Dark Skies, Hallowed Ground

[Ilairon]

Marshal Theoderic Venite stood close to seven feet, seven inches tall. His frame was muscular, even for a space marine of the Black Templars. His beryl eyes glistened in the synthetic light streaming from glow strips set in the adamantium bulkhead of the command deck. A man with short-cut black hair and neatly trimmed sideburns, Theoderic resembled the respectable generals from an age long lost to the eons.

Two service studs were melted into his flesh representing his more than two hundred years of service to the Emperor. The flesh of his face was beginning to show the signs of age, wrinkles and creases set like cracks and crevices in a war-torn landscape. Shadows hung close to his battle scars, countless in number; some were minor nicks and cuts; other, larger wounds characterized his face: a large scar ran across his left cheek from a piratical Eldar's flail-like whip, earned whilst under the auspices of Inquisitor Damius of the Ordo Xenos; a large scar ran from below his right eye to his jaw, received from a crude blade during their latest Crusade – a war waged against the Orks of Charadon after the Orks had attacked several nearby Imperial systems.

He looked across the command deck, from the most-honored Sword Brethren to the most-experienced Admiral, and even to the lowest servitor – and then his gaze returned, resolute in its finality, upon the lowly, disgusting, abhorred abomination in front of him – the astropath psyker.

“When was the call sent?” asked Theoderic, his tone mild and his words evenly spaced, not betraying the hatred and disgust he held for the man standing in front of him. Astropaths were a necessity of the fleet, just like the accursed navigators. Theoderic held all psykers and mutants in the utmost contempt.

“It was sent one standard Terran hour ago, but we just received it, my lord.” The sniveling man bowed further until his head was merely a foot from the floor.

“Send a return summons. Tell them that the Black Templars come to their assistance,” responded Admiral Dwight.

“Wait.”

“My lord?” inquired both the Admiral and the astropath.

“If we send them a reply it will alert the Word Bearers, and they will flee like the cowards they are. Brother Dwight, am I correct that it is impossible to trace a warp jump?”

“That depends.”

“And if the Word Bearers flee before we arrive.”

“Then we would be unable to track them, my lord.” Admiral Dwight moved closer towards Marshal Venite, his eyes never straying to the filthy psyker beside him. “But my lord-”

“Brother.”

“But Brother Venite,” continued the Admiral, “it seems unlikely that the traitors would capture a planet only to leave it. That is something the Eldar would do, for they are random and capricious, but the traitors must be trying to take the planet, as an insult to the Imperium and the Emperor.”

“Their continued existence insults the Emperor,” interposed Theoderic, looking at the astropath as his words wound their way across the deck.

“More reason to send a reply! If the traitors hear it, would they not accept the challenge?”

“The heretic is a coward. He would rather run and flee.”

“Then we will not send word of our coming?”

“No we will not, but word will be sent,” before Admiral Dwight could interrupt him, Theoderic continued, “Astropath, you will send word to the nearest world’s astropathic choir. Tell them to send a message in five days time to this ‘Corelia.’ The message is this: ‘The Black Templars come to your assistance.’ That is the end of the message.”

“Yes, my lord.” The astropath bowed so low as to touch the ground before noisily shuffling out of the room, into another where, as Theoderic thought of it, the choir of abominations sung.

“Brother Dwight, you have the command deck. Have the crew prepare for boarding actions once we enter the warp. I’m off to the Gymnasium to see to the training of the Initiates and their Neophytes.”

“Yes my lord.”

“And Brother Dwight, one more thing. You have been rather formal as of late.”

“Chaplain Redmun told me that I was not showing proper respect to my superiors.”

“I will have a word with the Chaplain. Remember, we are all brothers here – brothers in arms – brothers in the service of the Emperor.”

“I will remember, Brother Theoderic.”

“One last thing: have a scribe bring me all the information there is on this ‘Corelia.’ Have him bring it to the training dome within the Gymnasium.”

“Yes, Brother Theoderic.”

Theoderic exited the command deck and headed down the corridor Brother Godfrey and his Neophyte had taken. He planned on overseeing the battle preparations.

~Originally Posted by Ilairon

[Ilairon]

Marius' sword struck flesh, and he struggled to push forward, through the thick resistance, rolling forward with his hands held high. His fingers were tightly gripping his power sword and holding it firm as he continued rolling underneath the large mutant. The creature let out a loud moaning noise. Bending down to grab up its innards, the mutant only increased the speed they fell towards the ground in a gross display that splattered Marius' boots with brackish bile.

Marius stood just in time to see another large mutant thrashing towards him, its right arm swinging at him from the left, seven mace-like fingers ready to beat against his face. Jumping back as part of a reflex, Marius knocked his previous kill to the ground, chasing after his fleeting organs. Ducking down, he missed the flail-like swing, turning his blade to be ninety degrees with himself, Marius thrust forward, impaling the mutant as its momentum carried it towards its death.

Marius raised his right leg, and placed his bloodstained boot on the mutants chest, pushing the mutant back as he pulled his sword out of its chest, revealing an empty, cauterized hole. Looking through that hole for less than a second as it descended towards the earth, Marius saw one of the Seraphim guards cornered behind two hulking monstrosities. He rushed to her side, raising his sword as he ran. Taking a high guard position, Marius brought his blade down, through one mutants' neck as the Seraphim brought her own blade through the remaining mutants stomach all the way to its spine, withdrawing the blade in time to parry as the creature tried to hit her with its hands. As the disgusting, mutated hands met with the sword, great gaping wounds appeared almost immediately, and the creature withdrew its attack, giving a harsh scream in reply to the pain that had reached its brain. Marius moved to finish the creature, his blade cleanly cutting another hole just below the other wound. The creature bellowed its last and then fell to the ground as Marius withdrew his sword.

Sister Solstive was battling against two mutants at once (and more miraculously, she was winning), but the other Seraphim could not be seen, and Marius feared the worst. He and the remaining Seraphim guard killed two more mutants before finding Sister Solstive standing over two mutated corpses. Marius could now see the missing Seraphim guard. He wasn't sure what had killed her first, the large rent torn into her breast plate, and her clearly missing organs, or the crushed helmet she wore. Either way, it was not a fitting death for a servant of the Emperor. Many had met death today. Marius offered up a quick and quiet prayer to the dead before turning towards Sister Solstive.

"We cannot hold this position." Marius hopefully looked towards the Cathedral spire, but his hopes were burned to ruin when he saw the flames from inside the tower, and heard the roar of battle from inside its formidible walls. "And the Cathedral is taken. Distress signals have been sent and aid is on the wa-"

"Are you suggesting that we flee, leaving the Saint and the Cathedral in the hands of the corrupted?!" interrupted the Seraphim Marius had saved.

"No. I'm suggesting that we hole up in one of the outlying cantons of the Church complex, evaluate the situation from there, and then take action. We live and die for the Emperor, but he would rather we not die needlessly. This area is undefendable. We have lost the Cathedral spire-"

"You lost the Cathedral spire! You ordered the destruction of our holy relics in the Halls of Reclusion! You made the miserable defense of the Church grounds! You are the reaso-" barked the Seraphim, her voice rising, even above the battle around them until Sister Solstive interrupted her.

"That's enough, Sister Claudel! The defense of the Church was a shared responsibility, and we are equally at fault for its failings. Now, stop this bickering and let's go."

Sister Claudel gave Captain Marius an icy stare, but he merely sighed. He looked beaten, sapped. He had failed, failed the Emperor. Turning her attention back to Sister Superior Solstive, Sister Claudel spoke in soft tones, "Where to, Sister Superior?"

"I was hoping the Captain would have some ideas."

"I know of a way into the Cathedral. Tunnels that go down into secret catacombs beneath the Cathedral spire. I used to play there as a child. We can use those to reach the Cathedral spire, and then climb it far enough to reach Corelia's Mausoleum. There's no need to warn you of the dangers, but hopefully we should be able to take the enemy one or two at a time. I'm more concerned by what we might see in the Cathedral-"

"Then we have no time to waste," said Sister Claudel venomously.

"First we need to go into the crypts below. Then we can reach the catacombs."

~Originally Posted by Ilairon

[Ilairon]

Baldasarre looked up the passage ahead and pointed quietly to a faint natural light streaming in from the roof, several hundred yards ahead. Flavius backed into a lamp bracket, knocking the oil burning urn from its placement, leaving a darkened space in the passage that led ahead.

"Careful, my acolyte. Walk softly in these halls, lest we wake those who slumber."

"If they awake, be it better for us, that they might turn upon our tormentors."

"It is for us to mete out what is necessary, Flavius. Let us steady our thoughts for the task ahead, prepare what knowledge you have of the heathen, and we shall see about launching some sort of scouting raid, see what we might find. That grate up ahead leads to the surface, how to get up there, I do not know..."

"With your permission, I'd rather search out their leader. Once the head is cut from the body, they will writhe and falter, squirming in our grasp-"

"Flavius, I must tell you, we are not here to sacrifice ourselves in the Emperor's name, merely to see the fall of a planet nevertheless. Whilst such a deed will not go unoticed, and all the laurels of Terra will be lain upon your tomb, it will not save Sanctifo Corelia, nor the relics that lie here... Our faith in the Emperor should be strong, but our own will even stronger. The Emperor trusts in you to make your decisions."

"Did you hear that?"

Rafael ignored his charge, and spoke louder.

"Come ahead now, our voices will carry beyond that grate, so silence is of necessary importance."

"My Lord!" Flavius cried out louder. "There are footsteps, coming from the tomb chamber behind us."

"Friend or foe?" Rafael whispered, his hand moving to the bolt pistol at his side. He also motioned to Flavius to turn of the bright glare of the spotlight he carried on his shoulder. The fact that both the spot and the oil lamp were out meant that there was complete darkness running for a long length of the passage.

"Friend, I think; their feet are familiar to these halls."

"Agreed, but many a heathen is used to the dark, weapons at the ready."

Rafael took his power sword from his back, his gauntlet on the arming switch. Flavius removed his psycannon from its resting place, but armed it, its low humming permeating the near silence, the shuffling footsteps stopped. A growl sounded in the darkness.

"In the name of the Emperor, halt!" a voice called out. Rafael felt that it was Flavius, though in the dark, he could not be sure. A bright flash soon let him know, it arced into the air at the speed of sound, and hit the ceiling, showering the intruder with falling plaster and shards of marble. Ineffective, but it bought time to see who they were facing.

Flavius turned on the spotlight once more, and Rafael trained his bolt pistol on the form of Captain Marius. Behind him was another figure, no, several, in the shadows. Sister Solstive and her Seraphim stepped forward, their raven hair covered in crumbled, age-old masonry.

"Inquisitor, your presence warms my heart. The planet is taken, surely you know, and we have come here, seeking refuge. But I apologise for the havoc we have played, your vigilance pays dividends, perhaps we should have called out."

"No, it is far better to shoot first, ask questions later, though in this case you were lucky. Since I do not know the way - Flavius and I have been wandering these halls for some time now - perhaps you would care to lead us to a safe haven? Do the foul beings up there know of these tunnels?"

"Almost certainly, whether they bother to come looking is another matter. I have a feeling they are here for other purposes."

"Purposes which will be clear in time, Captain. Lead the way."

The party of defenders made their way forward, into the gloom ahead, to seek out a refuge in the underground crypts.

~Originally Posted by Beorn

[mortes]

The frag grenade detonated with a muffled thump, punching the iron door off its hinges and hurling onto the ground several metres away. On cue, the marines launched themselves into the room, cobra-quick, augmented eyes penetrating the haze of shattered rockrete easily. The overturned furniture was given a momentary glance to make sure none were in hiding behind; the splintered tables and shredded couches would have offered no cover even if any had been able to survive the grenade’s explosion.

The Black Templars Squad did not utter the “clear” signal; a lifetime of warfare in each others’ company had formed the Space Marines into a finely-tuned machine, their bond almost telepathic. Within a second of entering the room, the dozen marines had filed to either side of the door to the adjoining room. Godfrey took up position before the door, cradling his trusted Bolter at his waist.

Holding his breath, Godfrey rushed the metal door shoulder first. He slammed his shoulder plate into the weak metal at its centre, cracking the frame and embedding the door in the wall as it swung about. Making sure to tuck and roll as he impacted with the floor, Godfrey rose to a kneeling position, bolter sighted on the opposite wall.

This time there was resistance; several lasbolts sung through the close air, one pinging harmlessly off the embossed aquila on his breastplate. The bark of Godfrey’s own weapon was reassuringly loud compared with the pathetic whine of the lasgun, and a servitor-target was flung bodily against the opposite wall, its chest a mangled ruin.

Before the metallic components that replaced the servitor’s internal organs had hit the floor, the rest of the Templars had burst into the room, their bolters stitching trails against the walls and scattering plaster everywhere. Several more targets attempted to return fire, only to be annihilated as several bolts smashed into each of their heads simultaneously.

Godfrey shook off the desiccated brain matter clinging to his armor, noting a subtle hand movement from Brother Geoff at a staircase ascending to the upper stories of the building. The whispered prayers of his Brothers hissed over the comms in Godfrey’s ears, but went unheard as the young marine spoke to the Imperator with his own voice.

As he took an unfaltering step onto the first stair, Godfrey noticed a servitor that stirred. It groaned slightly, clinging to its pathetic imitation of life, and the Templar felt a momentary pang for the utter worthlessness of its existence. He brought his foot crashing down upon its brittle skull; a servant of the Emperor, no matter how repulsive, deserved nothing less.

He was the last to ascend the staircase for his momentary show of mercy, and Godfrey made sure to atone for it. Yet another target servitor sighted its lasgun, hideously fused with its right hand, at Manfred, who had just mangled one of its twisted brethren. Reacting quickly, Godfrey hoisted his Bolter up to his shoulder and squeezed off a few rounds, each sailing between his Brother’s legs and into the thing’s torso.

Manfred wheeled around, weapon trained on Godrey’s forehead, then abruptly twisted it away. With a nod that said, “Well done,” the Marine turned about and sprinted up the next flight of stairs, leaving a trail of footprints embedded in the rockrete behind him.

Godfrey’s HUD registered a new friendly contact just inside its sensory radius; he peered out a conveniently-placed window in its general direction. Outside was a cargo bay, one of several on the Crux Templarum. Several cargo crates, easily large enough to fit a Predator tank, were stacked neatly just outside the specially-constructed combat drill building. Between two of these crates, Godfrey spied Marshall Venite, resplendent in his glossy black armor and billowing cape.

He opened a link, speaking quickly so he could return to his drill, but keeping his tone respectful as befit the Marshall’s status.

“My Lord, do you require assistance?”

The smooth reply came over his vox bead, distorted slightly by the reception. “Nay, go about your business. I come to observe.”

“If it pleases you, Marshall.”

Godfrey racked the slide on his Bolter and rushed after his squad, who would surely be several rooms ahead of him by this time. Why the Marshall would deign to witness his squad’s drills, the Marine did not know. With such esteemed eyes boring into his back, though, it would be impossible not to excel.

He quickened his pace, following the trail of broken bodies his Brother Initiates had left in their wake.

[nightbringer]

Ahren had been a shadow for the first part of the mission, following Godfrey and they finely tuned machine he called a squad. They mercilessly Steamrolled through the building, taking not hits, the prowess of these men was clear. Wasting minimum shots, they finally made their way up the floors, only pausing briefly when they spotted Marshal Venite. The sleek black and white armour of the marines made no sound, the armour was kept in top condition and it showed. Following the Initiates, Ahren watched out for threats, but also ingrained the actions of the men into his mind. One day he would be like them, and the faster he learned, the better.

As they made their way up to the third floor, a servitor raised it's gun, and Godfrey began to swing round to fire. He would have been a fraction of a second late, but luckily Ahren swung his chainsword down in time, and the gun barrel fell in two, before Godfrey pumped a bolt into the pitiful creatures head. The red life blood of the servitor splattered the wall, and pieces of skull went flying.

With a quick nod, Godfrey moved on and upward, to the fourth and final floor. Almost as soon as he cautiously looked over the top of the stairs, his head came back down, and a crack and crumbling plaster announced that a servitor had finally gotten a shot off. Unclasping a frag from him belt, Ahren handed it to Godfrey, who pulled the pin and threw, ducking farther. A muffled yell was heard and then silence as the grenade went off. Crouching, the squad got into cover, awaiting the next servitor.

They found the creature cowering behind a piece of rubble, shrapnel embedded into it's eye. The other socket had skin stretched over it. The servitor was blind, and what use was a gun servitor with no eyes? The swift foot of justice crushed the servitor's head, and the group moved on. Ahren was fitting in well, and progressing daily. A camera moved in the corner, it was obvious on the highest floor that they could not been seen from the ground. Venite would be on the other end.

The squad continued to the end of the room, wondering what awaited them.

[Ilairon]

Theoderic heard the sounds of combat in the gymnasium as marines sparred against each other in hand-to-hand fighting, dueled with daggers, dirks, and well-made swords, ran through training courses fighting combat servitors, and practiced precision fire on the shooting range - Theoderic thought of it as the shooting gallery, a landscape of mass-reactive impact spots where bolts had exploded within the target zone.

Theoderic consciously watched the drills from the high tier of the gymnasium even as he subconsciously drilled through the information on the data slate. The high tier was empty except for the Marshal and two scribes. Theoderic sat on a ceramite-reinforced steel dais, his eyes reigning on all below him. His black armor looked like an extension of the dark dais, and Theoderic - sitting still - looked like a statue. His eyes were petrified by what they saw,
"Corelia - Cardinal World Secundus Grade, Sanctus Sub-Sector, Ultima Segmentum. Corelia's population is close to three billion, scattered between seven main hive cities and the immense Corelian Church. The Church itself is a fortified, self-sustained city just north of the largest hive city on the planet, Corelia Primus. Although Corelia Primus is the largest hive city, the Church Complex is even larger, nearing the size and granduer of the Emperor's Palace on Holy Terra. In the late 38th millenium, Corelia was attacked by the traitor legions, and only though His most divine will and the sacrifice of Saint Corelia was the world saved.

Saint Corelia - Saint Corelia defeated an entire detachment of traitor space marines on her own, but died after saving the world of Corelia.

M38 - Notable Figures of the Corelian Conflict: Tervus Mero - Imperial Governor; Setus Ryah - Inquisitor hunting a young female Alpha level psyker named *******. He stopped the hunt after the Conflict; Traois Vttiri - traitor; ******* - Alpha level psyker who disappeared after the Conflict; Saint Corelia, young woman who sacrificed herself to defeat the traitor space marines. Remains kept in perfect stasis in a large mausoleum within the central Cathedral Spire of the Corelian Church Complex."

It wasn't hard for Theoderic to connect the dots. Saint Corelia, the young woman who had saved her world and served the Emperor was the same young woman Inquisitor Setus Ryah had been hunting. Saint Corelia was a psyker. Moreover, she was an Alpha psyker. Yet she was a Saint, an instrument of the Emperor. It did not add up. It did not make sense. It went against what he had be trained to believe. Against the rules he believed in. But perhaps...perhaps there could be exceptions to this rule; surely if the Emperor wanted, he could make an exception. He needed time to think, to contemplate on what he had read.

He stood, breaking his reverie, overcoming the Medusa-like facts he had come to face in the reflection of the data-slate. Leaving the data-slate in the hands of one of the scribes, Theoderic walked down the long winding stair from the high tier to the lower gymnasium in solitude. Had he wished, he could have taken a piston-powered lift down to the gymnasium floor, but part of leadership was humility, and Theoderic humbly continued to descend the stairs.

When he reached the floor, he stood at the center of the arena area - a large open space designed for close combat training. Speaking to the other space marines in the Gymnasium through the vox-caster built into his helmet, Theoderic called all of the marines in the Gymnasium to the arena - they would prepare for close combat before they went to the Chapel and recited the rites for the battle to come. Theoderic took off his helmet as the marines started to arrive.

[mortes]

“Fourteen minutes,” announced Brother Geoff. “Record time, if my memory serves me. Godfrey couldn’t help but grin at the satisfaction in Geoff’s voice.

“Not quite,” said Arantus, racking the slide on his bolter and ejecting the last unspent round from the chamber and sending it spinning into his outstretched palm. “I do believe Marshal Theoderic and the Sword Brethren performed the task in twelve.”

Geoff inclined his head. “I stand corrected.”

“Though he did blow through every wall with meltaguns instead of using the doors,” Godfrey joked. “Not entirely fair, but effective nonetheless.”

Several of the Space Marines’ faces darkened at the mention of Theoderic’s unorthodox tactics. The marshal was a controversial figure within the Crusade, having brought the Black Templars countless victories in the time he had led – but always going against the grain, always with a new trick to play on the enemy, and never failing to draw suspicion and admiration in equal measure from his own Battle Brothers. There were whispers, in fact, that the Chaplains, so set in the ways of old, had formed a sort of coalition against him. They were rumors, though, and nothing more.

Theoderic was Godfrey’s leader, trusted by the High Marshals themselves with the command of three-hundred of Space Marines. He deserved Godfrey’s loyalty, and the young Marine gave it willingly.

“Well,” he continued, determined to avoid trouble, “To firing rites, then?”

“I’ve prayers to attend to,” Adelard said curtly. “I will see the rest of you at prayers, I am sure.” The tall Marine shouldered his plasma gun and stepped out the doorway of the building the squad had just cleared, making his way to the blast doors at the other end of the chamber. Several others followed him, casting wary glances at Godfrey, who was aware of the scrutiny his apparent respect for Theoderic was earning him.

He was soon left alone with Ahren, who remained faithfully at his side. With a heartfelt sigh, Godfrey said, “Well, it’s just you and me again, Ahren.”

“Where else would I be but at your side, mentor?” asked the Neophyte, a little too harshly. Godfrey cocked an eyebrow and Ahren bowed his head in apology.

“I cannot help but agree with them, though. What loyalty do we owe a marshal who would lead the Emperor’s servants astray?”

The Initiate chuckled. There was no heart in it, though, and the sound of his laugh was hollow. Even his own Neophyte, the closest thing he would ever have to a son, was suspicious of him. “You are perceptive. That is good.” He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Let us see if we can quell that temper of yours on the firing range, then. Come along.”

Tousling Ahren’s hair with one hand, Godfrey walked out of the building towards the firing range, the chattering of Bolters mirroring the conflict in his mind.


Creatures spiraled in lazy circles around the three shapes in the Warp, sightless eyes turned on the looming shapes and feeding off the emotions churning within the ships. There was faith. There was uncertainty. There was hate and fear and tense anticipation of the battles that lay at the end of the ships’ journey.

It was darker than normal in the Immaterium today. And some of that darkness, that malignant evil, began to seep into the blessed Strike Cruisers of the Corelian Crusade, ever so subtly massaging the raw emotions in the minds of those that were weak at heart.


“How long now?” demanded Admiral Dwight.

A voice droned from within the towering metallic tube set in the wall beside the command pulpit, the domain and prison of the Navigator within. “It is difficult to tell,” it said hesitantly, distinctly female. “The threads are the warp have been disturbed ahead by something. I’ve never seen the like before.”

“I uttered three words, psyker,” growled Dwight. “And I shan’t be repeating them.”

The psyker rushed the next words out. “Six hours, no more.”

“Thank you,” the Admiral mocked. He was feeling very agitated at the moment, and while he normally reserved a modicum of courtesy for the psykers so essential to the operation of his ship, he could not help but lash out today at anyone within reach. It was almost as if something had pinpointed his fears and expanded upon them, turning them into something larger and more forbidding.

For the first time in years, Fleet Admiral Dwight felt doubt.
“We will be dropping out of this infernal realm as soon as we reach the edge of the system,” he said, turning his back on the navigator’s tomb. “I want every weapon battery armed and prepared to fire on command. Prep the Thunderhawk Gunships and load the boarding torpedoes – we will not be taking any chances with Traitor Marines.”

“Aye, aye,” chorused the Marine bridge crew, who immediately set to work sending comms around the ship.

The fleet would be ready for anything the Chaos scum would throw at them, and so would the three hundred Black Templars clustered in the Strike Cruisers’ bellies.