to twilight, concern in her eyes. Not for many millennia has anything this unusual happened in the sky. The violet princess continues working, poring over three tomes at once at breakneck speed. Luna sighs, she was never one for the scholarly arts, she was a warrior and ruler, content to leave the books to those more qualified. Alas, with equestria being a far less warlike place since her return several years prior, her knowledge of the waging of war is practically useless, with the exception of small skirmishes with the remnants of the changeling army and parades to show off the latest in equestrian craftsmanship. Even modern dreams were different. The old fears of the night had been cast out by Equestria and thus, her job as warden of dreams had been somewhat rendered redundant.

Twilight lets out a groan of frustration as another book proves to lack the precedent for this astronomical event. Several scrolls had arrived from various observatories and other governments of the world in the few days since the arrival of the mysteries bodies in the sky. Their contents were much the same across the board, they had no idea where they had come from or what exactly was bringing them on a collision course with their homeworld. She looks up to the dark blue alicorn at the window, wondering what she thinks of all this. The room is utterly silent but for the sounds of papers shifting. Luna finally breaks the silence, her voice softly filling the air.

“Twilight, what if we don’t figure it out, and the worst comes to pass?” Luna doesn't say what the worst is, but Twilight can hazard a guess, given the situation.

“You act as if that’s a possibility.” Twilight replies offhoofedly as she continues to read, but her voice betrayed her uncertainty, It was no coincidence that she’d sent all the elements of harmony to different corners of Equestria to investigate a series of odd shooting stars, if one stone struck the land, it would be terrible if Equestria’s best force were wiped to a mare. With a sigh, Luna looks back to the telescope, all she knew was that there was a great malevolence from these things, and they were coming closer. It wasn’t improved by the distant voice that it seemed every unicorn had been hearing, sounding like a choir miles away, and growing slowly stronger...

Meanwhile, a million miles away, the roks and ships teemed with energy in their orbits around the space hulk, their occupants excited for what was to come. The small fleet, with a selection of kill kroozas and other such craft steamed toward the green dot in the distance, the weirdboyz had said that there would be a good scrap, and what else would please an ork more than a good scrap. The mob needed more loot anyway. On the bridge of the space hulk, sat the leaders of this horde of impending doom. Sitting with one hand on the wheel and the other on a comically large gun was the meklord, Graknar steeljaw. He’d been at the head of his warband for a total of five terran years, an impressive time by ork standards. He is a monster of an ork, standing at a full fifteen feet high if he didn’t slouch, which means he’s effectively twelve feet tall. A jaunty tricorn sits on his head, the felted material of the body having once been an imperial general’s furred overcoat, and the plume of metal feathers having been created from spare strips of space marine power armor left over after he’d looted it from the fields at Armageddon. He had been kicked out of his original band for the usual reasons, being too rich, show-offy and generally a git for the liking of his old boss.

Thus, he became a Freeboota, like most cast off like in that manner. His outfit shows it, being ornamented with both trophies of victory like stolen imperial medals and helmets and tools of his trade, like a wrench and hammer that he uses for both working on his prized machines and whacking the occasional gobbo who zogs up the machines he holds so dear. His squig-leather gauntlets are so encrusted with oil and grime as to be thought to be black rather than their original light brown. His lower jaw had been maimed in a rather humorous accident at one point, and has been replaced with an armored hunk of metal, rusting in some places from close, constant contact with the ork. He scratches at his jaw, looking over his crew, most of whom were working at inscrutable machines in the bridge, apart from his meganob guards and the other giant of an ork sitting in a somewhat shorter throne. He is the muscle of the mob, Grombrig Rokfist. The mega-armored ork taps one of the fingers of his klaw on the armrest of his seat, leaving slight dents in the riveted metal. The other arm terminates in a large kombi-shoota, The large ork is staring out the front window of the bridge, staring straight at the small planet in front of them. Above his head rises his bosspoles, which bear skulls and trinkets of war. He angrily chews on a bone left from his last meal, it’s been awhile since his last scrap.

The Big Mek Kaptain leans back a bit, before getting a brilliant Idea to rile up the boyz. He pulls on the horn, sending a deep klaxon call through the hulk, and the accompanying roks and ships. Then, with one gloved fist, he smashes down on a big red button next to his seat, the one labeled ‘GOBBOS ZOG OFF’, a small smile on his face as the boosters roar to life, accelerating the ship to nearly double its original speed. With the boost of speed underway, the sounds of cheering seeped through the shoddy metal walls, a chorus of raw orkish energy just waiting to be unlocked.

Graknar stands, adjusting his ragged coat as he turns and stalks down the bridge, followed by a small gang of Gretchtin and his five Meganob bodyguards. There were more than six suits of the armor in the warband, but these five and Grombrig were the only ones he trusted to be unsupervised near him with their several-ton armored suits. He proceeds to a lift, looking more fit for light cargo than the giant ork and his retinue of light tanks with legs. Yet, it works, groaning its way down into the depths of the hulk, to his workshop. This is the place where he feels most comfortable. The massive workshop, at the heart of the hulk, is around the size of a several large aircraft hangars stuck together, and the roof extended deep into darkness, as did some of the giants standing within. The Mekboss steps out into the hubbub of activity, his mekboyz and their grots scurrying to get the new weapons ready for war in around a terran day. These preparations ranged from loading shells into the massive racks of battlewagons with improbably large cannons to fueling various aircrafts and mounting the teeth to the massive chain blades wielded by the hundred meter walkers that Graknar loves so much.

He proceeds to his favorite section, where the paintjobs and final implantations were being done on the walkers, ranging from killa kanz with their Grot pilots to the gargants commanded by some of the best nobs of the mob. He proceeds forth to the end of the row, to a beast that the normal line gargants barely reach the top of the legs of, his personal Gargant, Da Iron Fist of Mork. The monstrous walker looms up into the darkness, many colored riveted patches of metal illuminated by the incandescent glows of tesla coils, energy cells and the welding as the final touches were being put on it. The face of the machine flashes into view from arcing electricity, teeth the size of men and one eye bearing the energy weapon known as the eye of mork were the most prominent features, apart from the iron tricorne. One cannot have a gargant without a proper hat, and the replica of his own hat, situated as both armor and a sensor array was right flash on top of the giant machine. The boss allows himself a long-toothed smile, the pride of his army, and his steed standing before him. He steps onto a scaffold near the base of the giant machine. The boards groan in protest under his immense weight. An improvised megaphone carried by his grots is handed to him, and The ork coughs into it to get attention, this predictably fails, so he does the logical next step in this procedure.

“OI, YA GITZ, I WANNA GIVE A SPEECH ‘ERE” He lets off a burst of shoota fire into the air to punctuate his statement. Most of the greenskins of the workshop give their attention, now that they know the boss is present.

He continues, looking over the crowd “See, wuz dat sooo hard, now, I know we’s in a dry spell of krumpin gitz, i’m first to admit that it iz zogging terrible, but in roundabouts half a day, that’ll change. For once, da weirdboyz actually made a good prophecy, theyz said that a good scrap wuz on da way, and well, i see a little green world ripe for war and plunder, all to ourselves for once, no thraka to take it, no bigger boss to steal our loot. Think about it ladz, a world’s worth of scrap and slaves all to us! Ain’t that a great thing?” He’s answered by a tide of cheering orks, many accidentally clobbering their grots in their excitement. He allows this to fade before proceeding.

“Now, I don’t know about youze boyz, but I’m not seeing the results I’d expect with such a hard deadline. I want my dreads and gargants ready for war by the time da roks with their tellyportaz hit the planet, I wanna personally see the look in da eyes of our foes when Mork’s Fist hits em! If they’re not ready at that time, I will find the slowest mekboyz here and personally rip their ‘eads off and shove ‘em down their throats!” The boss looks over the orks, most of whom are returning to work hurridly, lest they end up having the threat carried out against them, be it loading a big shoota on a battlewagon, welding a jet engine into a blitza-bomma or painting up a Gargant in the back. The ork begins to laugh, a deep, crass sound bubbling from his muscled depths. It devolves into a full-blown cackle as he looks over the assembled dakka being prepared for war. It’s always been a great thing, being the boss.

Feasts of war
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Lament and an emerald tide

Feasts of war

As the orks steam forward at their reckless pace across the void, another force anticipating some sort of battle slowly followed. The Lamenters at full chapter strength, of course, full strength is about two hundred marines and a smattering of dreadnaughts due to their penitent crusade. Accompanying them are the only imperial guardsmen mad enough and available in large enough quantities to accompany the Lamenters as their meatshields and general purpose troops: A six million strong group of Death Korps of Krieg troopers, fresh from the vats, or bunkers or wherever so many men came from in an atomic wasteland they call their homeworld. In addition is the remnants of the Lamenters fleet, a trio of strike cruisers and their battle barge Scourge of apostates, bearing the scars of recent battles with the tyrannic threat. For a rare moment, all of the marines have been assembled into the great hall aboard the Scourge.

As they steam across the system towards the planet their librarians had found important within the imperial tarot, the marines celebrate sanguinala, a holiday especially dear to them, given that the blood of the holy sanguinius pumps through their superhuman veins. The paltry two hundred and change marines fill barely a fifth of the hall designed to accommodate a thousand of the Emperor’s finest, their deep yellow armor or white robes, depending on what rites of practice they’d done that day contrasting with the grey floors and brown tables of the room. Seated at the front, at a great table raised above the rest sat their chapter officers, from the three remaining chaplains and the four living librarians, to their three remaining captains, one of whom is garbed in one of the few chapter relics not stolen during the Badab war, an ancient suit of cataphractii armor, thought to have been used during the horus Heresy. Highest among them, seated at an intricately detailed throne dead center of the high table sits Chapter Master Malakim Phoros, his gilded artificer armor glinting in the low light of the chandeliers, his glaive encarmine placed next to his seat, leaning on the table. The ornately decorated two handed sword's scabbard bears inscriptions of the history of the Lamenters.

Once most of the marines had finished their meals, chapter serfs running to and fro to attend to the wine glasses of their masters, Malakim stands, banging the table with one gauntleted fist to garner the attention of his fellow marines. They look up, most of them bearing the heavy scars of their eighty-eight year crusade. In a deep, melodious voice typical of any of the sons of sanguinius, he begins to speak.

“My Brethren, yet another standard year has passed, and we stand still a little fewer. But standing we are. I know we all lost some truly great brothers in the last battles, but we are still here. We were deceived by the astral claws, waged the badab war and still we stand. The minotaurs sacked out armories, and we still stand, and hopefully, we will personally execute a kill order upon those bloodthirsty maniacs and then we shall have our relics once more!” Several cries of ‘hear, hear’ reverberated through the hall at the promise of vengeance, all of the marines present were alive back during that cursed day. He continues once the crowd settles once more.

“In addition, we are but twelve years from the end of our penitent crusade, and then, only then, we may finally return to our true glory, and burn the enemies of man from the skies for once and for all!” His voice rises, Phoros was one of the few people in the imperium with idealism at his heart and it shows.

“We are blessed to aid another world soon, on this most holy of holidays, a sign has come to our librarians that our stop in this system was not merely a warp drive cooldown, but was serendipitous. Initial probes have found that the world is a feudal world, with a large psyker population, and minimal militarization, and it shall be soon beset by greenskins. We estimate that they will last approximately a terran month before the planet is totally stripped of anything the orks want, and the populace is annihilated. As the angels of the Emperor, we cannot stand for that!. In our holy crusade, we have been blessed to have been granted allies in this fight, in the form of the noble soldiers of Krieg” Even the youngest marine knew the contempt the chapter master was keeping under wraps. The wasteful grinding nature of the kriegites was directly opposed to his view that human life is the greatest blessing bestowed upon the galaxy. Of course, since they agreed to help, he wouldn’t hold it against them.

“On this great day of sanguinala, I ask that we remember our fallen brothers, that we remember the fallen of the imperium, and above all, the sacrifice of our spiritual father, whose sacrifice brought an end to the Horus Heresy once and for all! May the emperor protect, brothers, and may he deliver us once more through battle, if not, may our deaths be noble and in defense of those who cannot defend themselves, tonight, like many nights, we cry out, like our forefathers have, FOR THOSE WE CHERISH, WE DIE IN GLORY!” At his recitation of the Chapter’s battle cry, the lamenters come to their feet, clapping, a mixture of the soft sounds of ungloved hands and the roar of ceramite-clad fists. The chant was repeated in two hundred throats, a litany of duty, honor and fealty to the people of the imperium. Phoros sits back down, his artificer armor nearly silent in its descent as the after-dinner drinks were brought out. Phoros holds out his wine glass, a serf pouring the blood-red wine into his glass. The first company captain stands, raising his own glass, now brimming with crimson wine.

“A toast, to the Imperium, to Phoros, to Sanguinius, and to the Emperor!” Most of the marines present answered the toast, raising their glasses and drinking deeply, including Phoros. The captain looks over to his superior officer. He’s the de facto heir to the master’s seat, and he’s certainly being groomed to do the job. He begins to speak, quietly, to Phoros.

“Are you sure that we’re going to be able to defend this world, Malakim? I know that we are the sons of sanguinius, but our men are worn out, their equipment is still undergoing maintenance, hell, the thunderhawks are still being cleaned from the last battle, and you believe us and a small death korps group can stop a space hulk worth of Orks?”

“It doesn’t matter if we can, Jonah, it only matters that we try, it’s the rules our forefathers set down, and I’m not going to leave another world burned in the wake of a greenskin stampede, one which we can crush in its cradle. In four days time we will enter combat range and two days after that we will be able to make planetfall. I’ve already had the techmarines start awakening the dreadnaughts we hadn’t yet awakened for the feast in preparation for battle” He gestures around the room at the ancient war machines, standing sleepily at the edges of the room, those whose helmets lay exposed were glancing around. A few marines were giving them company, hearing stories in exchange for news of events since their last awakening.

“And the ones who are awake are going to stay that way.”

“Have you tried hailing the planet again, sir?”

“Yes, but again, they do not answer, the astropathic choir is broadcasting the message that help is on the way to them, but I’m not sure if they’re getting it.”

“Did you try transmitting in low gothic? Perhaps their psykers don’t know high gothic?”

Malakim Phoros looks at the captain, as if he’d just said something that made the older marine look really stupid...which is exactly the case. Malakim calls over a chapter serf and grants him his orders, sending the young man scampering off into the ship to have the choir change its tune, perhaps that will work to gain an understanding between the feudals and the imperium. He leans back, looking over his chapter, a small splinter of bloodlust driving the corner of his mouth upwards. Whatever happens in a week’s time, there will be blood, and perhaps, another step forth in the path of redemption. The marines start to file out of the hall. The chapter master gazes out the window across the void, eyes firmly planted on the world, currently designated as LMTKG-14532. The locals will probably provide a shorter, more efficient name once planetfall is made. A serf comes running in, kneeling before Phoros.
“m’lord, we've made contact.”
“good, inform them of their dilemma, i'll be on the bridge in a moment to direct discussions of defensive coordination.” he stands to his full eight feet, exiting the now-quiet hall.

Celestia bolts up in her bed, it bad only been an hour since she retired, but the sounds had woken her up. The chanting that has afflicted every unicorn has suddenly become comprehensible. They are difficult to understand, especially in her groggy state, but understandable they are. And the message has started to get clearer. Enough to realize that it's on repeat.

“citizens of LMTKG-14532, the lamenters chapter of the Adeptus Astartes has arrived in your system. In addition we are accompanied by several divisions of the Krieg siege fighters. We arrived in your system quite by accident, but have committed to combat, as your world is about to be beset by greenskins, please respond in order to allow for coordination. We will arrive in orbit in six terran days and make planetfall at that time. We estimate that there are only eleven hours prior to orkish arrival in your orbit, and only twelve before orkish planetfall. May the emperor Grant you strength -Malakim Phoros, Chapter master of the Lamenters and Lord commander of the Lamenters-Krieg outskirts crusade.”

That was the message that took four repetitions for Celestia to understand in her groggy state. Once she understood the message, she let out air through her lips. Her first question would be ‘What is a greenskin?’ followed by ‘WHO ARE THESE GUYS?’ of course, her first concern was the idea of an impending invasion. The sound of rapidly approaching hooves outside indicates she isn’t the only one who’s heard and interpreted the message in the new language. After a moment, Twilight bursts through the gilded doors to the bedroom, revealing the two unicorn guards outside the room, rubbing their foreheads, obviously irritated by the now comprehensible message. The princess of Friendship has a parchment sheet in her magic, and has presumably transcribed the message onto it if the hastily written paragraph is any indication. Outside, barked orders could be heard down the hall, along with the distant clopping of dozens of guards running.

“Princess, I presume you know this, but, the singing just became understandable, and the approaching objects just sped up, they’ll arrive by noon, and the message confirms this, and...and.” Twilight fiddles with the quill in her magic, at a loss for words for once. The very idea of alien invasion was, well, alien to the young pony, looking less like a major political figure and more like the terrified young mare she is. Her voice betrays the very same, in spite of her attempt to keep composure. Celestia looks out the window, the cluster of unnatural stars shining in the night sky exactly where one would expect them.

“I’m presuming Luna’s already begun to activate the militias and mobilize the Guard?” Celestia looks back to Twilight, a slight smile playing across her features. “For, if she has, I believe whatever these Greenskins are, they will not be on our world long.” Celestia allows the smile to spread, reassuring the younger princess, of course, internally, she’s analyzing how long a spaceborne threat that has resistance to magic would take to level Equestria. Her calculations aren’t confidant. Come dawn, Celestia will make a formal declaration on the matter

Meanwhile, as the White and Violet Princesses confer, The Midnight blue alicorn of night is already readying her war room. The small figurines Representing units of guard, militia units and other assets have been pulled from their storage boxes. A box of squares to represent enemies lay at the end of the table. Until they come planetside, she’d be unable to predict their locations. Thus, the mustering orders had the troops march to transportation hubs initially, with the mustering areas being The train stations at Manehattan, Baltimare, Fillydelphia and Canterlot. Luna had already ordered the guard to ready for war, the ten Captains of the household guard had already gone off to prepare their troops. She frowns at the table, this being one the first times she’s had the time to look over the full force composition of Equestria. It wasn’t good, in the days of yore, the Equestrian army was a force to be reckoned with, a million strong and ready to defeat any foe.

Now, it stands at a paltry hundred thousand full-time soldiers, and the two thousand of the Principal household guard. These soldiers were mainly in it for the free specialist educations given for their service, and were inexperienced young stallions for the most part, with the exception of the guard, who are just as wonderfully fanatical patriots as in days of yore. Luna smiles to herself. If she could get together a hundred thousand Ponies like that, she could make the world bend the knee to Equestria. She reminds herself that the conquering streak was what got her banished in the first place. She looks back to the table

The night princess groans, Most of the Full army is concentrated around Canterlot and the surrounding provinces, with small units dispersed all across the country. She hopes that the militias could hold until the big guns arrive. The actual field guns and bombards were all in Canterlot, practically mothballed for the most part. It appeared that black powder had been the only actual military advancement worth noting in her absence. The ponies still lined up with spears and pikes in front of the enemy and then charged like an irate porcupine. This time, the archers are replaced with muskets and the catapults with smoke-belching cannonades.

Admittedly, it’s hard to plan with half a day’s notice, a demilitarized nation and no idea where the enemy might land. The best case scenario would be these “GreenSkins” Landing in the frozen north, or maybe the Gryphon realms. Worst Case? A horde of space beasts land in the Equestrian heartland and overrun the seat of government before any resistance can be put up. Luna glances out the door as two guards march into the room, They carry a chest between them. The two have already changed from their guard duty half-plate into their wartime full plate, the gold-leafed suits imbued with numerous protective spells during construction, magic lightly flickering across the plate. The two unicorns place the trunk down with their magic, bowing before quickly exiting.

The trunk is ancient, crusted with dust and runes of protection. It hadn’t been opened in at least a millennium, and with good reason. Across its surface, words of warning are carved, inlaid with silver. The surface itself looks like the night sky, seemingly infinitely deep and filled with small, twinkling pinpricks. As some might have guessed, this is most certainly one of personal chests of Princess Luna, imbued with enough magical protection to vaporize a dragon if it were to try breaking into the box. Luna slowly trots over, horn lighting up in the half-dark room as she mutters the specific series of incantations to open the box. After each one, a loud click fills the room as each lock disengaged, or another spell is temporarily neutralized. It takes around ten minutes for Luna to finish the incantations. Once the chest opens, it reveals a sight for sore eyes.

The old war armor is just as she left it, from the full-body plate with a long slot for her mane to billow out as an impromptu banner, to the array of wingblades, magic amplifiers and a helmet made from strange armor found in the far north. It had been found in a strange aboveground shipwreck a millennium and a half ago. It had some sort of power source, which was long dead when it was found, along with its strange, bipedal occupant. While the helm surprisingly fit the princess, it took a lot of jury-rigging to make it run on magic, allowing for her to see in ways that nopony else can, such as seeing ponies through walls and making lights in the dark a thousand times stronger. This item is one of Her closest secrets. It was thought to be associated with dragons for a while, since it had a scale-like paintjob and symbols of hydras painted all over it. Of course, those have been scraped off and replaced with the elegant designs of the Night Princesses own craft.

She uses her magic to lift out the suit of armor, buckling each piece to herself slowly and sensually. This was one of her favorite moments in a war, putting on the plate piece by piece. First came the padding, like a thick jacket for absorbing blunt hits and maybe stopping an arrow or two. On top of that she puts on the chainmail shirt and skirt, allowing the metal to drape over her muscular form. Then she dons the plates themselves, each one buckling and linking to others to create a nigh-perfect protective covering, with the exception of joints, which only have the mail. Once Luna had armored up, she looks herself over in the mirror, admiring how she still fits into the ancient armor. Of course, Alicorns generally remain at the same adult size, but still and yet, it’s astounding that it still fits.

“If thou weren’t Ourself, we might consider thou as a royal consort” She smiles at the idea and the mirror, before realizing that she’d shifted back into the old royal we with a slight twitch of her nose and lip. She shrugs, might as well, since she’s shifted back into her old job. The night princess exits the war room out onto the balcony, and looks over the everfree valley spread out beneath the Equestrian capital. At this point, it’s a waiting game, Judging from the stars and the incessant singing in her Head, only about ten hours until Equestria must engage with a foe from the stars.

Luna comes to realization. If one can hear the singing, and knows where it's coming from, perhaps she could respond...she thinks about what to say, before she decides to try a simple reply and leave it at that for now...

Treads and Stones
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Lament and an emerald tide

Treads and Stones

Lord General Thomas Helberk lets out air from between his teeth. Initial scans have shown this world has incredibly limited major roadways able to accommodate the six thousand Leman Russ tanks, three hundred and thirty Macharius tanks, eleven baneblade based tanks and three proper baneblades of his expeditionary force, and of course the various specialty vehicles.

The astropaths of the Lamenters and the local royalty, evidently some sort of psykers themselves, had been coordinating the defense of their world as of late. It appears the death korps will initially stage out of the Valley nearest the mountainous capital, named "Canterlot" of the premier country on the planet, Named ‘Equestria’.

With a flick of his hand he readjusts the holographic models on the digital map of the world displayed on his table, their ghostly green shapes showing the landing points of the various divisions, their type, number and expected march pace. If this valley can be held until the arrival of imperial forces, his job will be a whole lot easier. If it doesn’t hold, well, the death korps has reserves.

What happens to the other realms of this world is largely irrelevant, given that this “Equestria” was the only one to bother responding and appears to be mobilizing in response to the warning given. The Lord general jumps a little as an alarm clock goes off on the other side of the room. He sighs. This is do or die time, this was the time that the Cogitaters had estimated the Greenskin Fleet arriving in a low enough orbit above this planet to initiate planetfall.

A pair of Krieg Guardsmen march down the hall, lasrifles clutched in their hands as they go forth in perfect unison. The general had always been somewhat put off by the vat-born Kriegers, their fanaticism, coldness and mechanical actions made them seem like servitors. Except he’d never seen a servitor smiling madly as it blows itself and a brood of tyranids to hell with a frag grenade as a last stand. He’d never seen a servitor execute its own comrade for attempting to retreat without prior orders from their commanding staff officers. He’d seen servitors do many things, and He was confidant that the Vat-born kriegers were even less human than those lobotomized half-machines assembled for menial labor and security.

Of course, he was lucky, being a womb-born on Krieg is an advantage, since most of the natural births of the world are sent into the officer’s corps. While the officers are usually pretty fanatical, they usually have free will, and a will to live.
The lord General grabs his pipe, lighting the pipeweed within and giving a few puffs to get it going. After a few deep drags, the lord general steps away from the table, in order to inspect the preparations of his superheavy vehicles. A small cart is waiting outside of the room. The lord general sits down in the passenger seat. The driver's seat is occupied by a masked and helmeted Krieger, who’d waited patiently for a few hours in the seat. He points ahead.

“Superheavy staging bay, Grenadier.” The man or maybe woman, it’s hard to tell under the kit the kriegers wear, complies, pulling out of the small spot by the corridor. The drive is quiet over the ten minutes it takes to cover the five kilometer drive from the command deck to the equipment staging bays. Eventually, the cart pulls into the proper bay, where the fourteen super-heavy tanks sat, each one being swarmed by servitors and mechanics and observed by their crews. The krieger and Lord General stand up, walking out into the center of the enormous room. A loud, Female voice roars from the respirator of the Krieger accompanying him.

“Officer on deck, prepare for inspection!” The Kriegers who’d been watching the mechanics working on their tanks with disinterest turn on their heels, instantly alert. The general waits for them to line up in inspection formation in front of the tanks, helmets under their arms and masks secured. The Lord general walks around the hangar, looking over the crews and occasionally asking questions of the troops regarding their habits. He stops at the shadowsword squadron, and their assortment of about forty crewmen. Each tank had a few kill markers painted down their barrels, each one bearing the Astra Militarium hostile designator number for the type of foe they’d killed. The Lead tank had a record down half its barrel, a dozen or two tervigons, tyrannofexes and other assorted beasts, three hive tyrants, but most impressively, a quartet of Bio-titans. The Lord General had been present for only one of those, and it had been an impressive shot, low light at five kilometers. The beast probably didn’t know what was coming, especially when the volcano cannon atomized its head and back. A smile plays across his lips at the memory, compared to battling the Tyrannic threat, greenskins will be a cakewalk. The lord General looks about, yes, this will do, the greenskins can attempt to do battle, but it’s hard when your tanks turn to slag and your infantry to a crunchy paste by the might of the Imperial Guard.

Overall, the tanks are on track to be ready well in advance of when they’re actually going to see combat. This pleases the general The Grenadier hands the General a vox projector, the speaker clutched under her arm. He takes the mouthpiece carefully, and raises it to his mouth.

“All appears to be in order Guardsmen, I expect this equipment to be ready for combat in six days, otherwise quite a few Leman Russ crews are getting promotions to your tanks. And I assure you all, it will be a permanent removal from duty for those not ready.” The assembled crewmen nod, mechanically. The commissars present nod as well, more human, almost worried, since this is one of the few officers who could order them around. In all honesty, the Commissars are probably the most reasonable men around, which is unheard of in other imperial guard regiments. Of course, as most know, the death korps aren’t other imperial guard regiments.

Satisfied with the degree of readiness, the general exits, a light bounce in his step. He may not be ecstatic to die for the empire, but excitement to see the greenskin driven back is always a good thing. He can practically imagine the looks on the locals faces when the imperial guard arrive. Normal people, wielding weapons they think to be the tools of the gods. It will be astounding.

Down on that world, one of the locals is bored. Following the appearance of odd lights in the sky, the princesses had all convened in their high towers and the five non-princess elements of harmony had been sent to the far corners of Equestria, supposedly to view the phenomenon from different angles. Which would be a believable story if any of the five actually knew how to do astronomical observations. On second thought, Pinkie may, but who really knows what she knows.

Rainbow Dash slumps over her coffee, a notebook of observations to the best of her ability sat in front of her. That ability is not all that great. She harrumphed, blowing air out one corner of her mouth. At this juncture she’s effectively given up on actually getting any useful data for Twilight, yes she writes in the notebook, but for the most part she’s enjoying Manehattan. the sights, sounds, and coastal air of the bustling metropolis are a welcome change for the speed freak compared to the countryside of Ponyville.

The blue pegasus finishes her drink and steps out of the small cafe onto the broad sidewalk, where it appears many onlookers were gathered in the street. Thinking it’s some sort of show, Dash looks the same way, only to turn pale and back up a pace. One normally doesn’t see a meteor so low. They’re usually distant, burning across the sky. Of course, one normally doesn’t see one from a frontal angle either. The massive rock, still burning from its deorbit and approximately three hundred meters in diameter approaches rapidly, screaming towards the coast at around mach one. Dash, figuring that she probably cannot do battle with the rock, instead starts yelling, mainly orders to get into cover. This is of course only a temporary measure since whatever’s gonna happen, it’s gonna be bad.

The rock flies overhead, barely clearing some of the taller buildings around Rainbow Dash, followed almost an instant later by the thunderous boom of its passage. Mere moments before it would overshoot the city, a ramshackle array of thrusters ignite, slowing it down so quickly as to bring it down in the financial district, about a kilometer from Rainbow Dash. She loses sight, but the Massive dust cloud rearing up from the impact site followed two seconds later by a thunderous crash like a mountain falling over showed exactly what had happened. At the same time as the sound, came a shockwave through the ground, knocking over dash and collapsing a nearby half-built skyscraper. Dash picks herself up from where she’d collapsed. She didn’t know why, but she felt something wasn’t right with this. This isn’t a normal disaster, if one could call a disaster normal. She backs into the cafe after seeing a wall of dust, tall enough to obscure the tall buildings of the city in the grey and brown storm of what had once been building and ground. She shuts the door, mouth agape as the dust cloud surges down the street, turning the previously sunny noontime to midnight black, the winds howled flinging dust through any hole it could find. A few chunks of brick and shattered cement strike the windows, like more aggressive hailstones.

Of course, the sounds of wind weren’t the only worrying sounds outside, in the distance, a chorus of distant bangs whispered just over the wind, like a fireworks finale at a funeral. That was the confusing thing. As Dash Recalls from a pamphlet she’d read on the train, the armory was on the other side of town, so the sound couldn’t be the powder going off prematurely from the fires that such an impact would cause. In the several minutes it took for the visibility to reach serviceable levels, Dash and the patrons of the cafe convened to figure out to do. The result was unanimously to head for the impact and look for survivors. Dash lead the group, mainly consisting of businessponies, guardponies, and militia troopers on lunch break out of the cafe and down a street that leads most directly to the impact zone. Dust seems to be raining from the sky, almost choking the ponies in their tracks. The motley crew proceeds well considering the circumstances, but another loud sound and blindingly bright flash stops them dead in their tracks. It was an apocalyptically loud crack, like a hundred lighting bolts right at the impact zone along with a second-long flash of light like a thousand suns before it subsided. The ponies proceed more slowly, now hearing far more of those mysterious bangs, accompanied by loud chattering sounds and deeper booms.

Dash is still uncertain on what these sounds are originating from, until a massive steel foot comes into view from behind a large apartment building about five hundred meters down the road. Another footstep brings the massive machine, just about as tall as the building into view. It’s quite a sight, painted in garish yellow and black, the behemoth bears an arm with what looks like a giant sword, except the edge is blurred and sounds like something is roaring. The other arm looks to be a cluster of what seem to be musket barrels, of all sorts of sizes, from Barely visible at this range to big enough that the vent holes at the end are easy to see, even at half a kilometer. It seems to be wearing a stereotypical pirate hat, which crackles with energy. From its back poke all sorts of smokestacks, blowing out black smoke in almost as great a quantity as the smoking crater it had come from. The gargant turns to proceed down the street. A terrified crowd of ponies starts to spill from the already-battered building, whose windows look to all have been blown out by the impact. The machine seems intrigued, turning its head to look at the building, before one of its eyes, looking like an odd sort of cone in a dish, lights up. The Eye takes two or three seconds to charge before firing some sort of beam into the building, cutting it in half with a quick shake of its head. Thus severed, the top half of the building fell off, crushing another building underneath its weight as the lower half crumpled like cardboard. Then it focused on the crowd of a hundred or so ponies below it, still running. A large number of flashes erupt across the machine’s body, accompanied by a chorus of guttural banging and roaring as the crowd of ponies began to drop dead. Then it occurs to dash, those weapons are probably just very advanced muskets, and that she should run before it gets to her. As if it could read her mind, the gun arm raises, and aims right at her and the former cafe patrons. Dash makes a run for cover, jumping into an alley just in time as the street behind her explodes into rubble, instantly atomizing the former cafe patrons into either a fine mist or chunks depending on where they had been.

Dash screams in pain as a severed limb strikes her in the wing, striking her with enough force to break several of the bones with a sickening crunch. The pegasus grits her teeth tears in her eyes as she evaluates her options. Forward is blocked by annihilation, up is no longer an option, so back it will be. She turns around, and runs, hearing something scuffing around the corner, maybe it’s some other survivors of this gargantuan apparatus.

The thing she sees is not at all what had been anticipated. Instead of a group of ponies making their way out of town, she’s confronted by a group of green skinned bipedal creatures, hulking around twice her height, with the one in front being even larger. They look to be wearing some sort of armor, namely ramshackle pieces of metal strapped together and then thrown on at the last moment. The lot of the smaller ones look to be carrying what Rainbow Dash could call the shittiest rifles she’d ever seen, looking to be nothing more than tubes with boxes underneath. Their Leader, instead of his hand ending in a normal green paw-thing like the rest has a large, metal claw instead. The claw is worryingly blood-splattered. In his other hand he seems to have a similar gun to the rest, except a rocket has been stuck to the top.

The nob looks down at the small blue creature in front of him. It had been a hard time krumping his way through the rest of the mobs to get himself and his boyz into the first wave on the planet. So far it has been a right good romp. Although he laments the lack of a good scrap, getting in shoota and klaw practice is always good. He’d not seen any of these little four-legged creatures that would make a good trophy, while they were generally brightly colored, He knows every nob would have a bright trophy, so he wanted something unique, and this rainbow horse is looking right flash. Thus he turns to his boyz.

“OI, FIRST WUNNA YA LADZ TO GET THAT RAINBOW HORSE GETS A BIT O ME SQUIG-RUM STASH!” with that encouragement, the boyz open fire on the retreating equine, who had started to run when the Nob turned around. Now that he sees his prey escaping, a scowl creases his face, before he gives chase, alongside his boyz. The pony turned out of the alley onto another street. The Nob follows, he won’t allow another Ork to have his prize, not while Mork and Gork still stand in the sky!

His pursuit is interrupted by a four hoofed ambush by the blue pegasus, who’d gottent o some high ground as soon as she’d turned. Of course, RD landing on a two hundred kilogram ork did little to him other than disorient the beast enough for her to jump to the next fire escape and start running up as she’s followed by a chorus of blazing guns. Right before she makes it to the roof, a stray round stikes her back, right leg. She lets out a startled gasp before dragging herself the rest of the way and breaking the fire escape off the building with a good kick from the other leg. At least the cheap, borderline illegal construction practices in this town have some use.. She figures that the Beasts will follow her through the building, but hey, at least she has a few minutes to figure out what to do before they break out onto the roof. The pony decides that getting out of the city is the highest priority, and thus, she starts on a rooftop journey, moving as fast as a hobbled pegasus can go.

The Nob and his boyz emerge onto the roof moments after Rainbow Dash leaves line of sight. He gives one of the boyz a firm whack on the back of the head, chastizing his taking too long with looting the shiny bits off of some wrinkly horse they’d come across on their way up and promptly gunned down. Of course, The nob had taken all of the shiny bitz, but he needed someone to blame. He continues to vent his frustration, until he sees a blood trail, leading down the roof and onto the next. An idea forms in his head. The smartest one he’d ever had.

“Oi, Ladz, I thinks that if we follow dis ‘ere blood, we’ll find our horsie. So, let’s follow dis ‘ere blood!”with that, he leads by example. Example being running down the roof with a war cry. The boyz follow, being exuberant participants in the sacking of Manehattan, the first battle of Equestria’s first contact with the stars.

Author's Note

well, here's the opening of the war. let's see how well equestria handles the greenskin threat.

Lunam suprema
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Lament and an emerald tide

Lunam suprema

In the past six days, Equestria has mounted a valiant but fruitless defense. Luna looks over her war board, snorting with contempt as another scroll declaring a retreat arrived in front of her. The Greenskins have been crushing most resistance to their advance out of the crash sites in Manehattan and trottingham. So far, She’s ordered most of the professional soldiers to hold the everfree valley and Canterlot, since the Beasts have already come within a hundred kilometers of the capital. The moon princess looks out the window, eyes focusing on the black smoke clouds in the distance, marking the Greenskin battleline. Her role as protector of dreams has been effectively abandoned, ever since the greenskins dreams had begun to manifest about. They were universally about war, eating, playing an odd game where they kick some poor green creature like a ball or all three together.

Muskets are good enough for posturing against another Epona bound power, but these space-faring monsters have far more firepower, in large quantities and powerful enough to pierce all but the hardest armor. Militia units are also drying up. Luna had around a million ponies to work with initially, but at this point, she can barely scrounge up three hundred thousand. Of course, the presence of at least one Princess may change things for the better, alas, Celestia is busy holding a fragmenting nation together. Cadence is off attempting to negotiate support from the Griffons and the Dragon tribes. Twilight has secluded herself in a lab to dissect the few examples of greenskins killed in combat and recovered back to Canterlot. Princess Luna is...wait a moment, Luna’s not that busy, since she can receive reports anywhere and she’s memorized the arrangement of the map.

The lunar princess considers it for a minute, turning her head to the board and pile of bad news bearing scrolls, before looking out the window at the battle line. She elects to go make a difference rather than sitting and waiting for the Greenskins. A ring of a bell later and a pair of Lunar captains are standing at attention in front of her, armor shimmering with magical power, large, ornate crests rise from their helms, indicating achievements and rank through the colors arranged on the plume.

“Assemble the troops, We are useless sitting around hearing bad news and doing nothing to stop it.” She stomps a hoof for emphasis “Thou hast an hour to prepare.” Luna turns and exits the room. The two obediently nod and exit the room, to go collect their total of four hundred troops, some of the best in the empire. Luna levitates over her war helm, looking it in the eyes for a moment. The empty red lenses stare back, their ancient eyes crusted with dust around the edges.

After a few moments of contemplation, Luna dons the helmet, the contacts that had been jury-rigged to connect it to the magical charge of the armor hook into her gorget, clicking into place. She lets out her breath, an artificial rattle echoing out of the helm as her view illuminates with the red data-filled display. Before her eyes had even adjusted, the helm had already given her a small map in the corner and had a small scrolling block of data in another, which would be useful if Luna knew High Gothic. Alas, she does not. With her helm in place, she exits the room, armor-shod hooves clicking on the stone floor.

In the parade grounds outside of the castle, the Lunar guard have assembled, their dark grey and blue armor standing in contrast to the light colored cobbles. Most of them were in their full armor, helmet and all. Those that were lacking in the helmet were preparing to put them on. Luna looks over the assembled ranks. The four hundred are some of the best fighters in all of Equestria. Luna has always felt that keeping them on guard duty is a waste. The captains bark out their orders, and those incapable of flight run to the chariots, hitched to their more airworthy comrades.

Once that had been accomplished, Luna strides out to the front of the host, looking them over for a few seconds, before nodding and extending out her wings. the well oiled armor sections worn on her wings silently moving with the appendages. Luna breathes in, before throwing herself into the air, joined by the sound of hundreds of wings joining and following behind her. She doesn’t need to look to know that her host has followed her in its entirety.

The air is calm, but the scent of smoke carries along the faint wind from the field of battle, it only grows stronger along the one hour flight, along with the sight of the trench works the Ponies have built across the entrance of the valley. Around a kilometer from the trenches, the greenskin forces look to be camped for the night, having constructed a series of ramshackle towns with a few giant machines standing among them, apparently called gargants and stompas by their users. At least, it seemed that way until Luna hears the sounds of gunfire drifting through the night, and one of the giant machines start walking towards the trenches.

Luna banks towards the giant machine, followed by her host as she lowers her altitude. She alights in the forward trench. Her nostrils flare at the scent of gunpowder and oil in the earthworks. Most of the Ponies firing their muskets at the approaching crowd of several hundred greenskins are militia, with a few of the armored professional soldiers supervising. The commanding officer, a major from the marks on her armor bows to Luna. Her armor is dented, the livery of her house having been worn into unrecognizability, and not much is really visible of her besides a Light blue horn and her blue and white mane.

“Major, how goes the battle?” Luna enquires, she can see it’s terrible, but might as well hear it from the horse's mouth.

“W-well, your highness, We’ve held our ground here for the past half day, but the Greenskins continue to assault us. While our losses have been lessened by building out a trench network, I-” She is ducks as an explosion blooms bright behind the trench, presumably from greenskin artillery. The cries for help afterward chilled Luna somewhat
“I don’t believe we can sustain this sort of losses for long. As is We’re barely holding while the Greenskins seem to only get stronger.”

“Well then, we shall assume command of this trench section. Our forces can engage with the foe, and reinforce your section. How much of your Battalion is left”

The Unicorn does some math in her head.

“I-I believe that of the Thousand I had, I’m down to four hundred and thirty-seven, your highness”

“Then we have arrived at an opportune time. GUARDS! TAKE UP POSITION IN THESE EARTHWORKS, I SHALL FELL THIS METAL BEAST!!” Luna uses the royal canterlot voice to issue the orders, before taking wing, looking over the greenskins running right at the trench. Most of the hideous creatures look to wield crude melee weapons and pistols. Those around the giant machine seem especially animated, as if it were powering them.

Luna takes herself to eye level with the giant machine, her horn lighting up teal, a similar aura appearing around the thirty meter machine. She focuses hard, pouring energy from herself into the focal point of her horn. With a series of loud groans, she begins to crush it, the steel buckling under the immense magical energy. Several greenskins on the ground see her, and open fire, their bullets bouncing off her armor harmlessly. The machine then turns it’s giant cannon to face Luna, with great effort, and levels it at her, somewhat crumpled, but seeming quite lethal. The distinct thud of a shell being loaded carried to Lunas trained ears.

Luna stops crushing the machine in her magical grip to shield herself with a quick and sloppy magical force field just as the shell blasts out from the cannon. The explosive strikes Luna’s shield and shatters it, the remaining blast wave carrying through and hitting Luna like a truck. The force knocks Luna from the sky, her descent about as graceful as a brick.

The pain is immense, Luna thinks she’s broken at least two ribs, maybe even had something rupture. Then there was the Landing. Her wings were the first to hit the ground, crumpling, with several breakages, then her back, fortunately, the armor and wings cushioned her enough that her spine remained unbroken. She coughs up some blood, breathing heavily into her helmet. ‘How stupid’ She thinks. ‘I think I can make a difference on the field, and here I am, coughing up some organ and shattered on the field of battle. Not even a proper warriors death, just a miserable, slow failing of the body if I’m not recovered’ A tear wells up in her eye. Her sister was right, she was cut out for the war room, not the field. Perhaps if she hadn't been so straightforward about fighting the machine, to make a show of force rather than disarming it first, this wouldn't be happening.

Luna wallows in her own sorrow for around a minute, the greenskin charge having stalled due to some sort of infighting, with the crew of the giant machine having stopped to watch. Then she smells something off, something that one usually doesn’t smell on the field of battle. It’s not the sting of powder, or the greasy smell of engine fumes, or even the copper of her own blood, but an ozone scent, like some great magic is transpiring.

Suddenly, a bright flash practically blinds the wounded Alicorn and A thunderous crack deafens her. When her vision clears, twelve giant figures stand before her. They all look to be some form of hulking armored giant, similar in size to the leaders of the greenskin squads. Each one is wearing the same sort of helm, with an odd snout and small, triangular eyes. Ten of them are in deep yellow armor, with one shoulder pad bearing a sort of checked heraldry. The other two are quite distinct from the rest.

One is garbed in black, with golden chains and bone-colored parchments adorning its armor. A ball with holes on a chain dangling almost to the ground bears some sort of incense, a strong one judging from the smell. Above its head, a golden halo rises, arcing with some sort of energy. It bears some form of repeating weapon in one hand, the belts of ammunition jingling below it. The other hand bears some sort of rod with a winged version of its helm on the end, presumably a bludgeoning weapon. The haunting thing is the helmet, a bone-white, gaunt face, with burning red eyes and a ghoulish smile.

The other unique giant is garbed in blue, with a set of ivory colored robes flowing over top of the suit of armor. Its helmet is covered on the top by some form of shroud. In one hand it carries a similar weapon to the other’s repeater, except one of the barrels is longer and has tubing around it. In the other hand it bears what looks to be a sword wreathed in translucent crimson flame.

The two, seemingly leaders, look at one another when they see Luna, and start to animatedly confer as their troops take up defensive positions. Their language is incomprehensible to Luna, yet sounds familiar. After a moment of thought she realizes that this is the language that the singing was in for several days before it suddenly became comprehensible. She clears her throat, and attempts to speak to them.

“w-who art thou? Steel giants?!” her attempt to keep composure is hampered by her voice cracking and the weakness of her pointing. The two look back at her, before speaking once more to each other

“-What makes you so sure that they're harmless, high librarian?” reclusiarch Julius bellicoso snaps at the his psychic battle-brother, his high gothic bearing a distinct aristocratic tint in spite of the centuries he'd been among his fellow marines. “did the warp whisper to you that these xenos are alright? Or have you been driven mad?” he cocks his skull helm to one side, glaring sideways at his comrade.

The librarian looks back at the other marine. He technically outranks the reclusiarch, not that he'd pull rank here. He thinks carefully for a moment before answering, his deep melodic voice bearing the air of an intellectual.

“first things first, the xeno right there is a potent enough psyker that we could use her presence as a beacon for our teleport. Secondly, a psyker of that magnitude would be able to instantly destroy us if she were to desire doing so, meaning that since we're alive, she wants us that way. Third, they speak low gothic, meaning some form of human contact has occurred before. Finally, they’re against the greenskins, a far greater foe at the moment.” Chief Librarian Herodotus Faust turns his gaze from his comrade down to the equine at his feet, cocking his head inquisitively. He clears his throat before addressing her in Low gothic.

“We are the Lamenters, well, technically just the terminator force, sent to clear a beachhead for the rest of the chapter. I am personally Chief Librarian Herodotus Faust, head of the chapter librarius, that’s Reclusiarch Bellicoso, head of the chaplains of the chapter. Those are the ten best line veterans of the chapter and-” He turns at the distinct roar of five storm bolters letting loose into the ork lines. The terminator assault squad readies for a charge, locking shields and igniting the crackling energy fields around their hammers. The reclusiarch joins with them, yelling his orders into the squad vox. The terminator with the cyclone missile launcher steadies his feet before letting loose into the orkish lines. The Frag missiles lance from his shoulders and strike the orkish front to great effect, blowing several orks either apart or at the least into their own comrades.

The Librarian lowers his combi-melta, allowing it to fall on its sling so he can raise the now-free hand. He focuses, a deep red spear of psychic energy forming in his gauntleted hand. He raises it above his head, before throwing it with a loud whine from the hydraulics of his armor. The spear flies gracefully through the air, slicing through any ork it hits as it they were made of air. The librarian raises his bolter again, letting loose short, precise bursts of fire.

He hails the thunderhawk on vox, and the pilot quickly responds.
“This is Faust, we have made planetfall, be advised that local population appear to be friendly xenos, we have a minor gargant approaching our position, tell Phoros he is clear for planetfall.”

“Roger that, Faust, be prepared for Phoros to make planetfall” The large gunship drops below the clouds, skimming the tops of trees on approach, the large Turbo-Laser fires, the incandescent beam lighting the sky in blue for one second before the light faded. It was a direct hit in the core of the machine. The gargant carries on for another few steps, before the structural damage catches up to it. With a groan the machine falls to the ground, exploding as the ammunition went off from the impact, chain-reacting with the reactor. The thunderhawk screams overhead, and twelve figures descend from it. One of them is a lot larger than the rest, slamming into the ground first, and most violently.
The Dreadnought recovers quickly from impact, its blood fists eagerly grabbing at the air in expectation of battle. Phoros himself descends slowly, borne aloft by his jump pack, and accompanied by a team of ten vanguard veterans. They land just in front of the Librarian, the light of their power weapons illuminating their numerous battle honors and sigils. The Chapter master looks over to the Chief Librarian. In spite of his mk4 power armor helmet, he can feel the displeased glare of the Lord Astartes.

“Faust! How did you not ever bother to ask whether these creatures are xenos?” The chapter master gestures at the barely conscious equine at their feet.

“Lord Phoros, they're harmless. That's the most powerful psyker I've ever seen laying there. If she were an enemy, we'd be dead. Also, I'd like to know how that one got a power armor hHe'll. He gestures at Luna, whose helm bears a striking resemblance to Phoros's

Malakim looks back at the understandably frightened xenos, before looking back to his oldest friend. He sighs deeply, deflating slightly l.

“i trust you, but if they don't comply with our work, I will not hesitate to destroy them all.” The edge of malice in the chapter master’s voice is tangible. “now, let's get to what we came here to do.”

Lord Phoros turns to face the orks, the vanguard veterans behind him bracing themselves. At a single order along their private vox, the marines ignite their jump packs, flying headfirst into the orkish Lines. While the orks are tough, no flesh can stop power blades from tearing right on through it. Phoros himself is a sight to be seen, a whirlwind of death and blood. His golden armor gleams through the green viscera caking it. His fighting style, largely based on spinning, stands out from the rest of the space marines. Every so often, he’d fire his inferno pistol into a nearby, unlucky ork, the bright beam briefly showing the carnage around him.

The librarian stays back somewhat from the fighting, using his psychic might to fell orks that come too close to his gunline, mainly spears and crackling lightning. The chaplain and his terminators tear their way across the field, bludgeoning any unfortunate ork to literal paste if it got in their way.

The dreadnought tears it's own path, what he doesn't crush with his fists, he burns away with the meltagun and heavy flamer mounted beneath the green-stained claws. If one were close enough, they could hear muffled laughter coming from the armored sarcophagus.

Luna loses consciousness within a few minutes of her first meeting with humans. Her guard move as a single force, streaming from the trenches and brutally destroying any Greenspan that comes close to their fallen monarch. Once the medical specialist confirmed that Luna is stable, they moved again. In near unison, they departed much like they came in, this time bearing their unconscious leader back to canterlot.

Even without the guard, the ork forces pull back to their base, obviously cowed by the sudden arrival of astartes and destruction of their stompa. The nob in charge of the assault, who'd taken command when the boss lost his mind, due to a thunder hammer splattering it, called a retreat. The nob was no genius by any measure, but he understands The danger that space marines pose, and he would rather flight another day than die in a bad scrap.

The space marines suffer only one casualty, a vanguard veteran whose plasma pistol exploded. He’ll live, but he's out of the fight until his prosthetic is prepared.

Meanwhile, the Death korps make their planetfall in the everfree valley, under orders to not harm the locals. Their primary site was in the viscinity of the town called 'ponyville'. Not much is known about it to the imperial guard.

The dronelike infantrymen obey their orders, treating the locals with apathy, as if they're a minor inconvenience. The officers,
Who have a bit More free will took a liking to the sweet locals. Many brought the humans gifts as tokens of appreciation. The lower ranking officers decline, fearing court martial for being too friendly to the xenos. The higher ranking officers get chummy, might as well given the length of the campaigns the korps usually engages in. The commissars, while doubtful, keep to themselves. This does not sit well with the Lord General, he remembers the last time he'd been friendly to xenos. It got him a nice cushy scar across his gut. Thus, he makes a call out to an old friend...

Xenophobia
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Lament and an emerald tide

Xenophobia

Princess Twilight wipes her brow using a towel she'd brought from home, a sigh escaping her lips at the task before her. She’d already written hundreds of pages on the anatomy of the greenskins and the various functions of their bodies. She turns to look back at the ork on her table, having been thoroughly disassembled before being laid out neatly in pieces. the head had been rather disagreeable, but that's nothing a bolt of magic can't fix. She grabs a rag with her magic, wiping some viscera from her forehead.

Twilight sighs, wishing that starlight were there to aid in this endeavor, but she is busy acting as Twilight's eyes and ears off in the crystal kingdoms with several squads of the space marines. The sounds of one of the space marines approaching brings her back to reality. She composes herself before walking to the door, wondering what one of the giants would be doing in the depths of the palace. After a few moments the door creaks open to be filled with a field of white armor. Twilight looks up to meet the eyes of the apothecary.

The space marine looks down. Twilight still isn’t used to the way human eyes look, compared with the large, expressive eyes of ponies. The pale blue eyes flick from twilight to the disassembled ork.

“Princess, I see you have engaged in some xenology. Dissection or vivisection?” His speech is stilted, as if he’d not spoken this language in many a year. The scientific terms roll off easier, since they’re probably used in his work. The terminator armored sanguinary priest saunters farther into the room, looking over the notes. He lets some air out of his mouth.

“For a xeno without hands, you have great handwriting.” He leans on the slab, the equipment of his narthecium clinking on the stone as he reviews the dissection. Twilight clears her throat.

“Why are you here, mister…” She trails off, not knowing the name of this space marine.

“Brother Fabian, and I heard there is a dissection chamber here. I've been curious about the state of medical science here.” he shifts his weight, the chalice at his hips lightly banging his side.

“w-well, we don’t really use tools all the time to heal, if that's what you want to review. And this is this the most advanced medical lab in all of Equestria. There are usually more ponies, but I prefer to work alone. For the most part we use magic, and only resort to tools if a properly trained unicorn isn’t available. Also, it was a vivisection.” Twilight ignites her horn and an ethereal violet scalpel appears in the air as a demonstration.

The space marines nods, his curiosity still piqued. He places a finger on the parchment.

“So, Princess, wouldn’t your talents be better suited to the field rather than the lab?” The sanguinary priest absentmindedly revs the small chainblade on his narthecium. Twilight jumps at the sound, used to the quiet of her work. She straightens herself before nervously balancing herself on the nearby table.

“Well, I would but ever since Luna underestimated the greenskins and got herself injured, celestia’s banned us princesses from fighting. It’s actually alright with me, I’m much more suited to books and management than leading armies.” The white-clad space marine looks down at her. His eyes flash for an instant with contempt. He’s been on a hundred fronts, and seen a hundred thousand horrors. The idea of the most powerful beings in the land not fighting for their realm is simply abhorrent to him. He recalls the actual reason he was sent down here.

“Princess, I almost forgot that I’m supposed to bring you some news. Phoros wanted to extend an invitation to dinner alongside the other princesses. Also, I received the report on my way here that Princess Luna's awakened from her coma.” With that the space marine exits in spite of twilights objections and inquiries to the princess’s exact condition. The sanguinary priest takes the stairs up to the main level of the castle. In the past few days, the luxurious castle had been turned into a fortified position. In the main hall, several groups of kriegers are busy moving crates of munitions. A few of them glance over with mechanical movements at the sound of the space marine’s approach.

A commissar walks up to the space marine, his respirator hanging on a sling. He holds his hat under one arm.
“M’lord, The equestrian emissary wishes to speak with you.”

“Me Specifically, or just a space marine?” The Equestrians had a tendency to just request a space marine, presumably under the assumption that they’re not a separate fighting force but a sort of militant officer caste.

“She just asked for the first space marine officer who could be found.”

The chief apothecary sighs, he may be obedient to the chapter master, but his choice to ally with the xenos is well within question.

“Where is she?”

“That way, m’lord” He points down a hallway towards the dining hall. The space marine sighs and decides to make his way over. He’d been told to listen to diplomatic affairs of the equines by Phoros, but of all the officers they’d have to find! Even the head techmarine would be a better diplomat.

Fabian enters the long room, dominated by several enormous wall tapestries and a long table. At the head of the table, and flanked by two armored guards sits Princess Mi Amore Cadenza. The space marine stands opposite her, at a distance of a dozen meters or so.

“you wanted to speak with a space marine?”

The pink pony clears her throat “Yes, if you are so disposed.” she gestures to a seat near her, obviously made quickly from the slightly uneven lines of the wood. It looks to be big and sturdy enough for a terminator armored space marine.

“my duties for the day are concluded, but I must warn you in advance that I am not in any position to make promises on behalf of my chapter or the imperium of man.”

“I’m aware, Fabian. You’re actually the officer I wanted to see.” The equine adjusts some papers on the desk. Fabian cocks one eyebrow, adjusting his position a bit.

“Really, why would that be?” He crosses his arms, watching the princess with his pale blue eyes.

“Well, I wanted to personally thank you and your Sanguinary priests for the help they’ve rendered to our forces in the short time you have all been. Especially for your care for my aunt.”

“Well, I didn’t personally care for her. That was brother Fernando, I was busy attending to our own.” He ends the sentence with a mild lick of contempt. He’d been in favor of glassing both the Orks and the whole world, but that damn witch, Faust, has more sway with the chapter master.

“Well, send my regards to him, then.” The Equine smiles up at Fabian, her saccharine diplomatic demeanor grating on him. He’d heard that the ponies had little sense of urgency in their actions, and this seems to be no exception.

“If that is all, ma’am I will take my leave” The astartes resists his natural urge to crush this xeno under his adamantium boot as he begins to exit.

“Yes, Sir, you may go.” She smiles when he turns his back, she detests these bipeds. Their sheer arrogance astounds her. Sure, the “Kriegers” are useful in their sheer obedience to their commanders, but the giants are unbearable in their self-importance. Even as one whose job is spreading love, these guys grate on her. Cadence sighs, pushing herself out of the chair. She adjusts her Ceremonial armor. She isn’t used to the plate in the same way that Luna and Celestia are. To a certain extent, she envies Twilight. While twilight may have one of the more rigorous schedules in managing the Equestrian science effort, she doesn’t need any ceremonial garb for dealing with her work.

A servant enters the room, bowing his head in front of Cadence. “Your highness, Princess Luna wishes to speak with you”

“Thank you, Sweet Rain.” She nods, before making her way out of the room and up into the residence halls. Luna’s room is somewhat isolated, with a pair of menacing guards standing on either side of the black doors. One opens the door with a quick pull of magic. The darkened room has only two figures within, a bedbound Princess Luna and a white-clad space marine. Cadence realizes she’s walked in on the tail end of some form of discussion of military technology.

“-and that is why we find the idea of indirect bombardment to be far-fetched. How would artillerists be able to calculate the place to strike within any reasonable time.”

The space marine has been scribbling out something on a piece of parchment. “Well, we have these equations, and cogiters. It allows for one to hit a target twenty, thirty kilometers away within a reasonable margin.” He shows the paper to Luna, who raises an eyebrow at the contents of the page. Cadence clears her throat, the sanguinary priest looks up. His brown eyes glint a little in the dark room, as opposed to the almost luminescent teal of Luna’s eyes.

Cadence couldn’t see much of Luna, just her neck and head are actually above the covers. A jug of water sits next to an ornate glass at her bedside, in addition to a half-eaten bowl of oatmeal. In one corner, her armor, now bearing a fearsome scorch mark across the front, stands on a rack. The ancient and intricate curtains lay pulled, most of the light coming from a number of candles spread about, and the glow of the Space marine’s narthecium’s screen.

“brother Fernando I presume?” Cadence unwittingly tinges her voice with sarcasm. A fact she only realises after the sound had cleared her mouth.

“Your presumption is quite correct, princess.” The space marine bows his head slightly. “Your aunt and I were discussing differences in gunnery present between Equestria and the imperium of Man. While my knowledge is fair, I’d recommend asking of a techmarine or engineseer if you want the exacts.” He picks up his helmet “I’ll be seeing myself off, if it is alright by you, Luna.” He looks to Luna, who nods. Cadence interrupts before he departs.

“Sir, I thank you for your service to Equestria, and your chapters service to our world.

“We do it gladly, ma’am” The astartes turns back to Luna. “I must really go now, I have other patients to check.”

“If thou must go, we’re in no position to stop you from attending to thine duties.” The Space marine nods and exits, Luna waits for him to be out of earshot before continuing. “Cadence, we are glad to see that even in these days of strife, you find the time to keep your mane perfectly in order.” Luna cracks a small smile, which Cadence reciprocates.

“Well, I certainly can’t look disheveled like I’d just had an intimate romp when I meet with foreign diplomats.” Cadence chuckles a little at her own jokes.

“That is certainly true...don’t you think these ‘Space Marines’ are just wonderful? They’re what we could only dream of the Lunar guard being. Imagine, we would have razed the Griffon kingdoms to the ground five times over if we had these kind of warriors under our command. Alas, from what we’ve been told, it takes technology even we cannot comprehend to forge them. Have you seen them in action, Cadence, it is truly a spectacle to behold!” Luna raises a hoof for emphasis.

“All I’ve seen of them is their striding around the castle, acting as if they’re the greatest thing ever.” Cadence derisively squints at the door to add some substance to her statement. “They may be giants, bedecked in more gold than Celestia, but they are small-minded. They even grate on me. I thought Blueblood was bad, but at least I could tell him to go away, with these guys? I can’t even think about it without causing a diplomatic incident that could annihilate our world.” The pink alicorn snorts, before noticing a teal stare right into her soul from the bedridden monarch.

“Cadence, without these humans, Equestria would be dead. I’m not exaggerating when I say that.” She allows a small slice of the royal canterlot voice tinge her tone. “At the very least we must address them with the utmost of gratitude for fighting for us.” Luna looks down at Cadence over her snout. In that moment, Cadence feels remarkably small. It reminds her of the first time she’d seen Celestia actually flex her magical muscles in the least, not the least form the electric atmosphere the irritated Princess seemed to confer to the room. Luna softens after a moment.

“We apologize, but we have been under great stress, not having control is quite grating upon our nerves.” Cadence nods in reply.

“What did you want me here for, Aunt?” Cadence decides to get down to the business at hand. “Or did you just want conversation?”

“We have an assignment for you” Luna levitates a leather-bound book from under her bed. “Ever since the greenskins made their landing, Discord has been missing. We want you and your husband to find him.”

“Why me? I’m not the most qualified pony for this sort of job? Why not Twilight, or your Sister? Who knows that he’s missing, besides us?”

“Twilight is busy with trying to find a solution to the greenskin threat and Our sister...she...she is unaware of the current situation, she, like most of the public believes he is conducting guerilla warfare in the everfree valley until he gets bored and starts annihilating orks at his leisure. In truth he vanished after Fluttershy went missing in action while he was out. If the worst has come to pass, Discord having changed sides, I want you to return and inform Us at once. To assist you, we grant this. It’s been a long time since it’s been issued, but We believe it to still bear its old power.” Luna opens the book to reveal a secret compartment, within, is a badge of office. Cadence’s eyes widen. She’d heard of Lunar rangers, entitled to nigh-unlimited powers in order to carry out their missions. She’d thought they’d been wiped out during the Longest Night, and their marks of office destroyed. This proves that at least one badge survived the Lunar purge.

“L-Luna, are you sure?”

“Yes, now take your badge and find that ancient horror before he decides to stop pulling punches.” Cadence takes the book in her magic, closing it to conceal the badge before she exits. Luna lays back in bed, hoping she’d made the right call.

A thousand miles away, and under a smoke-stained sky, Manehattan has become an orkish bacchanal. Smoke roils from a thousand workshops making guns for the constant stream of orks emerging from their spores unarmed. In the grandest of these forges, built into the very rok that started all of this, Graknar has his personal workshop. Within, steel, stone and labor seized from the city accumulates into battlefortresses, dreds and most impressively, upgrades for his personal gargant. The glow of this forge can be seen for miles. Just outside of the city, several quadrupedal figures observe the proceedings. One of whom, wearing a sling around a wing and an old helmet she’d found during her escape from the city, gives a signal with her free wing, and the ponies return to the foliage from their observation point.

Wooded Iron
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Lament and an emerald tide

Wooded Iron

Commissar Helburk lights a Lho-stick, taking a deep drag before looking over the main street of the town. His group of kriegers has been assigned to the settlement known as Ponyville as a garrison in addition to participating in battles in the nearby forest. Most of the forces have encamped outside of town. A large group of them stand guard at the train station, maintaining the guard. A few patrols move down the streets of the town. The vat-born line troops for the most part ignore the locals, not even accepting gifts the ponies try to give to them in the form of baked goods and drinks. A couple of officers alongside the Commissar have accepted some gifts, largely out of the pragmatic idea of extending their rations.

As for Helburk himself, he’s currently sitting in front of a business seemingly made of confections. The absurdity of the local culture is not lost on the Commissar. But it’s a welcome familiarity to the agri-worlds he’d fought on prior. An appreciation for an abundance of food is certainly a trait of the mordia-born commissar. He smiles subtly as a plain bagel is brought out to him with some butter by a toothpaste-blue equine. She stands for a moment, as if contemplating conversation, but eventually returns to the building. Helburk takes a bite as a patrol passes him, staring dead ahead and walking in perfect lockstep, too perfect, it’s unnerving, even to a guy whose home regiment is renowned for efficiency and discipline.

The commissar considers the array of cheery shops. He'd never actually seen such indulgence among structures in the imperium, but that could just be the local culture. In spite of an alien invasion and the marks of tanks rolling down the cobbled streets, the locals appear to be content to keep on with their lives. He’s especially fascinated by the local governors abode, a crystalline palace with a passing resemblance to a tree. According to most locals it was grown within moments, but the commissar has his doubts, just like he doubts that the local royalty actually raises the sun and moon each and every day. He finishes his bagel before heading for the castle, which had been converted into a regional headquarters for the Imperial forces in the everfree valley, largely due to the realtime “magical” Map that lay within. It is fine grained enough to see Large orkish groups moving, well, specifically the strife that induces, thus making defense a lot easier to coordinate.

A trio of Leman Russ Vanquishers rumble around a corner, their commanders poking out of the cupolas for a good view as they head for the train station, which had been recently renovated by the Kriegers, who managed to put in the needed modifications in about a day, such as cranes and ramps for loading their armor and artillery onto the great trains they use for transporting materials to the front. Most Ponies stop what they’re doing to watch as the machines lumber on, still amazed at imperial vehicular engineering. Similar reactions were had at the first views of the armored trains that roll into station at regular intervals to collect munitions and carry them forward to the front, where trench warfare has taken hold.

The tanks pass the commissar at a good pace, turning at the end of the road and releasing the locals from their spell of fascination. The commissar, used to humans, walks towards the castle, looking straight ahead. He soon regrets this as he collides with a local, both collapsing in a heap. The commissars hat skitters off a few feet, along with a bolt pistol magazine. The commissar collects himself first, getting up to look at the local, one hand instinctively going to his bolt pistol to make an example of the offending xeno. The pistol slides out of the holster easily, and he primes the slide as he shouts down at the white unicorn.

“You filthy xeno, you dare to trip up a commissar of his godly glory the emper-” his words choke back a little at the reaction of the xeno. Most citizens dumb enough to be in the way of a commissar would be confused, or even angry at the commissar for interfering with their day. What surprises the commissar is the fact that the unicorn is obviously upset about what happened, as she, at least he thinks it's a she, he’s still getting used to identifying the equines, attempts to apologize, stammering at several points about how she’d been listening to music and wasn’t looking. What’s really shocking to the commissar is those eyes. He sees one through the remnants of a shattered purple sunglasses lens, and the other poking above the top of the other lens of the rumpled shades, which fall off after another moment. Instead of the usual range of colors one might see in a human, this equine possesses a pair of bright magenta eyes, the emotion in them takes him aback. For a man used to the dull grey, expressionless windows of a krieger, the expressiveness of the ponies astounds him still. While he would normally end any being that got in his way, the sheer expressiveness of this creature make him hesitate. He holds his pistol in one hand, still hearing the pleas of the unicorn in front of him, then he hears a voice behind him, faint and soft, but surprisingly clear.

“Um, sir, is there a problem here?” He turns around, to be faced with a pair of Equines he’d seen before, in a couple briefings. One is orange, with a blonde mane, Head of hair? He’s still not familiar with the terminology, and a brown hat. A bandage covers about half of her face and one eye, reportedly she’d been burned in fighting in a desert settlement several days ago. The other, the one that had addressed him is yellow, with a long pink mane and tail. The commissar looks from one to the other.

“Just dealing with a disobedient citizen, nothing to worry about.” He waves them off with one Black-gloved hand The orange one, Apple-something as he recalls, looks from the bolt pistol to the commissars face and back to the pistol.

“If by ‘Dealing with, you mean killin’ in cold blood’, i’d reckon that yeah, we’ve got a problem here. Now what did lil’ ol’ Vinyl do to you, she’s only about, what, half your weight and height?” The orange pony, who apparently is a living strategic resource due to a psychic connection with some sort of artifact weapon, seems to be throwing that weight.

“She tripped up a commissar of The holy God Emperor!” The commissar summons ire back into his voice, putting on the usual imperious tone of a graduate of the schola progenium. “And I would grant you the same fate for questioning an agent of the god-emperor if you weren’t a strategic asset”

“Yer pretty high and mighty there with that big flashy coat and gun of yours, aren’t ya?”

“that just happens to be my job! What knowledge do you have of war? you've lived on an idyllic agri-world all your life! You're not even a soldier, you're the local fruit farmer who was chosen by an ancient artifact because you’ve got an honest streak the width of a battleship, not a good trait for a military commander I think.” The commissar looms over Applejack, utilizing all six feet, four inches of his height to his advantage. “I bet you’ve not seen a day of combat in your life before the greenskins came.” A voice fills the silence following the commissar’s scathing remark.

“W-well, sir, we did go into combat, if you could call it that, a few years ago at canterlot.” The yellow pegasus who’d been accompanying the Orange equine looks up somewhat meekly at the commissar. “A-although those were changelings, not really aliens, but they are a threat, and there have been other times...we have a surprising number of threats to equestria”

“I see…” The commissar looks at the two Ponies for a moment. While he had been meaning to make a public showing of the ponies, at this point, it wouldn’t be worth the effort. The Commissar buckles his holster shut. He looks back to the groveling pony behind him, scowling. After a moment, he sighs. “Just know that next time, I shall not be so merciful.” He gives one more glare around before walking off, making sure to crush the dropped sunglasses underfoot as he strides towards the crystalline castle in the center of the town. The two equines he’d argued with begin to make conversation with the one he’d collided with, presumably reassuring her and telling sweet lies that everything is going to be alright.

The rest of the journey is uneventful, the commissar causing most ponies to give him a wide berth. Two Krieg Grenadiers stand at the base of the staircase, alongside a pair of Equestrian guards. The Kriegers remain at the full attention they’ve presumably been at all day. The Equines straighten up, adjusting their rifles up to be straight as they see the commissar approach. He nods at the two ponies as he climbs up the steps. When he enters the hall, he lets out a low whistle, still astounded by the large, detailed map of the realm that lies at the center of the main hall of the castle. Two Death korps generals, several Equestrian command staff, and The space marine’s second company captain all stand around the table. One of the Equestrians seems to be engrossed with the map along with the space marine as the other three individuals speak with their communications officers.

The kriegers look up at me, an almost bored expression on their faces as they rattle off their last commands to their radio operators.

The two men are almost identical appearance, being craggy, grey men. Both have placed their crested helmets on the table. The two equestrians are as different as their kind usually are, one is charcoal grey, with teal eyes, odd, reptilian wings and a suit of midnight blue armor. The other one is white, with a blue mane...oddly familiar color scheme to the one that the commissar had collided with earlier. He holds his helmet in a lavender aura of “magic” as they call it.

“What’s the current situation?”

The white Equestrian replies, his voice reminiscent of a casual youth rather than a strong warrior, odd, since I’ve seen this one explode orks with his powers. “We have been maintaining the line that imperial forces reinforced three days ago, and we are preparing a party to look for signs of ork travel in the everfree.” A Krieger finishes deadpanning his orders and looks to the commissar.

“Commissar, I have decided to have you accompany the force into the everfree. There will be a centaur personnel carrier outside for you to take to the edge of the forest.”

“Yes, M’lord” The commissar bows slightly to the General, the commander he’d been assigned to, before he turns on his heel and exits. As the general had said, a centaur sits outside, with a radio operator and a few other specialists. The drive is quiet and quick, and five minutes after leaving the castle, the Centaur arrives at the edge of the woods, where a hundred or so ponies, two death Korps Platoons and a space marine tactical squad have assembled with their vehicles. The space marines have brought a Rhino transport and a vindicator siege tank. The Death korps have ten Chimera transports, a hellhound, two leman russ tanks with battle cannons, and a leman russ punisher. The heavy weapons teams are busy packing up their equipment into the chimeras and the space marines are conducting their pre-battle prayers.

The equestrians are the source of most of the noise in the field, chatting and preparing their armor and other equipment for fighting. It takes about fifteen minutes for all forces to be prepared for combat, during which the commissar reviews the troops, whose discipline is exemplary as usual. The commissar boards the centaur, fastening his respirator as the two command teams board their centaurs as well. At a barked order, the vehicles roll forward.

The Ponies follow behind the armor, treading carefully upon the splintered remains of trees that the vehicles had bowled over. The going is slow, the vindicator and the leman Russ’ having to use their cannons to clear brush every so often. The commissar looks around as the column reaches a river. The engineer team in one of the foremost Chimeras get out to investigate a fording while the rest of the troops establish a defensive position. The commissar and his command team stand a little ways away from the preparations, observing them to ensure that the equestrians keep up with the Kriegers.

In the distance, a roar began to build. The space marines prepare their weapons, the heavy weapons operator hefting his lascannon to his shoulder as the others cock their boltguns, excluding the sergeant and melta gun operator. The sergeant places a hand to his inferno pistol in its holster, while the melta operator keeps the close range weapon lowered. The sound grows louder, The Equestrians ready themselves raising the primitive ballistic weapons towards the sound. Then, the source of the cacophony comes into view above the treetops. Unsurprisingly, The source of the sound is none other than a formation of ork rotary-wing craft, held up by little more than wind and belief. The lead craft are small, single-ork machines, each one with a grinning pilot letting loose upon the force with salvos of rockets. The rockets go wild, striking almost anywhere by their intended targets, a few manage to somehow strike the Imperial lines, causing several fatalities.

A pair of Twin-rotor craft follow the attack craft, each with a gang of about ten orks, covered in warpaint and sending bullets across the air incoherently. The Space marine with the Lascannon fires at long last after he gets the shot. The beam lasts all of an instant, a carmine slash across the air. It leaves a smoking hole through one of the one-man helicopters, and its pilot. After a moment that, in a more humorous fic, would be an opportunity to have the pilot look to the audience in surprise, the aircraft explodes in a bright orange fireball. After a few more moments of waiting for the aircraft to come into range, the Kriegers, space marines and equestrians open fire on them. The sharp cracks of lasguns and the roar of bolters mixes into the erratic staccato of the equestrian firearms and bolts of energy being flung at the orks.

One of the twin rotors succombs to the pressure, plummeting into the woods near the clearing. The heavy weapons teams finish setting up, one team with lascannons and one with autocannons. The deep thud of autocannons simply mixes into the palette of sound. Then another, deeper sound begins to come from the woods. Instead of the sound of the rotorcraft, it’s deeper, a thick, smog-laced chugging coming closer and closer. The Leman Russ Tanks turn their cannons towards the sound, along with the lascannon teams. In a scene that could only happen with orks, what looks to be a locomotive converted to run off the rails tears into view among the trees, covered in orks. The Front of the vehicle has been fashioned into a wedge, tearing trees out of the way as it powers towards the imperial lines. The tanks open fire, only succeeding in dislodging the orks riding on the front of the insane machine. The machine makes an attempt to turn to better face the force, and overcorrects, barely missing the armor, and leaving two bloody holes in the equestrian lines. It would have gotten away had the vindicator not found its target. With a mighty roar it lets loose a round into the back of the machine. The detonation of the demolisher shell manages to cripple the beast, causing it to flip and roll several times before stopping

Then the cargo of the machine emerge, dozens of orks, clad in rudimentary armor and pissed off about the loss of their transport. At their head stand six figures, head and shoulders above the orks around them. The nobs in their clanking armored suits appear unharmed by the crash, just dirtied. With a guttural roar, they sound the charge, leading their green army towards the imperial lines. The Death korps ready their firing lines, taking aim at their targets in almost perfect sync. The ponies take a little longer to level at the new threat, but eventually get a bead on target. When the cascades of fire fly into the orks, a few fall, but most disregard and try closing to melee.

The commissar arrives at the line around the same time as the orks. He draws his power sword from its scabbard, electric blue energy wrapping around the blade when he ignites it. The Kriegers brace for the charge, bayonets facing the enemy like a hedge. The commissar levels his bolt pistol at the enemy, taking careful aim and firing on the enemy with precision fire. A few orks fall before impact. The krieg line holds as the guardsmen viciously stab and slash with bayonets into the Orks. The commissar himself tears through the greenskins, sword cleanly severing them in half. The Equestrian line does not fare quite as well. The ponies, while many are individually effective, lack the discipline and inherent aggressiveness of the kriegers. Their line begins to fall back after the initial impact of the orks, the sounds of the crude weapons of the orks crashing into equine flesh almost as loud as the roar of the guns. The space marines have turned their weapons against the foe as well, bolt shells leaving craters in the flesh of the greenskins as they detonate.

The commissar takes note of the equestrian retreat, and his instincts take control. He makes his way to the equestrians lines, on the verge of breaking as the captain orders tem to pull back. He levels his bolt pistol at their captain and pulls the trigger. The Pony’s head is there one moment, and is a cloud of pink mist the next. The soldiers around The ex-captain almost break at the sight. The commissar points at a equestrian lieutenant.

“You’re in command now, ordering a retreat without my permission will yield the same result as it did for him.” The commissar fires into the orkish lines, showing his marksmanship off to punctuate his threat. Many of the ponies who’d considered retreating appear to have lost that childish notion in the face of something scarier than the orks behind them. His eagle-eyed observation of the ponies is interrupted by a sickening crunch towards the krieger lines. The commissar looks over, and his eyes widen at the sight of one of the giant armored orks using an imperial guardsman as a basing weapon, laughing like a maniac as he wades into combat. Dozens of lasbolts bounce off his armor, and boltshells do minimal damage, leaving pits in the heavy plates. The Commissar knows this ork. He’d been identified as being a leader of the force currently invading the planet, Grombrig’s his name as far as he remembers.

The ork spies the Commissar, and with a grunt, charges. Commissar Helburk braces his sword for impact. He prepares for the fight, muttering a quick prayer to the emperor. When the ork is but a few feet away, the ork is suddenly pushed over by the sergeant of the space marine squad. The sergeant pauses for a moment, shaking his power fist before punching again, leaving a crater in the armor of the ork. After he gives a few more blows, he levels his inferno pistol at the ork, a brilliant beam of energy boring into the armored ork. A cloud of smoke and steam emerges from the ork in his armor during the immolation. The rest of the space marines lay into the orks with combat knives and bolters.

Without their boss, the orks begin to break, legging it from the battle as best they can. Had they been alone, the astartes may have put more effort into the chase, but raking their backs with bolter fire suffices for the time being. In the haze of smoke and ozone after the engagement, the Commissar looks over the troops under his command. In the engagement, the kriegers suffered seventeen percent losses, perfectly acceptable given that it was an ambush. The Equestrians, who took the brunt of the charge, are a lot worse for wear. Of the original hundred and seven ponies, only forty-two remain combat-effective, of whom, only one is any sort of officer, a sergeant from the markings on her armor. The mangled remains of the other sixty-four lay in the grass and brambles. Many of the ponies are looking away, seeming quite ill at the gruesome sight. For many of the conscripts, this was their first day of real combat. The commissar nods in approval, the battle would have resulted in heavier human casualties had he not removed the coward from the head of the Equestrian forces.

“Alright, we’re going to be resting here for the night, I’ve heard it's none too pleasant to be in these woods at night, especially on the march, and we’ve had sufficient casualties today.” The commissar barks the order out, glancing at the space marines. The sergeant nods his approval as he wipes some fried viscera from his power fist. The Kriegers, upon hearing this, grab their entrenching tools, getting to work on entrenching in the area and setting up camp. Many of the ponies remain somewhat still, wide eyes looking at the corpses of their former friends and their killers. The Commissar looks towards a clump of the ponies, many of whom are the magic-using caste he’d seen all over. He approaches them, hand resting on his bolt pistol.

“Equestrians, You’re on grave duty, I want these bodies in a pile and torched by sunset, Especially the orks, they spread spores when they are left to rot.” The commissar turns on his heel, checking the sun. If the Ponies are only half as efficient as the Kriegers, they’ll get it done by sundown, in about two hours by his reckoning. SOmething bothers the Commissar, why were these orks here? A simple scouting sortie wouldn’t require the presence of the second-in-command of the operation, whose body has mixed most unpleasantly with molten sections of his armor. What were the orks up to? He decides to enquire to the Equestrian sergeant, who’s watching a small group of ponies dig out their own trench, pitifully slow compared to the siege masters of the Imperium. Her mid-grey coat is stained in places with soot and blood, in addition to greenskin viscera. Her mane, which had been well tamed earlier, is bedraggled in similar manner

“Sergeant, what would the orks be seeking in this region?” He leans against a chimera, watching as she thinks for a moment.

“Well, there is the old castle out around here, but there’s really nothing there but old records and some relics.”

“How well documented is this place outside of the area.”

“Well, there are myths out around the coast that the castle is loaded with incredibly powerful ancient relics, but since the elements of harmony got taken out of it a few years ago, nothing of note is really there.”

“So the orks were following a myth, perhaps.”

“Wouldn’t be the strangest thing to happen in Equestria, sir.” The sergeant appears to be using the somewhat banal conversation to cope with the recent events

“You know, for once I agree, xeno.” The commissar draws a lho-stick from his pack, lighting it and taking a deep drag, this war’s a unique one. When they return from the sortie, he’ll request to have a force sent to investigate this castle.

Author's Note

Sorry about the delay, real life was tough on me as of late

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Lament and an emerald tide

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Princess Celestia crosses another name off her checklist of ‘distant relatives who i’ve never really liked’ as Blueblood saunters out of the throneroom, given command over a bunch of conscripts and orders to the front. With any luck he’ll be dead in the week, or worst case scenario, he’s wounded enough that he can’t go to the fight, but not wounded enough to be out of Celestia’s hair. As the doors close behind the unicorn, Celestia gets up from her throne. While she’s by no means fat, the stress eating of late hasn’t been kind to her figure, surprising, since it’s only been approximately a week.

She’d invited the commander of all the imperial forces that have landed in her lands to dinner for that evening, if only to be a gracious host. Normally this would be a boring diplomatic interaction, but for Celestia, these meetings are as tense as it gets, one slip up and Equestria may be left to the greenskins. She is well aware that among the space marines, several factions want to stop helping the ponies, with their ideas ranging from leaving to scouring the whole world of life from space. The idea of something else having that kind of power scares celestia.

A pair of space marines stand at attention outside the door to the guest chambers the chapter master had been given, in spite of her great height compared to ponies, Celestia still has to cock her head upwards slightly to look the giants in the eyes. The two gold-helmeted marines step aside to allow Celestia entry at some inaudible order. Celestia opens the doors with her magic. Her gilded horseshoes click on the marble floor as she enters. The chamber, with its high ceilings and rapidly constructed furniture is the one most suited to the unusual form of a space marine. The giant is looking over some documents next to the fireplace. His helmet lays to the side on a small table, the ornate, crested helm oddly reminiscent of the one Luna had found all those years ago. He glances up from the documents, which on closer inspection look to be maps and orders. He nods at Celestia.

“I’m presuming that you’re here to escort me to dinner, Celestia?” The Space marine stands, his gilded armor reflecting a hundred flicking facets onto the room from the fireplace. At one hip, he bears an ornate blade, the metal radiating an almost unearthly blue glow. The other hip bears some strange pistol, which those who’d seen it on the field say reduced all it struck to cinders and slag. She doubts that, it’s not like a non-pony can take the power of a strong unicorn and can it for later, Celestia of all ponies knows that, she’s tried and failed.

“Yes, if you are available right now, lord Phoros.”

“I currently have nothing to be doing right now, I just dispatched my orders for the day and my daily prayers are concluded.” He gestures to a string of prayer beads dangling from his wrist. His speech is stilted, as if he were getting used to a language he hadn’t spoken in many a year. Under that growls an elegant accent, as if he were used to speaking of art and items of beauty rather than the war that he is waging with brutal efficiency. His face has elegant lines, with a few deep scars running through them. Lord Phoros steps forward and begins making his way to the dining chamber, standing a little taller than the average space marine. His armor shimmers a little, making it apparent he has some sort of shield around him. Celestia found she had to trot to keep up with the giant as he speaks

“So, how is the conscription program going?” He glances down at celestia, cocking an eyebrow as he keeps going down the hallway.

“Oh, it’s going as well as we can expect. We have enough equipment in reserve to outfit ten percent of our total population. We hope the reinforcements will help with holding the lines as much as they can.” She tries to keep calm, hoping not to betray the fact that she has not felt worry to this degree in nearly a millennium. Less worry for victory in this conflict, but worry that her direct intercession may prove needed.

“I see, what’s the morale of your...ponies I believe is the term? I’m still slightly rusty in my low Gothic. From what I’ve heard, they’re holding up very well ” He nods as he passes one of his marines, who’s reading some sort of digital readout, his armor bears the rust-red markings of the space marine technicians. This particular one is setting up some sort of communications device on a balcony, aided by those unnerving half-human half-machines that always accompany those marines.

“Well, I think they’re in good spirits. It takes a lot to break the spirit of Equestria, and the nature of the foe really hasn’t really been made known to the public. They’re unaware of both the nature of the foe and their real strength.” She smiles as several administrative ponies pass, discussing the logistics of some of the rail lines being built to the front, and the massive size of the lines being made for the death korps.

“Ah, and what do they think of the imperium’s forces? From what I can tell, they like the astartes and find the Kriegsmen terrifying.” he stands at the door to the dining hall, which is opened by two unseen servants.

“your evaluation is accurate, although they're less terrified of the kriegers, and more unsettled, I take it that most have that response to them? The political officers attached seem much more...personable I'd say?” she trots into the dining room, followed by the the Space marine, she looks over the spread, largely composed of fine vegetation and bread products from all across Equestria, apart from the parts which lie under the hold of the invaders of course.

“One could say that, although in most guard regiments, the commissars are actually far less pleasant than general troops. In the Death Korps, their job is to convince them to retreat when needed rather than penalize them when they retreat when unneeded. The kriegsmen, of course, simply don’t do that.” He takes a seat in a chair brought from the ships in orbit for him. The marine has a place set for him, in spite of the fact that the marines have not been seen eating since they arrived. Celestia knows that, but courtesy should always be extended for valuable guests.

“Really?” Celestia cocks her head, shed just assumed they were just stoics, a lot of warriors are. But if they’re genuinely fearless… that's another can of worms. “so, are they some sort of special martial order then?”

“well, they're a regiment of the guard, their homeworld is a bombed-out wasteland, and their only goal in life is to die in the name of the God-Emperor.” He casually describes the kriegers as if they’re the most normal thing in the world.

“Interesting. So, I never caught it, but why are you here, any ways, it just seems odd that I’ve never seen another being like you come from the sky in my life, and I've been around for quite a long time.” she eyes up the marine, who adjusts a decoration on his gilded armor.

“I take it you mean why are we in this area of space? In that case, we’ve been on a penitent crusade for quite a long time, I don’t honestly know where one would begin on that. Regardless, we arrived at the edge of your system and we noticed the greenskins encroaching on the world. We assumed you were a human world in need, and thus we engaged under that belief. Until we landed on the planet, we didn’t know you weren’t…” He pauses, unsure how to proceed.

“I understand, many of my advisors are wary of your kind as well.” Celestia lifts a wine glass to her lips with her horn, the marine watches, the golden light reflecting in his eyes.

“My own share that sentiment, although several have expressed a desire to simply destroy this world and call it a day. I feel there’s potential for you equines, and to that end I hope our military cooperation can continue until the greenskin menace is removed.” His statement, while topical, also serves to illustrate that he could have this world scoured should he so choose. In one of the few times in her life, Celestia feels worried that she can’t stand against the threats to Equestria, and this time, the plucky band from ponyville couldn’t do anything to help.

“How long do you believe that might take?” She flicks her eyes over him as the marine thinks, stroking his scarred chin for a moment.

“The problem is that greenskins are unpredictable. If their boss is a dumb one, it will be a few weeks, if he’s intelligent, it could take years.” The uncertainty does not sit well with the sovereign, considering the sword of damocles hanging above the whole matter.

“I see, now, We’ve failed to mention this prior, but...recent events have compelled me to mention this. There is the distinct possibility that there are changeling infiltrators among equestrian society.” Those recent events would be Fluttershy vanishing in trottingham and reappearing in ponyville, and acting odd. Celestia hasn’t sent somepony to confront them yet, but she’s getting to that point.

“Changelings?” The space marine wrinkles his nose, new complications were never good.

“Yes, they’ve been a blight on this world for millennia. Any attempts to purge them lead them to hiding in plain sight, usually they impersonate missing or dead ponies, sometimes even those they find on a battlefield. They look like giant insects. If you do see one, make sure your troops know to get rid of them.” Perhaps if she plays her cards right, an old thorn in the side can be removed.

“I see, what are those recent events?” He sips his wine, one of the few things the Marines seem to actually consume.

“We believe the Bearer of the element of Kindness, Fluttershy is being impersonated by one at this juncture.”

“Is there any way to check?” He leans back a little.

“Yes, I’m preparing to send several guards with the magical skill to do so to ponyville, this situation has also made me aware of several other issues facing Equestria.” She leans in, the slightest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Who knows, perhaps this war can be profited from.

Meanwhile, in the gargantuan forge in the ruins of Manehattan, Graknar roars with rage.

“WHAT DO YOUZE GITS MEAN THAT GROMBRIG GOT KRUMPED?!” In his gesticulating, an unfortunate grot is launched through a window, falling hundreds of feet from the top floor of the Rok. The mekboss is festooned with new trophies, namely a cloak of feathers in dozens of shades hanging from his shoulders and a necklace made of many, many horns, a fair number of which look to have been ripped out rather than cut off.

“Well, you see, doze ‘umies had da big boiz with them, and those magic horsies.” The Nob sheepishly looks up at the boss, noting the number of guns aimed at him.

“Zoggin’ ‘ell, did you at least get da stuff?” He’d heard there were some right flash trinkets in the ancient ruins in the forest.

“No, we didn’t even make it there before the ‘umies we-” He’s suddenly silenced by a large wrench crashing into his skull. The boss continues to bash him for a few moments before looking around. He growls some of the most unspeakable profanity before he looks to another nob, this one looking over his dead peer for valuables.

“You, git, Tell the stormboyz itz time to show their worth.” He shakes the wrench at the other ork, who runs to relay the orders to the crack soldiers. The Giant ork sulks back to his throne, sitting upon the pile of scrap and bones with a groan. He’d quite enjoyed Grombrig, it’s hard to get a reliable lieutenant.

Once the order arrives at the airfield set up on the outskirts of the city, the black-clad stormboyz make their way to their aircraft, jogging roughly in formation. The big, fat engines of the aircraft groan into life, spurting oily black smoke and flames from the tails as the boyz get into the big boxy cargo plane. Once aloft, they consulted their maps, arguing over a low or high drop, eventually agreeing to a low and fast drop before yelling to the pilot to get the craft down to tree level.

The three other aircraft, essentially guns and a cockpit attached to a ludicrous engine scream behind the transport, having been brought in to bomb any forces that might be guarding the loot. Once they reach the rough drop zone, the boyz get ready, opening fuel valves on their jump packs and strapping on their helmets. Once they’re ready, the boyz, who had also gotten masks in imitation of the seemingly infinite discipline of the kriegers, jump from the back of the plane, using their jump packs to soften their fall. All but one of them succeed. The one whose jump pack failed suddenly finds himself rocketing up into the sky, before exploding in a bright orange plume. A few of the orks snigger before getting down to business.

The disciplined orks search through the ruins as the aircraft circle overhead, a dull roar in the distance. Before too long, they come across what they’re looking for, and the leader fires a flare into the air to signal the transport craft to land, which it does, taking out a fair few trees in the attempt. Then the hauling begins as crate after crate of forgotten magical arefacts start being hauled into the belly of the massive aircraft.

Several hundred meters away, obscured in the brush, a group of ponies, kriegers, and commissar Helburk observe, the ponies with growing dread. The commissar looks over to them.

“So, what are those?” He points a gloved finger at the crates.

“T-that would be the old caches of magical weapons. W-we never really thought they were real. B-but seeing this, i-it can’t be good.” The pony, an irregular with a blue coat and a horn stutters through the statement. Not only are the ponies at war, a weapons stash that was thought to be a legend is being stolen from beneath their noses. The Imperials and ponies can’t really do anything against these orks, since they have no heavy weapons to deal with the aircraft.

“Frack, so you’re telling me those are crates of ancient tech that the orks are probably going to reverse engineer?” The commissar looks to the unicorn, cocking an eyebrow.

“Well, they’d need unicorns to do so.” The unicorn smiles, seemingly appeased with that idea.

“You are aware that orks like to enslave and exploit any populations they get a hold of, right? In all odds they’ve got thousands of unicorns, and trust me, they can figure out how to coax magic out of them in a useful way.” The unicorn’s smile vanishes as he realizes this.

“Oh, horseapples.” He looks back at the work being done. After several minutes of observation, the crew returns to the forest on the way back to ponyville. They’ve got a serious report to write out once they arrive.

Author's Note

Sorry about the long wait, life sort of hit me hard fairly recently