The lines of ordnance exploded forward, throwing shells the size of men at lines

of beings that once counted themselves amongst humanity. Screams of "Incoming!" and
"Take cover!" echoed across the lines as warriors in dark green battle plate and smaller
soldiers and servants braced themselves for impact, taking cover amongst trenches and
mobile bunkers. The shells landed haphazardly across the lines, throwing soldier,
worker and massive warrior alike back from the blasts.
The warriors stood back up, the smaller, weaker humans did not.
Veteran Brother-Sergeant Bonafyd Azalan picked his head up and look towards
the direction the shots came from. "Return fire. Whirlwinds lock on to sources of shelling
and fire at will." Azalan thought for a moment. He looked to his left, at the white,
gleaming ivory sword and wings ingrained in his subordinates' armour.
"Brother Afrias, prepare for further incoming," Azalan vocalised, not bothering to
use the vox in the brief moments of silence. The other Dark Angel nodded and moved
back along the line, spreading the order to other Astartes and Guardsmen.
Missiles shrieked over his head and disappeared into the crashed, ruined building
opposite the battle lines Azalan occupied. The missiles impacted, but his lenses did not
register any massive explosions, emanating from destroyed vehicles. Still, the shelling
had stopped.
Behind the first row of ruined buildings, across the bleak, destroyed roads and
mashed ground, cratered and muddied by shells, weather, bolter fire, dotted by corpses
of man and machine, stood the city of Taris, the final stronghold of a heretic incursion of
a minor world. An incursion that was, thusfar, proving difficult to erradicate.
Most of Tarissia was dedicated to the supply of its own populace, with some
agricultural products and munitions making their way to distant crusades and military
ventures. Other than its location on a minor trade route, it was unremarkable. Several
large cities and a capital demi-hive that ruled the entire planet - Taris, site of the planet's
only space port and seat of its government.
Six standard months previous, the city's ruling council had refused resupply to a
beleaguered vessel from the 23rd Corpulus Fusiliers en route from Scorpius
Reclamation. The Fusiliers' ship was blown from orbit as the rest of the planet watched
on.
Enough citizens had dissented to this display of independence to send messages
briefly offworld to report it. Most citizens however, simply went about their lives. Until the
Emperor's Angels of Death had arrived. Dark Angels and Imperial Fist drop pods and
Thunderhawks had dropped from the sky to exact the Emperor's retribution.

That was six weeks ago. The other cities fell quickly, but Taris stood, like a rock in
a river, resisting all efforts to secure it.
"Broadcast the declaration for today on loudspeakers. These traitor scum will
hear us yet," Azalan voxed across the lines. Imperial scripture readings began to
resonate across the general frequencies. Between each verse, a booming voice
repeated, 'Repent, for tomorrow you die.'
Azalan changed to his squad's vox channel.
Brother Sectus clicked in, "Sergeant Azalan - the city holds still."
"Aye brother, the sons of night are bolstering the traitor militia well. This will prove
an excellent challenge. How are the Fists faring?" Azalan asked.
"Reports indicate the sons of Dorn are experiencing the same resistance we are.
Heavy fire preventing drop pods or thunderhawk insertion and severe resistance to
ground assaults by misguided ogryns and enemy suicide squads," Sectus replied.
"Old enemies, all of us" Azalan mused.
_______________
The missiles landed and exploded harmlessly, or at least acceptably, noted the
figure glad in a black cloak and midnight blue armour, trimmed with burnished, light
gold. Red eyes stared out of an equally dark blue helmet. The figure looked at the
craters and collapsed buildings around where the Whirlwind missiles had landed. He
counted fifteen, maybe twenty local militia either dead or as good as. Acceptable losses.
"Brothers, take care to hide our numbers. The Emperor's dogs must only know
our presence, not our power or our plan," Captain Azmenos of the Night Lords Fifth
Grand Company voxed to his warriors, spread out and secluded amongst the city,
directing the local militia during the day and conducting sabotage behind the Imperial
lines.
It had been successful so far at holding the inheritors of the First and Seventh
Legions at bay. The humans they were supporting were worthless bodies, perhaps
better armed than the Fifth Company's own human militia, they had no answer for the
desperation of men driven into an ideological corner.
"Send out the militia. Remain concealed," Azmenos called to his warriors. Lines
of men in mis-matched clothes carry any manner of weapon they could find began to
slink out of the ruins in long lines, running from destroyed building to destroyed wall to
ruin, taking as much cover as possible as bolter rounds and lasgun fire began to rake
the field. Screams made their way across the killing fields but were weak and

meaningless by the time they reacher Azmenos' audio filters. His suit enhanced the
audio in an attempt to find any useful information form the scream. He turned it down
himself with a thought.
"Captain Azemenos," the voice cut in on his own vox in harsh Nostraman, not
refined as his own, but warm and familiar, with a casual lack of respect for the rank but a
hint of respect for the warrior himself.
"Raust," Azemenos acknowledged the blinking rune on his visor, telling him the
identity of the speaker, though he already knew.
"Second Talon reports little success last night. The Imperial ships in orbit are
contacting vox networks, rendering our local disruptions ineffectual," Sergeant Raust
was being hard on himself. The leader of Fifth Company's First Claw was as good an
ally as Azmenos could have asked for in The Long War.
"Tell them to skip the jump-packs next time, they're hardly subtle," the Captain
looked back across the field. The militia he had ordered out appears to have found
cover, those that couldn't fit had been reduced to a fine pink mist by the Dark Angels
bolter fire.
Azemenos changed his vox to full Company and began to relay orders. "Fifth and
Seventh Claw move to the other side of the city. Reinforce the Talons holding off the
Fists. Eighth Legion tanks should reinforce the line against the Fists. The front against
the robe-wearing monks will be over soon enough."
"Second Claw. Bring the prisoner to the forward command centre, I shall inform
the Dark Angels we have a gift for them" Behind his emotionless mask of midnight
blue, Azemenos smiled.
_______________
Captain Lexandro D'Arquebus of the Imperial Fists Fifth Company stood stoic upon the
battlements of the pre-fab bunkers and battle line dropped by the transporters. Wind
blew in his face, rustling his tabard. His ancient Mark IV helmet streamed data across
his eyes as he surveyed the bridge into Taris his command was ordered with taking.
It was taking too long.
Decades of wandering the foul xenos webway, fighting off Eldar as they came across
him, attempting to find an exit and then years attempting to find passage off the
backwater world he had emerged from had taught him the meaning of patience. The
indeterminate amount of time he had spent making his way back to his chapter and the

months spent under the scrutiny of his chapter's librarians and chaplains had taught him
resilience.
This battle was trying both qualities. The Dark Angels captain on the other side of the
city constantly demanded reports. D'Arquebus had directed his sergeants to reply back
with their mission reports. He noticed a number of enemy militia beginning to run
towards the bridge from the shelled buildings opposite.
"First Squad," he voxed across chapter channels, "Deploy to the bridge. See these
heretics off and advance. Second squad and Predator "His Fury" move forwards to
support First as soon as the enemy has broken." A number of affirmation clicks came
across the vox and a number of affirmatives and "Aye" comments came across. Larger
threat icons appeared suddenly and focused his vision on the far end of the bridge. "I
will join First Squad in the counter attack, it appears there are ogryns incoming as well."
D'Arquebus changed his helm to combat mode and the data streams minimised
beneath his field of vision, in favour of ammo accounts and the charge in his power fist.
"Move forward," he growled, and leapt from the battlement and strode forward onto the
bridge, his first tactical squad formed up behind him, blotters up. He heard Sergeant
Cadris give the order to open fire and he heard bolter fire whiz by his head, watch the
rounds fly into the crude barricades and the odd head of the militia-man, exploding it in
a pink mist of blood and brain matter.
First Squad holstered their bolters and drew their combat knives in a fluid motion before
the cowering traitors realised the fire had stopped. Before the closest, foolishly brave
former Imperial citizen could process the Astartes' attack, D'Arquebus' power fist
slammed through the fallen rockcrete wall, shattering the militiaman's head in a
moment, bursting ear drums and weak, squishy eyes with the coruscating energy field
and violent pressure wave before it. The man was dead before he realised the wall had
even burst.
D'Arquebus fired his storm bolter towards the ogryns, heedless of the damage being
wrought in their flesh. The militia men farthest up the bridge fell swiftly as Imperial Fist
combat knives slashed throats and pierced the hearts of the misguided. The sound of a
knife thrown with superhuman strength split the air, even above the din of the one-sided
combat. D'Arquebus watched the knife, thrown by Brother Hebrodes, fly towards an

ogryn, charging with its crude metal fisticuff held high. The knife his home through the
creature's eye and it lurched forward, its steps faltering. The Captain pulled his arm from
the wall, destroying it in the process and fired his bolter with his free hand directly into
the ogryn's knees, bringing it crashing to the ground.
He switched to his helmets broadcast speaker, rather than vox and bellowed a cry
towards the remaining traitors, "Your forsake the Emperor in life but will meet him in
death!" he cried and began sprinting forward, leaving First Squad behind.
An ogryn made a swipe with the barrel of its heavy stubbier. D'Arquebus slipped
beneath it and spun on his heel before pressing his power fist up again, correcting his
balance with the force of something no human mind could readily comprehend. His fist
hit the ogryn in the gut and the beast levelled over, eclipsing the light from reaching
D'Arquebus' vision. Before it could finish reeling forwards, the fist was through its back
and the Captain had push it forwards onto the ground and had removed his bloodied,
gore-red power fist from the corpse and raised it above his head.
"For the Emperor!" he screamed as the reactions in the minds of the men opposing
exploded in varying responses to stimuli. Most broke and ran, their fight-or-flight
response incapable of doing anything but fleeing. None of them had woken this morning
had expected to face the might of dozens of bright-yellow armoured post-human
warriors running towards them. A scant few leapt over the the barricades, firing lasguns,
autorifles and stubbers at the encroaching Space Marines.
Most of the charging militiamen were cut down by First Squad's bolter fire. The
remaining ogryns had fallen to bolter fire and Sergeant Galind's chainsword to the
throat. D'Arquebus noted this achievement and would be sure to commend the sergeant
for the blow later.
A single mortal man ran towards D'Arquebus and fired his laspistol directly into the
Imperial Fist's chest. The dark scorch it left registered as a flash on his lens and the
Captain reached down and gripped the man's arm with his gauntleted hand, not his
power fist. He lifted the man up to eye level and lowered the brightness of his green eyelenses, to give the impression of narrowing his eyes at the man.
The man screamed as his wrist collapsed in D'Arquebus' hand closed and the hand
immediately turned gaunt white as its blood supply disappeared and what it had it in

trained from the giant punctured in his arm. D'Arquebus lowered the volume of his
helmet speaker and spoke to the man. "Where do your orders come from?"
"Wha.. What?" The man whimpered, his screamed ceased, almost in surprise at
being spoken to by the giant. His eyes darted left and right to the other yellow giants
were pushing past them, marching, slowly towards the building that sheltered his
comrades, his friends and even his father and brother in law.
The growling, metallic response made his gut churn in uncomfortable way. "Your actions
and tactics are not that of militia or the PDF reported to this world when its loyalty was
not in question. You are being given orders from another source. What is that source?"
"Other." the man gasped in pain, "Others like you. I haven't heard them" he winced,
"Just seen them talking to others. We hear their orders over the vox."
"Do you have the vox codes?" the giant inquired, his tone more gentle, but still steely
and aggressive, like a tiger waiting to pounce, with power barely stilted behind it. The
man shook his head.
"Your information is appreciated, but inadequate. May your soul find rest in death you
could not find in life," D'Arquebus set the man down, who immediately dropped to his
knees.
"Thank you Lord," the man said through tears. His arm would bleed out within hours
form the wound inflicted by the Space Marine Captain's grip.
"Imperator ultionis est volatilis," D'Arquebus brother his storm bolter to the man's head.
He thought he heard the man begin to scream in protest as he saw the muzzle to his
head, but sent a round into the man's skull before the sound could really become a
word, it exploded and sent a fine mist onto the end of his weapon.
A searing white light forced his lenses to flare and correct, he saw one of his warriors fly
back, his by the beam. Lascannons. "Report!" someone said over the Vox. "Night
Lords!" someone replied swiftly, followed by the report of bolter fire before the mic cut
off.
"To me, brothers, we shall bring them into the open!" D'Arquebus cried and watched

those forward on the bridge fall back towards his position behind an exploded Chimera
transport. Lances of lascannon fire flew towards the marine as they fell. It caught on
Imperial Fist on the shoulder and threw him sideways but the Marine crawled quickly
behind cover.
"Sir! We must split their attentions!" Sergeant Galind said to his captain, who nodded.
"Sergeant Azalan!" the vox call across the city was spotty and poor quality, but
consistent. There was clearly interference of some kind. D'Arquebus patched into the
connection.
"Yes, Brother Galind - where is your Captain?" the voice was taciturn and clipped.
Galind shook his head. So inflexible.
"Press an assault forward," D'Arquebus chimed in, "Night Lords are moving with heavy
weaponry. There can't be many of them, divert their attention and allow us to secure the
bridge."
"Yes, sir," the reply came. The Captain of the Dark Angels on Tarissia was holding the
second-largest city from counter-attack and coordinating squadrons of his Ravenwing
against the scattered traitors, leaving Azalan in charge of the Dark Angels besieging
Taris. D'Arquebus was de facto leader of the siege.
"Hold for a moment, soon we'll have a the chance to end some traitor tales." Behind his
helm, Lexandro D'Arquebus smiled.
_______________
Azmenos stalked forward through the shadows surrounding the ruins. First Claw was
behind him, bolters held into their shoulders, preparing to fire. Raust had two power
glades blades, gleaming and humming with power barely contained in the metal.
"Where is First Talon and the damned Prisoner?" the Fifth Captain rasped under his
breath. "I'd rather not engage them for longer than we must. Raust! Find First Talon.
Now."
The sergeant nodded and a Nostraman acknowledgement rune flashed on Azmenos'
visor. Raust filed off and began to sprint back to the Night Lords' operations base, a

covered and hidden Thunderhawk gunship, hidden within the confines of a bombed out
munitions factory and shrouded in giant black and grey cloths. That the beast had not
been spotted by the orbiting Imperial ships was a positive development.
Raust ran up the ramp of the gunship and found First Talon revving their chain blades
menacingly around the captive, circling and glaring. Their jump packs were off. "Madar!"
Raust screamed. The sharp angles of First Talons helmets turned to face him, not
birdlike like some companies' Raptor Squad but violent and designed to instil fear in
those that saw them.
"Yes?" Madar's voice was silky and slow, even through this helmet's speakers. His
accent was tinted with horrible edges and accented marks, even after all this time. It
betrayed his origins of the old Legion, of a time before the Lord of the Night was
returned to his sons. Madar's Terran origins had been largely overcome within the
Legion. His pure vision and planning in using Fifth Company's assault troops was
unparalleled. Still, his accent was murder on Raust's ears.
"Azmenos requires the prisoner brought to the front. We need to present the prize to the
Angels," Raust's two blades were inactive now, attached to his thighs. His arms were
crossed. "Has he said anything?"
"Negative," Madar looked down at the figure on his knees in the dark of the crew
chamber. The figure wore dark astartes armour of an old style, much but his allegiance
was clear, the winged sword on his shoulder almost glowed. A bone-white surplice
covered his chest. His face was beaten and bruised, but still handsome. His arms were
bound behind his back in such a convoluted manner he could not break the bond.
Nostaman hanging knots were very, very good.
With a look that radiated hate from anyone who could see the face, the prisoner looked
up and spat at Madar's feet. Madar leaned in a grabbed the other astartes' neck, lifting
him from the floor before throwing him towards the open entrance. "Stretch your legs
whelp, it may be the last time you can do so."
_______________
Azmenos had already engaged the Dark Angels by the time Raust and First Talon
walked from the ruins leading to the Thunderhawk. "Good of you to join us, Madar," he
snarked and fire his combi-bolter dismissively into the advancing Dark Angels, blowing a

battle-brother's arm off.

"We've tapped into their vox already, sir," Raust informed his captain. "You should be
able to speak directly to their commander. Azmenos smiled and marched forward into
the smoke filled no-man's land with his arms outstretched, bolter rounds a lasgun shots
flying around him. "Sons of Jonson!" he screamed into the vox. Some advancing Dark
Angels stopped in shock and held their helmets as the violent volume of the Night Lords
vox hack exploded into their skulls.
"Cease fire, we wish to discuss terms," he voxed, to his own warriors and on the Dark
Angels' frequencies.
Slowly, the fire towards him stopped as the Guard and Dark Angels slowly began to
realise they were not under fire. A squad of Dark Angels began to slowly advance
towards the imposing figure. Azmenos' red cloak was billowing outwards from the wind
gusting forward. To those given to such suspicions, he appeared not unlike a great
winged bat or a predatory bird, ready to leap from its perch upon its prey.
A Dark Angel stepped forward. "What do you want, traitor?" Azemenos removed his
helmet slowly, revealing solid black, messy hair and palid white skin. It was not
unhealthy looking, it had a strange, almost supernatural glow. This was natural. He eyes
were sold black, like those of some deep sea predator. The traitor captain spoke slowly
in accented gothic.
"We have something for you, Azalan," the use of the Veteran-Sergeant's name clearly
shocked him. The Dark Angel theatre-leader lowered his sword. He raised a hand to
signal is squad to stay ready, but not to advance forward with him.
Azmenos continued walking forward and held out a gauntletted hand with a small cube
on it. With a flick of his wrist an image appeared in the air, blue-tinted, but otherwise
colourless. A figure, wearing a bone-white surplice in dark, armour bearing the symbol
of his chapter greeted Azalan.
"You think I will cease publishing you for your sins agains the Emperor because you
have one of my brothers hostage?" Azalan spat at Azmenos' feet. The Night Lord closed
his fist and crushed the hololith.

"I believe he has something interesting to say to you, Sergeant," Azmenos paused, "And
you would do well to respect my rank, boy." The Dark Angel stifled and sensing their
leaders' apprehension primed and aimed their bolters. "Tell your men to stand down or
the Dark Angel dies. I imagine his gene-seed is rather Tasty," he smiled and bared his
teeth, gleaming white and straight, but with a hint of savagery to him. "You may consult
with an officer if you like, I understand the minions of the False Emperor aren't exactly
encouraged to think for themselves"
Azalan tensed again. "I will call my Captain, remain here, filth." The Dark Angel turned
away and Azmenos began to laugh. "Send the Guard back to the lines, they don't need
to see this," Azalan told the other Dark Angels, who dismissed themselves to command
the dumbfounded mortal men.
"This is Brother-Sergeant Azalan of the Third Company to the Battle Barge Seraphim's
Flight" He heard the vox begin to connect to the orbiting Dark Angels' ship.
"This is Ship-Master Schaal, your orders, Lord?" The voice of the ship's human
commander was tinny and poorly received. Most of its communication capacity was
being spent on connecting the troop-to-troop vox network.
"Find me Captain Caliel, I need him," Azalan turned and starred at the grinning face of
the Night Lord Captain. He hand clenched around his chainsword. He could swing and
behead the filth in one blow and end this conflict now. His brother in bonds would
appreciate that.
Moments later the Dark Angel found his chain blade clenched firmly in the Night Lord's
arm, biting ineffectively against the ceramite palm, sparks flew and reflected in the solid
black eyes of his opponent, who was no longer smiling. The Night Lord pushed him
back and Azalan was on the floor in an instant.
"Unwise, Angel," Azmenos growled. A hiss of noise filled their ears and the stench of
ozone filled his nostrils. It took a split second for the Fifth Captain to realise what this
signified before diving swiftly out of the way of the blinding light appearing in the space
between himself and the Dark Angel.
The thunderclap was deafening, even for the augmented ears of an Astartes. His eyes
adjusted slowly, burning and itching. The light of this world was bad enough to his visual

acuity but this light This light had rendered him helpless. A booming voice filtered
through the white noise coursing through his head. It repeated itself again.
And again.
Finally, he understood it. "Stand and be judged, son of Curze. We are here to see what
you have done with our brother." Azmenos blinked to see a giant in bone-white
Terminator armour pointing a winged sword at his throat. As his vision focused he
noticed two other terminators pointing their storm bolters at him. He also noticed Raust
and First Claw with the bolters held to the Dark Angels' heads.
Swallowing the disoriented bile in his throat, Azmenos smiled and laughed, standing
slowly and palming away the sword from his neck. The other Deathwing members kept
their weapons trained on him. "Come, Captain Caliel, we have some things to discuss,"
he said.
"Very well" Caliel said slowly. The Dark Angels relaxed slightly, as did First Claw.
"Lead the way." Azalan began to follow the bizarre coterie of blue and white but one of
the terminators turned and placed a deactivated power fist in his path.
"You must stay here, little brother, these are not things for your eyes," the terminator
said. "Return to the lines and prepare for further battle. These negotiations may not go
as we expect."
Dejected and confused, Azalan walked back to his entrenchment. Something was
different here, something reeked of betrayal and fear. "Brother Sectus," he voxed across
a private channel. An affirmative response returned. "I don't like what this implies." His
friend and battle-brother came up beside him and the two watched the entourage of
veterans disappear into the ruins.
"The Fists will be even less pleased with the development," Sectus mused.
_______________
Captain D'Arquebus threw the limp body of the Night Lord back towards his comrades.
Never has he seen so much traitor scum in such a small space. He must have
dispatched five of his erstwhile brothers and bolter rounds were still pinging off his
armour and whizzing by his head. The head of the corpse he threw back at them was

utterly crushed and the other two Night Lords staggered back.
"Come at me then!" D'Arquebus screamed at the Night Lords. The lascannons that had
since bombarded their position were silenced by well-placed stalker rounds from the
Sternguard brought in from the rearguard. The subsequent charge had been enough to
all but wipe out the militia guarding the bridge. Were it not for the sons of Curze, the
Imperial Fists would have the bridge.
He fired his storm bolter into the Night Lords, knocking one of them backwards. He
charged forwards, slamming his boot onto the fallen warrior's chest, crushing it slightly
with the tremendous force, power armour fighting power armour. The Night Lord
screamed and the Imperial Fist Captain smiled. As the other turned to withdraw
D'Arquebus' power fist grabbed his backpack with his power fist, ripping it off with such
force that this Night Lord also fell to the floor. He tried to scramble up but D'Arquebus'
foot found its way with a stomp onto his head.
The other, still living traitor astartes under his foot was digging his combat gladius into
his golden-armoured opponent's leg. D'Arquebus looked down and emotionlessly fired a
bolt round into the Night Lord's skull, filling the cratered helmet with mushy, pink pulp.
"Ave Imperator, scum," he said. The haze of combat began to fade and D'Arquebus took
stock of the other squads around him. Sergeant Cadris and his squad had sustained
two casualties. "Report!" he bellowed into the vox.
"It appears we have the bridge, Captain," the Land Raider's crew reported back. It had
pushed forwards and had proved an excellent bastion in the previous engagement.
"Sergeant Azalan is not responded. The Dark Angels appear silent."
"Patch me through to the Guard Lieutenant, immediately," D'Arquebus felt his hand
begin to itch, as it often did shortly before things went horribly against the plan. "Quiet
brothers" he whispered, half to himself, half to those he'd failed in the past. The vox
screamed and whined as his helmet and chapter frequencies changed to match those of
the Guard units on the other front.
"This is Lieutenant Mason of the Necromundan Twenty-Third," the voice hissed and
showed hints of one who did not know the underhives of his home planet. D'Arquebus
did, several lifetimes ago. "The Dark Angels have drawn back to the lines and ordered

us to hold fast. The enemy has also ceased to assault our position."
He switched to his Chapter vox, "Cadris, move forward and execute the remaining traitor
humans. Tactical withdrawal if you encounter more Eighth Legion," D'Arquebus shifted
his frequencies back to the Guard commander, "Mason, please repeat your last
transmission," inside his helmet, he glared.
""The Dark Angels, Lord. They're no longer fighting, nor is the enemy. I have no
explanation. The front command centre has been sealed to non-Astartes." D'Arquebus'
hand began to itch again.
"Damn Thank you, Lieutenant Mason, that will be all," the Imperial Fist Captain
muttered and abruptly switched back to "Sternguard, to the Land Raider. We have an
assault to plan. Vanguard, prepare your jump packs, I've a feeling we will need them
before this day is done."
With the orders issued, D'Arquebus stepped into the mobile command centre inside the
Land Raider and twisted his helmet slightly, listening to the hiss of compressed air and
grimacing as the brief vacuum pulled at his senses and made his ears pop with violent
strain.
He picked up the enhanced vox from inside and dialled in the appropriate frequencies.
"Seraphim's Flight, this is Lexandro D'Arquebus, Fifth Captain of the Imperial Fists." A
brief pause and then on the clearest frequency he had heard all day, the reply from the
ship-master came.
"Schaal here - Ship-Master of the Seraphim's Flight. My Lord?"
The Fifth Captain of the Imperial Fists growled menacingly into the vox, well aware of
how he sounded to the commander of the city-sized ship in orbit. "I demand to speak to
Captain Caliel. Immediately."
_______________
Dark Angels find Fallen Prisoner.
_______________

NIght Lords watch Dark Angel withdrawal.

_______________
Imperial Fists are overwhelmed.