The year was zero-zero-five, millennia thirty-one. It was just another day. About as close to paradise as one could get, some might've even said. At least, that's what the Eaters of Worlds might've spoken, as they sped earthward from high orbit. Descending like brutal, screaming swords. Neigh, more like revving, vicious axes. Aimed to pillage and slaughter, with utmost desire to purge and destroy the vile Heretics that lay below them.

Nevertheless, even restrained by the, arguably by their standards, pointless protection systems; the legendary, feared warriors of the World Eaters Legion were itching for the doors to open. To let out and express their extreme hatred and vicious anger to the poisonous yellow skies and dead, grey soil. They were here, by the Warmaster's orders to purge and crush the infamous rebellion of Isstvan III's treacherous population.

Even now, the blood boiled in every marine's hearts and bodies as they hurtled to the surface. Their target, generally speaking, had been to land enmasse to the outskirts of the Hive world's capital city, Khry Vanak and regroup to assault the fortress city before it could react to mount a defense. Although, the warriors of Angron thought little of the mortals they were to callously murder in the name of their Emperor; they did desire to have at least, some form of good battle. To hope these mere mortals would prove worthy of their, more brutal attentions.

Rarely ever, however, was it that simple. Although, by far, as the first drop pods slammed harshly into the stinking, industrially wasted landscape; this was still as close to paradise as the World Eaters could hope for. Burning skies, soft, sludgy soil, and a stinging, scorching torrent of rain to make the fighting interesting. The thick smog from the belching factories and industrial waste dumps made visibility down to mere meters from each other as the bloodied, white and dark blue armor of the drop pod doors sizzled open and fell to the earth.

The massive, imposing, frightening visages of the nightmarish, blood soaked battle plate of the Legiones Astartes emerged out of the darkness. Clutched in their huge, gilded gauntlets were chainswords and chain-axes. Their shield arms carried the large plating with which to guard against all but the strongest attacks. Their helmet lenses glared darkly, as they stared out in their ragtag squads of five to ten mighty marines.

Communiques were travelling between each Astartes wordlessly. Their vox beads lighting up in their hud systems as they discussed how they planned to invade and butcher these traitorous creatures in their own fortified redoubts. There was not a single doubt in the purity of their purpose; the surety that their cause was just and right. Not a passing thought or tear was shed among them, as they began to charge towards the heavy, tall, dull walls of the capital hive city. Their weapons revving with the same bloodlust they held and the contempt for their enemies that was absolute. Not a single soul that had turned from the Emperor's light would be spared today.

Every poor bastard on the planet would be sentenced to exterminatus. But not like those pitiful fools who dared use such worthless weapons like orbital bombardment or virus bombings. This would be good old fashioned one by one, room by room scouring and slaughtering of the defenders and their people. And this would be another notch in the Axes of the Eaters of Worlds as they tore closer and closer to the unsuspecting walls.

Most notable among these forces, would be Captain Gailus of the World Eaters Fourth Company. Leading his warriors to battle with a horrifying battle cry that shook the earth, he stood at the precipice of more glories to his name. Clad in masterfully crafted Cattiphractii Terminator armor, he stood with a huge two handed chain-axe clutched in his massive gauntlets as he growled and looked upwards at the walls. Without much care, he shouldered the mighty weapon and began to slam his fists into the wall. Using his superhuman strength, he created makeshift gripping areas with which for him to start climbing.

His fellow Brothers doing much the same near him. His Grand Company of assault specialists well known for their tactics of swift, brutal attacks. Utilizing direct methods that complimented their insane, raging strength to propel them to greater feats of battle and tactics. Shock, awe, and bloody murder were chief among these prized goals. And the Fourth Company had honed these skills for many, many years. They were sharp as the blades they carried; and so well versed in the art of their warfare, that the first the heretics knew of the World Eaters arrival was when the Hundred Astartes of Gailus were caving skulls and smashing bodies of soldiers into bloody paste.

The screams of the defenders was like sweet, soft music to the Space Marines of Angron, as they bathed in the gore of their unfortunate foes. Their armor becoming painted freshly crimson, despite the acidic rain eating at the rapidly coagulating fluid. It seemed to stain deeper than any acidic substance could hope to remove, as Gailus charged with a furious cry. His weapon raised in challenge to the soldiers who began to form their ranks. Before he could worry for the wasted lives of these heretics, several other brothers of his Company leapt over the walls and tore into these formations of soldiers with zeal and bloodlust.

The time of surprise, was finally gone. Just as the Captain savored most, as he despised the concept of his enemies not being able to futilely resist his will. More than his will; his desire, his need, his insatiable hunger and bloodlust for the death of these Traitors. Few things could hope to challenge such a rage to him; the only thing that could, begrudgingly he would admit, match him, was that of his Primarch's deep seated anger. Regardless, he stood with his brothers as valiantly as even the Ultramarines, as they slid down the walls of the fortress city.

His men were already among the civilians. These bastards; who had accepted, embraced even, the traitorous ways of their government. They were complicit just as much with the Heresy as any of the corrupt officials who had organized the overthrow of the Imperials stationed here. He would stand no less for these soft, squishy little mortals, who were peddling about as if nothing different had occurred since they fled from the light of the Emperor.

And so it was that, beneath his heavy helmet, he held a perverse smile. Watching these pitiful excuses for human light be sliced and ripped to torn shreds and chunks of flesh and bone was satisfying to him on a personal level. Especially when they begged for their wasteful lives like Traitorous dogs. That was the best part, as he broke into a hab unit. His immense form tearing through permacrete and plas-steel like butter. His chain-axe revving madly as he was becoming, as he pulped the first human he saw.

It had been an older man, the first he had met and slain. His face was contorted in surprise and sheer terror. The sight, as his wrinkled expression withdrew in pain from the force of his fist colliding with his soft face was brilliant. A symphony all its own, as he watched his head turn to mist. Leaving his body wracked with spasms of the shock of such a quick death. It was too good for these mortals, but an acceptable one if the Legion was to retain its zealous swiftness in cleansing the city by nightfall.

The next he charged, seemed a slightly more youthful woman. Probably around her forties in Terran years. Far too bad her beauty was Heretical, he actually considered, as his axe was biting into her midsection. Her innards falling out and truly making her as beautiful as any art piece to him. Much better, as he listened to her shrieks and eventually her whimpers of agony.

"Music, sweet music" He mused aloud. Letting her hear his grizzled, horrifying deep tones as he raised his hefty greave above her face before stomping so hard the floor cracked. Only mush of her head and shards of bone clung to his armored boot, as he moved on. Butchering his way slowly up the huge, complex spire with the same, simple glee written on his hidden face.

But he was no simple, barbarous butcher. For he knew despite his orders and his personal feelings; there was one true thing he would not corrupt himself with. and when he was near the top of the spire he was cleansing, he was met face to face with it. There, as he broke into the cramped, filled room of what he would've considered traitors like usual, laid dozens of small children. He tore himself quickly from his rage, merely standing there. Slathered with gore of thousands. Chunks of organs, skin, and bone plastered on his armor. He lowered his weapon, despite the anger and the butcher's nails screaming at him to continue the slaughter, he resisted that urge.

He simply stood there, watching these tiny humans flee from him to the far wall. Gathered in a bunch behind a single young woman. Her face frightened, but holding firm. Her hair was tied back, and her grey eyes were not dull like the drones he had slain prior. A hint of valor was there, courage to be sure. Even in her rags for clothes; she shielded these children against the presumed monstrous, wrathful Terminator Captain. She had a lot more courage than even some of his Brothers might.

Even the Captain reckoned that, were he on a level playing field with this poor mortal, he would have a good fight on his hand, as he slowly sheathed his mighty chain-axe. This briefly put surprise on the woman's face, before she spat at him angrily.

"You're not hurting these kids while I draw breath, monster." She snarled.

The sentiment almost made Gailus laugh. This tiny bitch truly had spunk, he could give her that as well. He clutched his chestplate before slowly removing his helm. Revealing the scarred, vicious and wicked face of a brutal killer. Somehow, maintaining a sense of ease and calm in the face of the current situation, his face could still, in a way, still be considered handsome. With its chiseled structure shaping up like a regent on an old coin. And his eyes, though black, had flecks of crimson that were attractive in this calmed state.

"If I wanted your poor wretches dead, you wouldn't have even been able to utter those words, wench." He retorted at last, making her look at him with a tilt of her head. "But I'm in a good mood, and I have no taste to murder children. So I will tell my men to restrict themselves from killing them. And direct them into your care. Consider this place your internment camp until I can determine guilt or innocence."

He could see this was a bit more than the mere, tiny human could ever hope for. But she still bore anger. "How many families did you kill today? How many will you murder? You are still a monster, even if you think you're doing the Emperor's work. Because you're killing His people."

"You and your people rebuked the right to be the Emperor's people the moment you agreed to secede from the Imperium." He growled quietly, tapping his hand on the mighty axe on his back. "Unless you want to torment these kids by watching your gruesome death, do not insult my intellect again or question my purity of purpose."

She fell silent at that, as he replaced his helmet. Speaking to his Brothers through his vox bead directly to their heads up displays. There were gripes, of course; but these were understood, as updated feeds showed them sparing those that could reasonably be considered children and single guardians for each of the groups they forcibly ordered back to his current position. He was pleased with this, and also ordered his subordinate, Sergeant Zafel, to stand guard and watch the primary entrance to the building.

He left the woman, on a parting word. "May you well remember your vows to the Imperium, harpy. Lest I devour everything you care for as we will this World."

He departed, and marched back down the spire staircase. Meeting his Sergeant briefly to ensure he understood his directives. Thankfully, Zafel was more like him. Bred and born of Terran stock. He was hardy, strong, and very controlled in his emotions for the most part. Even more so than him, which was surprising. He was a wise, aged veteran of hundreds of campaigns. Weathered, but unbroken. Even by the butcher's nails that both were implanted with, he held to a stern, taciturn nature that was very unlike the majority of their Legion.

"I trust you know what you are doing, Captain." Zafel merely stated, in a more unamused fashion than with any anger.

"I know enough, Sergeant. Your objections are already noted. We discussed this on my way down." He replied, smiling a bit behind his helmet.

"Just do not leave me with these pitiful mortals too long. I might grow fond of them." Zafel and the Captain shared a small laugh, before embracing briefly in a warrior's grip at the elbow and shoulder.

"I will do my best to ensure my killing edge cleanses this filth by nightfall at worst." He honored his Sergeant's words, nodding in respect before steadily walking from the hab block with a thunderous advance.

The streets were filled with blood and death. Rivers running into the drains on the edge of the cobbled roads. Buildings were burning or in shambles, and the chunks of human corpses were piled to chest height of even his mighty frame. He thought nothing of it, as he dismissed the terrified gazes of the poor, unfortunate mortals who were leading columns of terrified, screaming, whimpering children past him to the internment block. Today was a glorious day for him, as he received reports that the lower spires and the underhive was already mostly cleared. Additional forces from other squads had done well as they had. And the hours were ticking by, as he marched to rejoin his own squad at the current frontline.

The streets were being crisscrossed with huge volleys of las-fire. The defenders were fully woken up by this point, and had organized their militia troops and traitor Army forces into disciplined ranks. They had established strong points along highways. Fortified spires and blocked off streets with trenches, bunkers, and sandbag positions. Heavy bolters raked the line, and leman russ battle tanks were dug in hull down, blasting away at the cover of the advancing World Eaters he led to war. The rattling of lasguns and autoguns pattered off of even the lighter power armored marines under his command; but those tanks could make short work of them if they let their berserker fury get the better of their tactics.

Thankfully, the Captain had taught them well. And so narry a single Astarte had managed to fall in battle yet as they navigated the cratered street they were fighting for. Heading upwards, fighting brutally through the well placed defenses like vicious savages. Leaving smoking wrecks, impaled soldiers crying their last breaths to the heavens on broken rebar and their own weaponry. In this time, however, a stray heavy bolter round had managed to catch in a chink of Gailus' armor, detonating and stumbling the mighty Terminator a few steps back.

He simply winced, looking at the heavily damaged area before scoffing. The shell had not armed in the correct time to take it off or shatter the vertebrae in his spine. Virtually, most of his sustained damage was flesh and muscle, for the detonation had blown out from his back. Thus, he was mostly safe for the time being. He howled in primordial rage and charged at the bunker that had caused it. A few grenades, and he reduced it to rubble. Bashing his way in afterwards and coating the walls in blood before exiting. The wound he suffered, externally at least, had already started to scar over and seal. Preventing further blood loss as he focused his mind and channeled his body to control any unnecessary internal bleeding.

He growled, noting in the time that he had destroyed the bunker, that one of his Brothers displays in his helm was flashing critical. He stormed forward, moving to the signal and watching as the mortally wounded man he was leading stood. The warrior he had stood with for many campaigns was on his last leg; fighting amidst a horde of militia and soldiers that were blasting away at him. He struck out with furious vengeance against his foes, lashing with axe and shield like a fighter of legend. The enemy were stalwart and dedicated though, stabbing and prying at his battleplate with their bayonets. Keeping him locked in place in melee. He ran with all haste that he could, trying to spare his Brother such a foul fate of death by these Traitors, when something more gave him intense pause.

Impact. He felt impact. The kind of blast that was something no mere gun could provide. One he knew well, as he turned from the fighting and looked outwards. From his position on the street, he could see out in the far distance of the surrounding lands a great, terrible mist beginning to rapidly rise and spread. Already he could smell it, even without his protective helmet or enhanced sensory systems that it had. And if he could smell it, then it would not be long before he would feel the horrifying taste of it.

The fickle taste, of Death. A slow, yet strangely rapid death. One that ripped and tore through any life even faster than the supreme efficiency of the finest butchers in the Imperium.

"Fucking FUCKERRRRRS!" He shouted, both over the vox beads and personally for all to hear. Drawing a quiet over the hive, as his Brothers paused their brutal, hand to hand fights and moved with all haste to regroup.

"Captain," Zafel greeted over the vox. "Get to cover. Find a sealed bunker. Fast." Was all he said before his transmission cut out. Interference most likely. as he knew the old Sergeant was not stupid or dulled to what was coming.

He could assume in seconds that they had minutes at best. Only minutes, before their death would come if they did not withdraw to safe positions.

"What's the nearest hermetically sealed bunker in this block?" Gailus asked to his Brothers, of which there were still eight out of his ten. No one had fallen, although the one brother he had tried to spare was still critical on his display. He moved with grace, and shouldered the man without accepting his protests. His seven brothers formed a defensive spearhead, and silently led the Captain to the closest facility they could locate from their own map displays.

"We will breach and clear Captain," A veteran Brother said, with cold calmness as he hefted his chainsword and bolt pistol.

They stood at the blast doors, in the basement of a shop. Marked still with Imperial insignia, he felt curious of why it was not changed yet. The answer he was given was surprising, as he watched the doors open almost in a welcoming way. He stood with his Marines face to face with dozens of Guardsmen. All with lasguns levied in rank. But they yielded almost instantly, as if recognizing them as friendlies.

"Get in here Astartes!" A man, dressed in an officer's cap and flak armor shouted. The man bore the Aquila on his armor, and the regimental number of the Isstvan III's fifty-second regiment.

Not the question a bloodless, quick way in, the Captain ushered his Brothers forward before the doors began to seal again. If anything went haywire, they could just as easily butcher these poor bastards as they had been doing in the streets. So he didn't worry overmuch as he laid his Brother down against a wall and ordered him to tend his wounds.

"Who are you?" He rumbled aloud, drawing his chain-axe in a casually defensive manner.

"Honored Marines," The older man, whom he could identify as a Colonel, saluted, "We are all that's left of the Loyal elements of the Isstvan III Fifty-Second Firehawks. We've been fighting for years alone, trying to liberate our world from these Heretics."

"Lucky we didn't slaughter you bastards then." Gailus surprisingly chuckled, "We were ordered by the Warmaster to obliterate all Traitors on this world."

"Is that why Exterminatus was declared?" The good Colonel thumbed to a pict-screen, indicating the current look from a camera system situated out on the surface streets. "Those are virus bombs aren't they? Life eater virus. That's why you lot fled to our bunker. To safeguard from it."

"We didn't call that order in. We had the situation well in hand to destroy every trace of traitors here." Gailus retorted, his face contorted in a hidden snarl of anger at the assumption. "World Eaters purge by hand, not by those technological, biological abominations."

"Well someone did it. and I don't thick they were exactly Loyal to your ways as you claim."

The thought hit the Captain like a sinking stone. The only forces that were currently in orbit were the Emperor's Children, the Death Guard, the Sons of Horus, and his own Legion. No other forces were alive in system to resist or even carry a payload that could launch exterminates of the grade he knew was currently taking the planet like a firestorm outside.

"I can't believe that." Was all he could say, as he stood at the precipice of a new understanding. One he could scarcely stomach, and neither could his Brothers. Their expressions hidden by helmets; but he could tell there was a fire deep in their eyes. A Burning Hatred, the likes of which could never be found in any other Astartes save their Legion.

"Better believe it." The Colonel turned on his heel, and ordered his ragtag band of soldiers to begin preparing an area to accommodate the Captain's Astartes. "You better get comfortable here. That bombing will take a day at least I figure until it is burned out enough to be safe for even your breed of warrior to safely venture."

Gailus finally nodded, and crouched down into a meditative state. Focusing and husbanding the internal agony and rage he felt deep within. Something not even the butcher's nails could even dream of achieving in his soul. He swore death and vengeance upon all those who had turned from him and his Brothers today. All who had condemned his loyal following to die for a fruitless war so needlessly. In that state, almost like a trance, he caught a glimpse of a strange vision. One that melded his rage into an oddly calmed serenity. A perfect mixture, that he could only grasp for moments.

A world, verdant by many ways of consideration. Reminding him primarily of old Terra. Perhaps a vision of his past, he figured. Something his brain tried to do perhaps, to soothe his ailed mind. He could not help, but feel the oddity of it, as it seemed so serene and peaceful compared to all the horrors of the galaxy he had not only been privy to; but actively participated in during his service to the Emperor. It seemed silly almost, to see such peace in a mind filled only with war and hate. But for a brief second, he allowed it. As he took note of only a few other things off in the far distance.

Obscured though they were by the edges of this vision, he could perceive the brick and wooden structure of buildings. Possibly some more medieval Imperial world, he reckoned. With laborious fields being worked by figures and strange, smallish creatures he vaguely recalled were equine in nature.

In this vision, he was bereft of every thought of anger he had; until the reality of destruction weighed on his mind and he snapped from his trance. He could smell the cold, unyielding steel of the bunker. Taste the blood in his mouth from his own cheek. His blood, he had drawn by straining to stay in that pointless vision. His seething rage had returned, and he could smell the acrid stench of the sludge that blocked the bunker doors. Despite them being sealed expertly, his enhanced senses could still faintly detect it. It was terrible, as in that sludge, he knew lay consigned the fates of many thousands of great warriors and Heretics alike. Brothers, and enemies. Mingled together in death.

A hard shaking back to the true nature of things, as he stood again and eyed his Brothers. All of whom were standing, even the one he had brought in so critically injured. He had healed in due time. So it was that likely hours had passed; despite how it had felt like simple moments in time. He wasn't surprised. Visions came to him often. He was one of the few who had survived the procedures of the butcher's nails that was psychically attuned. Very few ever did. And his visions usually did last for hours when he meditated or was in prayer. Typically giving him glimpses of glories to come. But here, he had been left, a single question to ponder; as he glared at the blast doors and waited for them to be able to be opened again.

"Where will we go if our Legion and the Warmaster has turned their backs on us?"

Author's Note

Hello there fine reading audience. I hope you have enjoyed the first chapter in what is my first story here on FIM. If you did, please remember to leave a like and comment your thoughts about the story. Constructive Criticism is always appreciated as it helps me grow as a writer, and I'm always looking for helpful thoughts or tips on how to improve.

Again, hope y'all enjoyed the first of many chapters to come, and may the Emperor Protect!