The grey-armored Thunderhawk, streaked with faint copper sigils of the Cuprum Lords, waited on the launch deck, engines humming with restrained power. Inside its cavernous hold, the nine Astartes of Tactical Squad Convex finished stepping into their places as Brother-Apothecary Calsin quietly ran through final preparations. His white-armored figure, marked with crimson helix emblems, stood out starkly against the grays and blacks of the squad. A red tabard covered most of his legs and torso, script written on ancient parchment was draped along the center of the red fabric, with ancient prayers and oaths tied closely to his expertise. On his belt chains were wrapped around, holding a copy of the Codex under his power unit.

Brother-Sergeant Procuran strode to the center, his white helm gleaming off the industrial lights, his voice firm and as aged as the rest of him. “Our mission is simple but vital. The 3rd Company bleeds below us. We ensure Brother-Apothecary Calsin reaches them to staunch their wounds and retrieve the honored dead. We will bring him to the 3rd’s Apothecary, then we join with the rest of the 7th and support our brethren in their spearhead.” He scanned the squad as he recited his given orders, each marine acknowledging their leader in silence.

As he moved to the front of the squad, the rustling of chains and fabric followed him; chains dipped in scented oils were stamped onto his chest piece and pauldron, and his personal heraldry was shown off by the loincloth between his legs. He had a chainsword sheathed on his hip, a fierce weapon and his badge of office, the number of enemies it alone killed nearly beat the squads combined tally.

The marines aligned themselves to the clamps above them, waiting as the servos activated and the legs of the overhead machines moved down onto them, securing them in place as the clamps locked onto their ceramite plates.

Locari Venathor, a new member to the squad and the company, shifted ever slightly at the new weight bearing down on his armor. He checked the magnetically secured metal on either side of him, ensuring they had been secured properly. He ran more in-depth checks over his equipment and his bolter for the third time since he arrived in the hanger bay.

Intuitively Locari ran basic tests on his weapons and tools. His set of grenades were correctly secured on his belt; the ammunition he expected to use up were in their respective pouches and compartments; his armor systems were working as effectively as the day he donned his plate, and overall nothing was out of place. He took a glance to the parchment wrapped on his left vambrace; script written personally and blessed by the chaplaincy, a promise that for as long as it remained whole no round fired justly would miss its mark. He could hear the ever faint rustle of the chain secured on his power generator, the number of links on it was too small to go on his pauldron, chest, or arms.

To his left, his fellow marine got his attention, tapping his pauldron as they also checked over their gear. “I hear the 3rd is fielding a Terminator squad for their assault.” Locari looked at the marine, Brother Luvenus Tiron; they had fought alongside each other in the same squadrons during their time in the 8th, 9th, and 10th companies. “What a treat it will be to watch such honored members of the chapter in action.”

Locari respected and trusted any marine in his chapter without question, but being so new to the 7th the vast majority of faces were still new to him. Luvenus was the only man in his squad that Locari knew by heart. He was a man of ambition, Luvenus, he had spoken often of his goal to one day join the Bladeguard, and his sights were set on earning a sword of his own, one he promised would be a relic of its own by the time he was done. Locari had little doubt he would achieve that desire, if his performance within the 8th was any evidence to back the belief.

Locari preferred the smell of bolter smoke to the glint of a well-sharpened blade, but he couldn't truly mark any style of combat as his own. He didn’t have quite the same desire to toss his firearm aside and meet the enemy head-on as Luvenus did, nor did he fully favor the raw power he had in hand during his time among Devastator Squads. Perhaps the Sternguard was his calling but for him it didn’t truly matter; the wisdom of his superiors would decide it when the time came. Duty was all that mattered in the end. Still… what he would give for the opportunity to don the Crux Terminatus.

Locari nodded to his brother's words. “I’m doubtful we will be lucky enough to see them, we’ll be on the flanks for most of the coming assault.” He had never seen Terminators with his own eyes, only the mighty tales of their deeds from the chaplains and in the stories he heard from brethren while dining on a well earned kill in the feasting halls. He cherished any meeting with the chapter's greats, all of them were living legends of the Emperor’s Angels. He would remind himself at times that he was now among these Angels; he was one of them, no longer a boy staring wide-eyed at their ancient statues who’s sizes dwarfed the buildings around them.

Luvenus shrugged at Locari’s response, not taking his eyes off of his Plasma Incinerator. “One can hope.” He was silent for a moment longer, finishing the practiced checks on his armaments. “Think you’ll score yourself some slain warpspawn?” Locari had more in mind than mere mindless entities of the Immaterium, but any kill he’d accept gladly.

“Most certainly,” Locari finished his checks, magnetically securing the bolter to his leg plate. “I’ve itched for the opportunity to add to the pools of spilt daemon blood. I’ll gladly take the chance to put down the abominations.” He had yet to receive the opportunity to fight the Archenemy, his career had been mostly spent facing the xeno threat and traitorous mortals. From his very induction he had waited for the chance to strike at the truest enemy of the Imperium.

The Thunderhawk’s ramp hissed shut, plunging them into a red-lit gloom. The pilot’s voice crackled over the vox. “This is Daedryn at the helm. Strap in. Descent begins.”

The dim light hadn’t affected his sight. Locari’s lenses acted instantly to make up for the lost light, his own eyes would have made up for it as well. He could still see the black on the pauldrons, lower legs, and backs on his brothers; he could see the grey covering the rest of them, and the copper on their trim and symbols.

Seconds later the strapped in marines were jostled as the Thunderhawk lifted. The sound of blaring engines was muffled by the thick walls between it and the cavernous hold they resided in.

“If it's daemon blood you're after you’ll be disappointed,” Locari and Luvenus turned to the Apothecary as he spoke, the white-armor clad marine fiddling with the cogitator mounted on his arm, the servo-arms on his back moving to a dormant position with a press on his instrument. “The daemons lack the courtesy to remain long enough for us to make trophies of them.”

Locari and Luvenus looked at each other for a moment, then back to their senior brother. “Truly?” Luvenus said with mild curiosity.

Locari had known Calsin to a degree since he was accepted into the chapter, having been the Apothecary to oversee the surgeries done to give him his new existence. However it was only during this mission’s briefing earlier that they had truly spoken to each other.

“Yes,” Calsin replied, nodding. “If you want blood, see if you can’t settle scores with the traitors who brought the abominations here.” He finally looked up to the two. “You should be quick however, our 3rd company compatriots aren't the kind to share glory.”

“They can keep their glory,” Sergeant Procuran cut in, turning his head back to face the three. He had been directly in front of Locari, opposite of the main ramp since takeoff. “We’re here to keep Calsin alive, not to add to our tally. You all can worry about making a name for yourselves when you join the battlelines.”

Sergeant Procuran was much like any other honored marine who bore the responsibility of his rank. A hard man, wisened from faithful service dwarfing Locari’s own. He was Firstborn like the Calsin, not Primaris like Locari and the rest. What opinion Procuran had on the arrival of the new breed of Astarte he did not share, nor did any squad member feel it important to ask. He fought well and led better, he had once stopped Locari’s demise from a rather foolish choice on the battlefield.

A rustling shook the vessel ever slightly, Locari had assumed the Thunderhawk had long since departed from the strike cruiser. He looked to where the Techmarine piloting the vessel was, barely able to see the space outside through the open door of the cockpit. They were on course directly for the moon below, and even with a restricted view he could see the battle raging on the lunar landscape.

The pilot’s voice broke over the vox again, but this time it was tinged with confusion. “Sergeant Procuran, something’s off. My instruments are acting strangely.”

“What do you mean?” Procuran said, his voice touched with a hint of concern.

“I’m seeing anomalies—warp signatures, faint but flickering ahead of us. They’re not consistent,” Daedryn reported. “And the cogitators are picking up readings that don’t match the planet’s surface. It’s as if something is… shifting in and out of phase.”

Procuran frowned beneath his lenses, his helmet tilting slightly. “Is the Thunderhawk in danger?”

“No… not yet. But the vox traffic is bizarre. I’m getting fragmented signals from the surface—ours and the Guard, I can’t make anything of it.” Daedryn’s voice faltered momentarily. “They’re saying something to the strike cruiser.”

“Focus on the mission, Brother,” Procuran ordered calmly. “Get us to the drop zone. Ignore the interference.”

Locari could hear what was on the communication from where he stood, his own ears were enough to make out clearly what the Techmarine was listening to on the open comms installed in his cockpit. As stated by Daedryn it was gibberish at best. He knew the traitors used the warp for their own heretical purposes, but what would cause such disturbances to reach all the way up here?

“Wait, I'm getting something through the signals.” The Techmarine was silent, listening carefully to the communications in his helm, comms only he could hear. “By the Emperor…”

Procuran looked up to the pilot's cockpit. “What is it, Brother?”

Without warning, the Thunderhawk jolted violently. Daedryn’s voice crackled back into the hold, louder and more frantic. “Warp tear dead ahead! Emperor preserve us—it’s opening!”

The marine yanked the controls of the Thunderhawk, careening the vessel out of its planned path. The mechanisms holding the men in place did their job in stopping the Astartes from being tossed around the interior.

Locari tensed as did every marine on board, their sites focused on what little they could see outside. Locari could see the nose of some vessel tearing through a growing wound in the space ahead, revealing the chaotic energies of the Immaterium around it.

“Get us out of here, Daedryn!” Procuran shouted through the ship.

“I’m doing what I can! The ship's spirit is plagued by the warp!”

The lights flickered, the cogitators on board buzzing and screeching senselessly as garbled information filled their screens. Luvenus looked away from the warps light entering the ship, not daring to stare too long. Every movement of the Thunderhawk pushed him against his armor.

The rumbling of the vessel's engines flickered and died. “It’s pulling us in! I can’t—”

The Thunderhawk plunged into the warp tear, and for a single—terrible moment, silence enveloped them. It was as if the universe itself had ceased to exist.

Locari could only hear his breathing from within his helmet, the lights of the ship had burst and died, leaving only his armor's sensors and his own enhanced eyes to provide vision. He gripped his bolter tightly, waiting for anything to change in this dead silence. He stared at his brothers, all of whom were shooting their gazes from left-to-right, all their unholstered weapons in-hand.

His vox came to life, Procuran’s comms distorted voice coming through. “Daedryn, respond. What's happening out there?”

Locari looked to the open cockpit; Daedryn wasn’t moving. The marine was slumped over his controls. Crimson leaked from the gaps in his helm.

Locari stiffened, his hands gripping his bolter as faint, sibilant voices crawled through his vox. They weren’t words—just sounds, wrong and invasive. He glanced toward the rear of the ship. Shadows seemed to shift unnaturally there. He raised his bolter, scanning for anything.

“Brother?” Luvenus said, immediately following Locari’s gaze.

“Something is here… I feel it.”

A sharp tearing of metal filled their ears. Every marine darted their eyes across the ship, sounds of things tearing themselves into the ship made their way in.

“Warpspawn!” Procuran shouted, unholstering his sword.

The Thunderhawk screamed to life, cogitators exploding with energy as screams from outside filled the walls. The clamps holding the marines down disengaged, flinging Locari to the back ramp.

Locari slammed into the ramp with a grunt, pinned down by the chaotic forces at bay as he pushed away from the armored structure of the ship. Behind him he heard the explosive sound of unleashed bolter rounds. He turned and aimed his weapon ahead.

Daemons, what he thought to be them, poured in, chittering and screeching as the squad opened fire. Bolters roared, tearing into the unnatural forms, but for every one they destroyed, another clawed its way inside. One was struck, being rendered paste on the hull, and another had its head turned to mist. Calsin fired plasma into them, leaving steaming holes in them; Procuran tore into any who made it inside, the teeth of his sword making short work of the beasts.

“Rakian, behind you!” Luvenus shouted, but it was too late. Rakian was seized by a writhing mass of talons, tearing into his armored body, dragging him from away despite his struggles. His pained shouts echoed briefly before whatever awaited outside claimed him.

The Thunderhawk groaned, the sound of metal tearing splitting the air. “Hold the line, keep the bastards out!” Procuran yelled, his voice a rallying point amidst the chaos, vying to enforce any sense of order.

Locari fired into the mass of daemons, his shots precise and measured despite the storm of emotions clawing at his mind. Each round met its mark, the creatures’ agonized screeches were drowned out by the blasts of purified rounds from his weapon.

A sudden lurch threw him from his position, and he scrambled to reorient. The ramp behind him was torn open, talons and hands of unknowable creatures clawing their way in. He tried standing as he aimed with one arm to the new aggressors, taking no time to line up a shot as each round struck true.

“Brother!” Luvenus came from behind, trying to reach for Locari, his gauntlet nearly touching, but the ship rocked again, a sudden force and grabbing entities pulling the two towards the opening.

Locari tumbled into the sudden dark, his bolter still firing into whatever enemy met his sight. Around him, the Aether swirled with its malevolent energies. His breathing echoed loud in his helmet, and a terrible sense of suffocation gripped him. The whispers grew louder, clawing at him from within.

He looked for Luvenus, for the ship, but found nothing.

One creature clambered to his leg, he brandished his knife, as long as his forearm, just as it plunged its razor appendage into his leg. He sliced it in half. Before he could remove the limb still lodged in his own another dived to him, aiming its serrated arm for his eye. He met its bladed limb with his steel, striking the blow away before decapitating it.

What was he to do? He had no means to orient himself or reach the ship. No strategy he could conjure could aid him in this. He was alone in the heart of the Immaterium, he had no doubt his brothers were fighting off being made meals to the uncaring fiends of this realm. How he still held his sanity he couldn’t know either.

He saw no more signs of the beings that tore the vessel to ribbons after dispatching two, but he doubted they’d forget him. It didn’t matter; he still had his mind, if they wanted him he’d make them pay dearly for it.

He had stopped firing some time ago, sheathing his knife; a dull hum filled his ears at the abrupt silence. It grew into the steady rhythm of his own breathing. The rasp of air through his helmet filters was loud against the oppressive silence. He tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy, his armor unresponsive.

The systems of his Mark X plate stuttered erratically, faint bursts of light illuminating the interior display before fading again. Warnings and runes blinked on and off, stuttering like a failing heart. Suddenly all his helm’s internal lights ceased, along with everything else; no vox signal, no auspex readings, nothing but the sound of his breathing.

He waited, but there was only darkness.

This was wrong, he thought. Of what he knew of the Warp, he knew that silence was anathema to it, moreso pure darkness. He hadn’t gone blind, and he could still grasp his own thoughts, so why was this all he was experiencing?

He glanced down, straining to lift his arm to where his bolter should have been. For a moment, he thought it was gone, lost in whatever chaos had dragged him here. But then it appeared, flickering in and out of his vision like a phantom. One second, it was solid in his gauntlet, the next, it was gone again. He squeezed his hand around the grip, willing it to stay real.

If it wanted his weapon, this place would need his head first.

The void around him was absolute—inky black and all consuming. He turned his head slowly, searching for any sign of the Thunderhawk, his squad, or even the warp storm that had swallowed them. It was as though he had been cast into a bottomless abyss, a forgotten Angel of The Emperor.

Movement, Just barely, he saw something stirring in the black. His helm's flickering sensors came to for a moment but failed to mark it; his instincts screamed danger, he knew it wasn’t human. Without hesitation, he raised his bolter and fired. The weapon roared in defiance, its bark impossibly loud in the dead silence. The flash of the muzzle lit the void for a heartbeat, and in that moment, he saw it—a mass of some indescribable beast, a tentacled limb grasping upon him, it shuddering as it was torn apart by the rounds.

Then, the weight hit him.

He felt himself falling, plummeting endlessly as echoes roared around him. The screams of his brothers, the laughter of unknowable beings—all merged into a cacophony that threatened to drown him. He fired again, into the nameless abomination, his bolter bucking against his grip. Each flash from his weapon gave hints to what hid around him, he swore he could see the bodies of his brothers plummeting with his in the distance.

He lost sight of it as his bolter ran dry. Shifting gravity tugged at him relentlessly, pulling him further and further. His senses told him he was in freefall but he could make nothing of his direction.

A crack of light tore through the void, sudden and blinding. Luvenus turned his head away, the brilliance overwhelming even the reactive lenses of his helm. He dared to look again, he couldn’t allow anything to possibly escape his sight.

‘By His throne’

Darkness had given way to vibrant color. Lush green and snowy white exploded around him, framed by an endless sky of brilliant blue. For a fleeting moment, it was beautiful—but he had no time to spend gazing at scenery.

What form of madness was this? Did he escape? Had the warp infested his mind and distracted him with false hope? He shook his head, trying to see past any illusion, but the ever approaching land was anything but fake.

As he fell, clouds parted around him, and below, a vast forest stretched as far as he could see. The whistling of air flew past his dead armor. The treetops waved in the cold wind, their movement alien in its serenity. He scanned the horizon in the seconds he had, his enhanced vision catching details even in his tumbling descent. Far in the distance, a plume of smoke rose, dark and foreboding against the calmer backdrop of woods.

But there was no time. The trees rose to meet him, their snow covered crowns rushing up like an advancing enemy. Lotari did what he could—bracing his arms and locking his armor’s joints in preparation for impact.

The leaves brushed against his armor, and then the world erupted into chaos. Branches shattered against ceramite, his body twisting as he plummeted through layer after layer of dense wood.

Something more pressing than the very quickly approaching ground captured his thoughts, something that worried him more than the unavoidable impact before him.

There was no bolter in his hands.

Everything went black as he kissed the snowy ground with the force somewhat less than that of a drop pod. He felt organs and muscle do their absolute best to force their way out as his body took the full force of the sudden stop.

He stood still for a moment, allowing an instant of peace from the situation to exhale a groan through his helmet's grill. A second later he clenched his hands and forced himself up to a kneeling position.

He tried to scan his surroundings but found everything still very dark; he doubted night had come so quickly.

He rubbed the face of his helmet, a speck of light entering through making sense of his sudden blindness. He scraped dirt from his lenses but still it clung on, his armored hand doing more to smear it around then remove it.

He took a second to think of his surroundings, even if the air wasn’t breathable he could last long enough to do what was needed. He sighed before clasping under the sides of his helm.

A loud hiss of compressed air seeped from the seal on his neck. Not wasting a moment further he removed his helmet, finally scanning his whereabouts properly.

He already gathered it was a snowy forest; whether by seasonal change or a permanent feature he didn’t care. Looking down for a second to inspect his helmet he finally removed the dirt, using the under armor of his hand to better get it off. As he did this he scanned every inch of his surroundings; every shrub, tree, leaf, and hiding or departing fauna.

He looked for one more time at his helm, a Mk VIII pattern, before strapping it back on, its systems were still unresponsive, the armor feeling looser, and bearing all its weight on him. He stood up, seeking his next priority.

The ground was all disturbed snow and dirt, he scanned for a moment longer before–

A miniscule creature stood to his left, barely taller than his foot. It trembled the moment his eyes rested on it. It was not the white, long eared animal that caught his attention however.

He approached it, barely acknowledging its increased reaction at his approach, he kneeled , still towering over the black eyed animal. He eyed for a moment longer, and just as it took a step back he grasped it, eliciting a fearful squeal; he set the thing aside with a weak toss into soft snow.

He grasped the heavy instrument, wiping snow and dirt away before giving it a decent strike to clear what remained. A quick check of the scope and chamber left him satisfied and he stood.

He needed to find his squad, which trumped any other worry. If he survived then by the Emperor’s grace they might’ve survived as well. By finding them he would locate Calsin, and the mission would continue.

Without needing to recollect he knew exactly where the pillars of smoke were located. He moved from stillness to a sprint in seconds, but to his surprise he was halted, sent to the ground before catching himself. He looked down; his leg, where the abomination scored a hit, had an opening through the ceramite and under suit. Combat stimms must’ve done their work before his armor ceased function, and speaking of his armor…

He heard the whirring engine on his back increase in volume, the tightening of machine muscles wrapped over his own giving a brief calm to himself. The lights in his helm came back to life, a flood of information and readings filling his eyes before they organized themselves.

He stood again, ignoring the feeling in his leg and sprinting off, snapping away branches and trunks that met his pauldrons, each loud stomp he took propagated through the forest.

Hooves crunched on the snowy ground, making quiet clip-clop noises as the cloaked group of ponies gathered around a large patch of snow-cleared grass, the patch was decorated by a complex set of markings, forming a circle around the group. The midday sun cast small shadows on all of them, hiding their hooded faces in shadow.

Chant was standing on one side of the circle, watching as the elder member of the cult reached his place a few steps outside of the glyphs.

Chant was nervous as he looked around at the other ponies, who also had their faces covered by hoods. Some seemed equally nervous as himself, others held a scowl on their muzzle, and a few had a strange calmness to them.

His friend was the one who invited him to the group, that very friend now stood beside him, waiting as did everyone else. Chant had been dealing with hard times for awhile now; he had been fired from his cushy job back in Manehattan, for reasons that made no one else want to employ him, forcing him to leave the city to find bits elsewhere. Everywhere he went either had no job available for his skills; had nothing that paid enough for a family of four, two of which were still foals; or had nothing at all.

He had finally found a job in an old and worn town, but the work had been miserable, and the almost barren town with nothing else to do except lounge in a saloon hadn’t helped. But his wife forced him to stay, she had already been upset with him enough; he could feel their marriage getting worse by the day, his own growing taste for cider only furthering the gap his actions had made between them.

And one day, he had enough; he needed to do something that would finally turn his life around, and his one friend he had made in that place provided it.

‘I know someone who can help, just promise not to tell anypony, alright?’ How quick he was to take up that offer. Now here he stood, in a weird circle as the “Elder” of a cult began reciting something from a book that looked older than the entire forest.

The leader's name was “Colt,” Chant never heard his last name. Apparently the stallion's parents thought it’d be funny to name him that, which is probably what led to all of this.

He seemed nice at first in Chant’s mind, but as he kept going to meetings in a damp basement in the middle of the night, the Elder kept doing things that put Chant off. Kept mentioning “sacrifices,” but would never elaborate on what was to be sacrificed, talking in whispers about a “new era” while he thought nobody could hear him. The only thing he would tell Chant was that if he did what was asked by the group and kept his lips tight he’d get the relief from life's struggles that he wanted so badly, and he wanted it badly.

So he followed along, ignoring every bad feeling he had in his gut telling him to just stay home.

He watched the Elder get in place, setting the book down on a table he brought with him, opening to a page. The page had an illustration of some kind of tentacle monster thing.

“Is everypony ready?” The Elder said as he looked up from the book. With no word spoken the old stallion took it as a yes. “My friends, today is the culmination of years of work; my studying of the ancient, holy text before me, all of your work to help make this a reality, and all of our faith towards the true masters of this world has led up to this moment.”

“The Four Divines have been denied their rightful claim over this world for far too long!” He raised his arms to the air, the horn protruding from his head glowing as the circle around them all glowed the same purple hue. “Today we summon one of their divine servants from the beyond; with it under my control we shall purge the naysayers and heretics, purge the false gods and their heinous rule!”

Chant's mind told him the obvious: this was insane.

He should leave, turn back and bolt before-

The second he took a step back the glyph spurred to life, ripples of malignant energy sparking from line to line.

Why was everyone so calm!? They all stood with those same frowns on their faces, even the worried ones had that same empty look about them.

Just what were they bringing here?

The light around them grew, he couldn't see the ground anymore. The Elder Laughed at the apparent success, the power of his horn growing to match the glyphs.

“It's coming!” The Elder smiled with a manic grin. “Come my new servant! Accept your sacrifices I so graciously provided!”

Finally the others gained some since, looking to their leader in shock and worry. “Sacrifice?” One questioned.

They all tried to back away, finally giving Coven the guts to do the same. But another great flash blinded them.

“Yes! Yes!” The Elder screamed.

A ripple of lightning that seemed wrong in every way he could fathom struck. Coven could only make out what seemed like a massive flaming dragon crashing to the earth as something heavy and searing struck him from his place.

It felt like being crushed by a stone slab; burning pain festered in his legs, like magma hitting the skin. He gasped in shocked breaths as he stared at the thick slab of grey metal and the leaking crimson under it.

It took him multiple raspy breaths before he finally looked straight at what caused the pain he now felt.

He couldn't make any sense of what was in front of him; a boat, a blimp, a chariot? It seemed like a metal monstrosity thought up in a Sci-fi novel.

He watched the others around him gather around him, but they ignored his plight as they stared, awestruck at the metal beast.

“I-I need-” He paused to catch his breath. “-help. It's crushing me!” But nobody even looked his way.

The Elder stood closest to it, a scowl on his face as he checked through the parchment floating in his magic, muttering frustrated nonsense.

Suddenly, a loud heavy thump was heard inside it, silencing the cult around him. He stared in apprehension as the foreboding steps grew louder and louder, thumping to what he assumed was the front of the massive metal structure.

Something made a tapping noise inside, then a frustrated slam on the wall. The front of it started moving, an entrance? They all covered their ears at the screeching of metal on metal before the slab slammed to the ground, launching dirt up on the ponies.

Coven watched with bated breath. The inside was absurdly dark, the only thing he could make out beyond the lip of the thing was two glowing red lights accompanied by smaller ones of varying colors all close together.

His hopes of it being an empty metal shell were turned to cinders as the red lights moved. That same set of stomping hooves followed its movement, far louder now. His ears flattened as it came out from the dark.

It looked like a robotic minotaur. It stood at such an absurd height it dwarfed each and every pony, the tallest member of the group barely reaching above its knee.

It was a pale white, with a crimson red fabric draped over its chest and legs with worn looking parchment on top of it, both partly covered the marking on its chest; he could just make out the design of wings behind the hand currently covering it. Its face had the muzzle of a closed bird beak, and above it was a massive frown forming a glare from its eyes, or what he assumed was its eyes.

It had limbs moving on its back, resembling insect arms but made out of thick metal with painful looking tools at the end. The limbs seemed to act almost like rigid snakes; waiting to pounce on anything close.

Coven tried his absolute best to push away the slab squishing him to the ground, but it would barely even budge. All he could do was watch its scowling gaze glare down at all of them.

The Elder coughed, getting its attention. “Hear me, O mighty warrior of the Four Divines. I have summoned thee to do my bidding! I present to you worthy offerings in return for your service!”

‘Offerings!?’ Coven thought, his eyes darting back and forth at the two. He tried even harder to shove the immovable metal off of him; he wasn’t going to be food for this monster! But every effort yielded the same result, he should've never joined this insane cult.

The atmosphere around the giant went cold, a dread creeping up the spines of the ponies. Its eyes stared down solely upon the lead cultist, a growing sense of contempt bubbling through the seams of its face. It clenched its fist, while the other rested upon its chest, still covering what seemed to be a deep gash. Looking further Coven could make out multiple signs of damage on the giant.

“You want my service, xeno?” Its voice boomed with almost the same thunder as its footsteps, its voice almost seemed mechanical, and there wasn't a hint of emotion behind its words except contempt for the one it spoke to.

It reached for something that glowed a faint blue on its hip.

“Yes, divine warrior! Obey me, and grant me the power I rightfully deserve!”

A deep chuckle escaped the slits on its beaked muzzle as it unholstered the large thing in its hand. “What you deserve…” Only as it aimed the piece in its hand did the Elder’s confidence waver.

“Gladly.”

Coven’s ears were ringing before he could even comprehend what happened. The Elder laid in a heap on the ground, his head and the barrel of his body were gone, the only sign they existed was the smoldering wounds gushing steaming blood.

Most barely had a chance to move before they were struck down with blinding blue bolts from the giant's weapon, evaporating anything it touched. Coven covered his face, wishing to any being above that listened to make this all just a nightmare. He didn’t open his eyes to the shrieks and sounds of slumping bodies.

One unfortunate soul was faced by it head on, impaled by the drill on its mechanical limb, the pony writhed in again as the spinning razor metal tore them apart from within. Another was grabbed by the neck; a sickening crunch of spinal bone was heard as the giant slammed the victim on the side wall of the massive metal monstrosity, leaving a grotesque crimson print on the metal.

The giant took a step forward towards the running creatures in its sights, but with that step it lurched forward, grasping its chest, its aim wavering enough for the terrified ponies to make a few more gallops.

Their hopes for escape were rendered null as what few still stood were rendered a pink mist with thundering booms of consecutive fire.

Calsin swore under his breath as he buckled for a moment from the “gifts” left for him by the vile warpspawn. How he was still standing was entirely by the Emperor’s grace; his primary heart twitched uselessly, his right lung resembled a torn waterskin, and he could feel a number of other wounds working to mend themselves. If he had anything good to say about the daemons’ inability to stay dead, it meant he didn’t have to pull out their severed claws himself.

He aimed his plasma pistol back towards the xenos speaking Low-Gothic, but the joy of ending them himself was taken as consecutive bolter rounds turned the aliens into explosions of viscera.

He faced his rescuer, the hint of a smile on his lips. “Locari. Emperor be praised, Brother, you survived!”

Locari strode to Calsin with measured steps, nearly crushing the shivering xeno beside his boot as he made his way to the other marine. “It seems I was the fortunate one. Did these things do this to you?”

“No, this was left by the abominations that attacked the Thunderhawk.” He let go of his wound, rolling his shoulder as he did so. “But now I wonder how we escaped the clutches of the Warp so easily.”

“As do I,” said Locari, taking a moment to peer into the inside of the ruined ship, his frown grew by the sight of three lifeless brothers resting on the floor, not including the slumped over pilot. “Where are our brothers, Calsin?”

“They met similar fates to you, but few were as fortunate to be as unscathed as you were when you were dragged from the inside.”

“Procuran?”

Calsin sighed. “He lasted longer than the rest, allowing me to barely survive the onslaught, but he fell into that cursed darkness as you did.” Slowly, Calsin went back to the insides of the vessel. “Had that—thing not arrived, scaring away the lesser daemons, I’d have joined our dead.”

“You witnessed it as well?”

“Indeed, it tried prying us from the ship with those damned tentacles before one of you managed a good hit. Then I had to avoid being blinded and suddenly I crashed upon this gathering of animals.”

Locari stared down at the only remaining creature among the dead group, shaking at his red visored gaze with pinprick eyes. “What are they?”

“Xenos.”

“...Descriptive…”

“Indeed… Whatever they are, they certainly aren't horses, one of them spoke Gothic.”

Locari’s head spun to Calsin, then back to the still living alien. He didn’t know what these things not being “horses” was supposed to mean, but quickly his mind focused on a worrying sight. He took notice of the markings on the ground, suspicion rising in his core as the grip on his pistol tightened. He approached the xeno with heavy steps, every step closer seemed to increase the terror in it.

He stood above it, casting a shadow over the pathetically tiny thing. “Speak, animal.”

He waited as the muzzle on the creature began to fidget, before noise escaped its throat. “I-I…”

Locari holstered his pistol, grabbed the shrapnel, and effortlessly tossed it aside, grabbing the alien by the neck as its useless legs dangled under it. It gasped with choked breaths as it stared petrified. “What are these markings? What was their purpose?” He demanded, loosening his grip only enough to let it speak.

“I-I have a family, please!” it begged, but its pleas wouldn’t be heard.

“If you do not answer they will soon join you. Satisfy my curiosity and I will give you ‘mercy,’ scum.” The only mercy Locari would grant it.

“It was a summoning ritual! We were trying to bring what was in that book here, it was supposed to give us what we desired most!” It hoursley spouted out in panic.

’Summoning ritual.’ The words echoed in Locari’s mind, a scornful frown etched beneath his helm as he spoke through his clenched teeth.

“What book?”

It pointed its shaking appendage to something below them. Locari looked down close to his left, grabbing the tome with his free hand. “Calsin,” he stretched his arm to the Apothecary, who made his way over and grabbed the ancient book. “What they were ‘summoning’ is in that.”

Calsin flipped through pages, uncaringly tearing most of the parchment as he scoured through it. “I can’t make anything of these chicken scratches.” One illustration caught his attention, its form familiar with its—

—He slammed the tome to the ground, kicking up dirt with the force and fired a bolt of plasma a second later, vaporizing it and leaving a hole of molten earth. “Vile heretics… the xenos were consorting with the Ruinous Powers, they sought to summon the tentacled daemon.”

Locari glared at the thing in its hands, tightening his grip. It began kicking with renewed panic, coughing and weezing as its throat began closing.

“W-Wait! They tricked me, I swear they-!” With snap it was silenced, its eyes glazing over as its fearful complexion turned numb.

He spun around to face his fellow marine. “These things are what ‘summoned’ us here?” He tossed the limp corpse away without thought.

“From what I can gather, yes. Seems when one of us managed to hit the damn thing their heinous ritual pulled us from the warp instead.”

“Our brothers may be here as well. Luvenus was taken the same way I was.”

Calsin nodded, turning back to the ship. “Then we have our goal.”

Locari nodded gravely, his eyes scanning the wreckage of the Thunderhawk and the strewn bodies of his fallen brothers. The weight of duty pressed heavily on his shoulders, but it was nothing compared to the anger bubbling within. Their arrival on this cursed world had been nothing short of a travesty—a collision of the Warp's malice and xenos' heresy.

Calsin knelt by the nearest fallen marine, the crimson stains of blood and ichor glinting in the dim light. He placed a gauntleted hand on the brother's battered pauldron, the chapter's emblem—a sideways skull bearing a halo and a wing— was marred by the cruelty of the daemonic attack. With a second spent reciting a quiet prayer, his servo-arms began their work.

Locari stood nearby, his gaze fixed on the blue horizon. "And what of this place?" he said with revulsion. "These xenos’ can’t be alone. They must all die for this crime."

Calsin didn't look up from his work. "One step at a time, Brother. We ensure our kin are safe or properly honored. Then we turn our attention to delivering His justice upon the xenos’ heretics."

“What of the mission?”

Calsin looked at Locari with a sideways glance. “Look around you, Locari. The mission died with the ship.”

Author's Note

My first entry into ponyfiction, I hope you all enjoyed it.

I had the idea to make this from playing too much Space Marine 2 and reading Horror and Harmony: The Ultramarine's Oath. I highly suggest reading it for yourself, I think its entertaining.

Feel free to comment criticism on the story, I'm certain I've made some errors. Feel especially free to call me names if I get any Hammer or Pony lore wrong.

Chapter two should come soon enough. Until next time!