Five Thunder hawks in the livery of the Imperial Fists descended toward the drab grey landing platform

like carrion upon a prey. Their engines whine loudly as they pilots brought them down in a calm manner, five more gunships sat already upon the landing pad their front ramps down and their passengers already having disembarked; the Martian winds having covered their dull grey sides in the red soil. One hundred Terminator clad Iron Warriors stood motionless as they awaited the arrival of their cousin Astartes. Perturabo stood at the forefront of his Legion flanked by Warsmith Alkaios in his bespoke suit of Terminator armour and Garioch the Master of the Forge clad in a finely wrought suit of artificer armour and wearing a full servoharness. The backwash of the multiple Thunderhawk engines blew up the red sand and threw it around like a mini maelstrom. Unfazed the Iron Warriors stood to attention. Rogal Dorn and warriors emerged from their gunships, the Black and White of their armour marking them out as Dorns personal guard; the Huscarls which also numbered one hundred but wore Maximus power armour instead of Terminator armour. The Templar iconography still adorned their power armour and their zealous beliefs still filled their hearts. Dorn was clad in bronze as ever but a black cross had been painted on his chest plate in homage to the former Templars and their founder.

Greetings Brother the words were devoid of any emotion, Perturabo also cautious to avoid any weakness.

Dorn returned the greeting with a nod, I apologise for the delay brother but we encountered atmospheric interference. Has Valkpartus hailed you yet?

No, the Fabricator General knows full well the consequences if he does not show within the appointed time frame Perturabo replied.

Indeed he does Brother, let us hope he sees sense and needless bloodshed is avoided.