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Ok, so i have started my hand at this whole writing fluff thing... my story thus far is incomplete, so bear with me here. As has been requested before, i would like to keep this thread solely for the purpose of posting my story here (so you dont have to wade thru a ton of posts to continue reading it, linky ) without further ado, here goes:





The captain who stood on the promontory knew the area below all too well, many years ago, hundreds of years really, he had been down there,

trying for his life to pass it. He also knew what lurked out in that wilderness, and how it came to be there in the first place. Every one of the others

with him had been through this test as well, for you could not become part of THIS company without passing it.

Eventually, once the time was reached, he would send his hunters out. the permafrost taiga forests of the planet Moord was the perfect place for

such a test. The scout initiates had been dropped off three days ago. Armed with only a combat knife and their black carapace, they had to move from

their insertion points, hundreds of kilometers, back to the Reclusiam Barracks on the planet. Along the way, they must evade the detection of not only

the hunters, but also the captain himself, his chaplain and librarian who stood to either side of him here. Should that not prove to be enough of a

test, they had to also find a complete set of armor and weapons, lest they should die from the extreme colds, shrieking winds, and white out blizzard

conditions. It was a brutal test that most did not pass, and a few perished in myriad ways away from the comfort and protection of Deliverance and the

Ravenspire.

"Chaplain, have any made it to the reclusiam yet?" Captain Vaania Saalista asked.
Chaplain Caasti replied, "No captain, the test is young yet, and the Ravens have yet to fly. No one can make the sheltered walls of the

Reclusiam in so short a time."
"The Reclusiarch is correct Lord," Epistolary Nycticorax interjected as he scanned the data slate in his hand, "No one has made even so far as

The Divide. Word from the Hammer has informed me that the nearest one's signal was last read in the foothills of those treacherous peaks."





The roaring of the Thunderhawk transport was diminishing as it flew over the mountains back up, on its way back to the battle barge Hammer of

Deliverance. He shivered as it left his sight, taking in his surroundings he knew that he needed to move. He slipped into the shadow of a nearby fir

tree, and the shadows there hungrily swallowed him up. As he scanned the area for his next move, a glinting light, or rather, an utter lack of it caught

his eyes. He moved quickly and quietly as possible, and reached what turned out to be his first piece of gear, the backpack from a suit of power armor.

He began to snatch it up, but his instinctive training stopped him short. He laid down flat on his belly, drawing his combat knife. He slowly probed the

area around and under the armor, checking for any traps placed there previously.
He continued on, alone, through the vast wilderness that comprised the Raven Guard training planet of Moord. In the late afternoon light, a

slight noise, that save for his astartes enhanced hearing he would have missed, alerted him to another presence. Within a split second he had gotten its

direction, the angle of the wind, and what manner of being it was. The Snow Leopard was not yet aware of him yet, and he could leave it, but for the

encroaching night and the deathly cold it brought with it. Silently, he began stalking the large beast, though he knew that without a good clean kill

wrought from surprise and his superior training, he would be slain by this creature.
Everything came to a standstill, just him and the Leopard. In the background, the snow had slowed to a crawl, nearly stopped. Distant thunder,

the Caw! Caww! Caww! of a raven and the loud beat of its wings as it took flight. Brief flashes in his minds eye rehearsed the perfect killing blows he

would need to kill this massive animal and reap his prize.
Just as his blade snuffed the life from the unaware creature, the stalker became the stalked. A new sound entered his skull. Snapping branches,

blunt Ork-like huffs and puffs, snorting breath. The decayed smell of old blood and rotten meat. Before he could even wrench his knife free, he was

hurled through the air by a bone jarring impact. He lept from the hole he had created with his impact in the snow and saw it for the first time. Even

though it was hunch backed, he barely reached its chest in height. White fur covered it from head to toe, a mouth full of needle sharp teeth. Two gore

stained tusks protruding from the sides of its jaw to cover the edges of its mouth. Giant paws armed with long raven like talons. He had no name for it

other than the first one that came to his mind: Weregeld.
Without second thought, he charged at the Weregeld, ducking a huge swipe of its paws, clubbing its midsection with his forearm and rolled behind

it. Sprinting to the Leopard's corpse to retrieve his knife and try to even the odds some. Back, facing Weregeld, he readied himself in a fighting

stance. As it charged to kill him, he slashed and parried, cutting its flesh with the skill of an expert. Ducking, dodging, slashing, the Weregeld was

bleeding from a hundred cuts, but it was still strong. It struck him across the face with a backhanded blow. He was ready for it. Thought the blow had

staggered him back a couple of steps, he kept his feet, and more importantly, his knife. As the Weregeld stepped in for the kill, both arms raised to

deliver the hammer blow to crush his skull, he lunged in and drove his blade as deep as his strength could push it, puncturing its heart. Reaching for

its shoulder as he removed the knife, he lept up driving the knife deep again, under its jaw, killing the Weregeld.
After felling the Weregeld he fashioned a pair of clawed gloves of its paws, that resembled very primitive lightning claws, weapons which he was

very well proficient at. He skinned and later ate the Snow Leopard, keeping warm through the night.




"Tactical squad Talon reports as ready to hunt, and Assault flight Murder will be ready once fuelling is done," the chaplain broke Captain

Saalista's concentration on the tactical readout.
"Hold the assault squad back, their jump packs are too noisy. Makes it easier for the initiates to evade the hunters. Tell Murder to switch to

their normal packs, and begin hunting when thats complete," Captain Saalista returned, "Epistolary Nycticorax, remember your rules, and hunt well,

brothers."
The three most senior members of the secretive nineteenth company of Raven Guard turned away from the tactical display table to begin their

chase of the scout initiates. Each lost in his own thoughts. Remembering his experiences when he went through this test, or plotting his strategy for

the coming hunt.

so here is the next installment of the story so far for you guys:






The way through the pass was difficult, to put it lightly. His newly boot-shod feet struggling to find purchase in the loose ground. His half armored body sinking deeper into the snows of the mountain. After killing the Weregeld, he had continued his stealthy journey towards the range called the Divide. He had encountered little save for more armor pieces, for he was now armor-clad to the waist. Moving through the snow, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was both watched and followed. Three times in the past two days he had heard the raven's scornful calls. These were not unnatural sounds as the black birds lived on almost all parts of this planet.
His ritually tattooed arms flexed, muscles rippling from the exertion of pulling himself up the small cliff. Slowly his head crested the top of the cliff face, scanning for any movement. Seeing none he rolled up and moved to the nearest cover, the silence of his movements would astonish those not trained in the ways of the Raven Guard. He continued on, melting from shadow to shadow, cover to cover, like a shade, swiftly and silently. To him, the mountains went on for days, though after only one day and one half, he was on the downward slope.





In his sights, the first scout initiate went down. Captain Saalista had snuck up on his first "kill" of the exercise. Though he had been caught, no secrets had been divulged so the man was free to return to his duties in the 10th Company Scout Auxiliaries, if he made the chapel. The battle barge and thunderhawk pilots knew better than to extract from here and interrupt the testing.
Captain Saalista, Commander of the 19th Company Raven Guard, a company which few above him knew existed, continued his hunt. The patch of forest he was in now did not have near as much snow as anywhere else in the area. Rocks began poking through the surface here and there. As the snow thinned further, the rocks and bare earth became more frequent. The rocks became more geometric, like blocks, purposefully placed there. Soon a pattern became apparent, and walls took shape as he stalked these ancient ruins.
A scrabbling cascade of rocks put him on alert as the distinctive clack of a bolter locked and aimed at him
"By doing that, Initiate, you have failed this exercise" the Captain said into the air.
"I have not given away anything, Sir, you cannot see me, yet i can see you. The hunter has become the prey, commander. Our roles reversed."
The directionless voice was correct, but it didn't know what the commander did.
The cawing of ravens overhead caused Vaania Sallista a small smile of satisfaction. Shortly after, there was a sharp grunt, and a body flew out of the ruins to land in a jumbled heap at his feet, "Rise Initiate, and know your lessons from this: many times a hunter will not hunt alone. For the Raven's flourish and thrive from teamwork. Your task was not to hunt us, it was to evade and escape detection from all others. A Raven must know when to use stealth and cunning. You did well in concealing yourself from one. Next time, you will escape us all."
The scout bowed to the commander, "Sir, I thank you and your Brother-Librarian for this lesson, I will ensure that it is not wasted." and with that, he broke into a jog towards the chapel.
"Commander, how did you know where that one would be? You dont have the gifts that I do," the Librarian asked.
"If I told you, brother, then how would an old Raven retain his edge, or the secrets of the company?" he said, with a twinkle of michievous laughter in his eye.



He was out of the mountains now and he had crossed a river of decent width. Crossed open country. He had made his way through the most strange and wonderous stone ruins. He felt better now, things felt right. The armor, though just found and assembled by himself, fit like it was fresh from the forge for him alone. The only piece he was reluctant to call his own, was the sword he had recovered from the ruins. And what close calls there! Another battle brother had been caught, and surely if he had moved so much as a finger, they would have had him too. That was nearly four days ago. The ruins, the mountains, and the weregeld as distant memories compared to the ground he had covered. Whats more when he was near hilltops, or on higher ground, he could see the reclusiam chapel, 'no time for mistakes now,' he thought to himself.





Having caught half of the Scout Aspirants already, he called Chaplain Caasti and Epistolary Nycticorax off, and back to the reclusiam chapel. With all three of them present they made their preparations for the coming ceremony.


As he neared the chapel, still in the woods, he took stock of the sensorium arrays, the patrols of man and vehicle, and waited......

ok, so here is the last of what i have written, it may take abit to read through it, so here goes:



In the midst of his meditations and preparations for the night's ceremony, a servitor entered bearing a data scroll. Silently it waited, until the commander got up and took it, silently nodding that it's work was completed and it was dismissed. He unfurled it, and gazing at the message it contained, consternation creased his face until he saw it's signature.



An eerie silence fell on the night. He noticed the spare raven calls, the waning quarter moon, the slight breeze that caught the treetops. The sensorium arrays still swept the area, but where were the manned and vehicle patrols? Worry began settling in his gut, he was so close to the threshold, but still he had no helm. A small hope that one waited inside fuelled his desire to complete this. Keeping to the shadows he made his way to the building, patience kept him still when the sensorium swept by, and he slipped through their blind sides. Inside the sensors, he began prowling for a side or back entrance to the chapel.



Captain Vaania Saalista made his way to the grand chamber where the induction would take place. The chaplain, and especially the librarian would be pleased to hear the news he brought with him. Even the venerable dreadnought had been awoken for the ceremony. The dreadnought had been at all of the inductions, since the very beginning, since the days when the Raven Guard were Legion. The days when he himself wore power armor, and stood beside the quiet power of Corax. It was he who knew the rites of induction, as bestowed by his father primarch.
The captain stopped by to speak quietly with the venerable one, and be reassured that all was prepared. As soon as he took his place, everything went black, save the flickering flame in the center of the chamber.




Slipping through the crack of the door he had eased open, he made his way into the darkness.The darkness total and complete. He placed his gauntleted hand against the wall, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Though the darkness was total, he soon saw a faint flicker ahead, barely discernable. Noticing that it was a small blaze, and suddenly feeling cold, he instinctively went to it to warm his bones, which, upon retrospect was ludicrous given the warmth and protection of his armor.
He began hearing noises like birds taking flight in the rafters above him.
"WHO ARE YOU?" a voice boomed out of the blackness. Reflexively drawing his sword into a guard stance. The voice repeated, "WHO. ARE. YOU?" slower, more forcefully.
"My name is Iroquis Pliskin,"
"Iroquis Pliskin, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" the voice thundered.
"I am here on exercise for the betterment of myself, by battle-brothers, and the chapter," he said, not letting his guard down even a fraction.
"If you are here on exercise, what is that hanging from your belt?" a new, smaller voice asked with just as much power.
"It is the head of a ferocious Weregeld that i encountered during my travels here," he said, not cowed by the power presented in the voices assailing him.
"THAT IS NO WEREGELD, WHELP, THAT IS A FEARSOME BEAST, BUT WEREGELD IT IS NOT" the big voice hammered back,"ARE YOU PREPARED TO ASCEND TO FULL BROTHERHOOD?"
"I am," Pliskin replied, tossing the useless head at his side.
"ARE YOU PREPARED TO WEAR THAT ARMOR AT ALL TIMES? TO SERVE IN ONE OF THE NINE SHADOW-COMPANIES?" with this echoing question, a chorus of ravens started CAW! CAWW! Cawwing.
"I am," he replied simply.
"ARE YOU PREPARED TO HUNT DOWN CHAOS, IN ITS MANY FORMS, EVEN IF IT TURNS IN THE FORM OF YOUR BROTHER?" the chorus started an angry growl at this.
"I am," Iroquis said, defiant that such question should be asked. The chorus kicked up their furious cawing song.
"ARE YOU PREPARED TO DEFEND YOURSELF AND YOUR BROTHER AGAINST THE TRICKERIES OF MYRIAD XENOS CREATURES?" the voice crashed into and filled the chamber. Pliskin could only see the flames in front of him, and his own body, as the darkness prevailed. "I am," he replied to his unseen interrogator.
" ARE YOU PREPARED TO SMITE YOUR ENEMIES, NO MATTER WHAT IT COSTS YOU PERSONALLY?"
"I am," he replied.
"Who do you serve?" another voice with as much conviction as the first and as much power as the second voice asked.
"I serve the Emperor, and He who gave me life, my primogenitor and Father, the Primarch Corax, May He Return To Us Soon."
"May He Return To Us Soon," the voice replied, "What is your battle-cry?"
"I have none," Pliskin answered, nervous now, lest he should have answered differently.
The first voice returned in full reverbrative force, "WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO, IF YOU HAVE NO BATTLE-CRY?"
The man at the fire gathered as much air as he could muster and roared with all the fury of the titans of old, "VICTORUS AUT MORTIS!"
"WELL, IROQUIS PLISKIN," the voice responded, "YOU HAVE NOT BEEN CHOSEN TO SERVE IN ONE OF THE NINE." This declaration crushed Pliskin's spirit, nearly bringing him to his knees. But The raven chorus kicked up, full throated, triumphant calls of a victorious champion, over the roaring din, he could hear the unkown voice continue it's declaration, "WITH THIS NIGHT, THIS CHORUS OF RAVENS, AND AN ENTIRE COMPANY OF BATTLE BROTHERS." At that, hundreds of braziers and torches filled the chamber with the orange-red glow of fire, and Iroquis Pliskin saw a full company of black armored Ravens surrounding him. On the stage in front of him, he saw his interrogators, a Captain, Chaplain, Librarian, and the monstrous form of a Chaplain Dreadnought. He knew the Venerable Dreadnought to be the first voice, though he couldnt place the voices of his other two interrogators from looks. But the Ancient One was still going on, "I HEREBY RENOUNCE YOU IROQUIS PLISKIN!" more morale crushing blows, but he stood strong, "AND I PROMOTE YOU FROM THE CHAPTER'S SCOUT AUXILIARY, TO THE RANK OF SHADOW-BROTHER OF THE 19th COMPANY OF RAVEN GUARD! FROM THIS MOMENT FORWARD, YOU WILL FOREVER BE KNOWN AS VAANIA SAALISTA!"
With this declaration the din of ravens positively erupted as they were joined by 150 battle-brothers cawing, shouting and hollering their approval of this, the latest edition to their secret fraternity. Once the tremendous volume began to subside, the chaplain stepped forward with Crozius held high, and a hush fell on the gathered crowd. "Brother Saalista," the chaplain began,"before this company moves off to our feast with you, there is one last thing that must be done."
The skull face helm took in each of the brothers in turn. Then he gestured to Vaania to move to the stage and kneel. Vaania knelt before the chaplain, and he opened a chest, from which the chaplain removed an object two-handed. Holding the object up, over his head, out of the eyesight of Saalista, the cawing and yelling of both Raven Guard and raven struck thunder from the rafters. The chaplain slammed the helm home and waited.
He bade his charge rise saying, "Rise brother. Turn and face your brothers and the world a new man!" he turned. And doing so, the Chaplain began to beat his breastplate with his gauntleted fist. The whole company took up the pounding rhythm as Vaania Saalista slowly turned to face his brothers. His mark six plate armor sucking all life from the air surrounding it, the beak of his Corvus pattern helm glinting at its edges. Facing the fire once more, he took up the pulsing, thunderous beat on his own breastplate. With the ceremony concluded, the brothers all filed out to dine and enjoy each other's fraternity.
The chaplain met him in the hallway on their way to the dining chamber, "you must be wondering why the head you had as a trophy meant so little." he said.
"Indeed Chaplain, my mind was so sure that it was a Weregeld that i had taken, a beast from the myths of our own secrets."
"The Weregeld were all destroyed, the Primarch, May He Return To Us Soon, made sure of that before he left. What you encountered is just as fierce a beast that many a full brother would have died from himself, that the nearest name we can come up with is Yehtiy. They are an ancient beast from the most ancient of Terra's myths, and to have slain one and kept your life is truly an amazing feat." with that, the chaplain left him to his thoughts, and they continued into the revelry of the dining hall.







...Captain Saalista was nudged from his reverie by Chaplain Caasti, "Brother, now that the ceremony has been completed for this one, you had news for us?" he was speaking softly so that no one else could have heard.
"Indeed Brother," Captain Saalista replied, and leaning over to the Venerable One said, "Ancient One, if I may?"
The Venerable Dreadnought roared out to silence the crowd once more, "THE GOOD CAPTAIN HAS A WORD FOR US ALL THIS EVENING. LISTEN WELL."
"My brothers," the commander began,"'Twas nearly 800 years ago this night, that i myself was standing down there near that open flame, and took this ceremony. And in that time, I have seen many join our ranks, and many join the Emperor, preparing for the final battle. Few things in this company are as jubilant as bringing another brother into our ranks," he paused as his Ravens cawed and called out to his words, "But, I have received word that our closest brothers outside of the Ravenspire are requesting our aid in their endevours. My brothers! MEN! We go to meet the Prometheans and make bloody war!" Captain Vaania Saalista had never felt these walls shake this way before. The uncontained excitement was palpable. 'Good' he thought. Let them revel and be merry. He had a feeling that it would be a long long time before they felt this kind of joy again.

“Warp translation in T-minus one minute,” the charmingly feminine, yet automated voice chimed. Captain Saalista sat on his command throne over the bridge of his ship. The crew were hurrying about their tasks, and finding their assigned places in the large control room. Both he and the ship’s human captain watched the countdown timer with ease, though in his hearts, he felt nervous. And rightly so, Captain Vaania Saalista had made countless jumps, yet retranslating into real space was always dangerous, and altogether unpleasant.
“Warp translation in T-minus five seconds, four, three seconds, two, one second. Warp translation now.” And with that, a searing light and darkness blinded everyone on the bridge. With peals of thunder, groaning, and squeals of metal, the venerably barge Hammer of Deliverance made its translation. Captain Saalista felt his whole body lurch. It felt as if he was in a super-G environment, pressed flat into his throne, he gritted his teeth against the pressure. His stomach felt as if it were about to be launched from his mouth, his limbs and body heavy and smashed. It felt as if it would never end, the unbearable roar of sound in his ears, gritting his teeth. It sounded as though a thousand battles raged all around him. If it could get any worse on him, he had no idea, though he wondered if he was feeling this poorly, how the un-enhanced crewmembers must feel right now. As the violence continued to escalate inside his body, suddenly there was…

Nothing.
The Hammer had made its translation successfully, and shortly after his own, the rest of his small yet formidable fleet arrived. Within moments, his flagship was picking up its sister Vulkan’s Anvil up on the sensorium arrays.
Shortly, a most familiar voice came in over the long range vox, “Unidentified fleet, identify yourself or be destroyed.”
“This is Shadow-Captain Vaania Saalista, Master of the fleet arrayed before you, unmask your guns, and you shall know the Emperor’s wrath!” he replied.
“Nay brother, ‘tis I, and my fleet who would be giving a taste of the Emperor’s wrath,” the voice responded in kind, “bring your transport aboard Vulkan’s Anvil as soon as you are able, there is much to catch up on.”
And with that, the vox went dead, and all hands prepared the ships for dispersal throughout the small cluster of systems. Soon after the translation, Captain Vaania Saalista was riding in his thunderhawk, rocketing towards the Salamanders’ flagship.

The condensation was steaming off of the black hull of the thunderhawk. Sounds from the inside told of activity in its bowels. Suddenly a great gout of steam erupted from the nose of the transport as its front ramp was lowered and extended. As the steam cleared, a truly magnificent being strode down to the deck of the Salamanders’ ship, surveying the scene before him. Clad in armor so black, it seemed to gather the shadows around it, and swallowed whole, any light that dared come near it. The wings that adorned his chest plate stood in stark contrast along with his right shoulder guard, bearing his personal heraldry. His long black hair flowed down either side of his face, framing perfectly murderous black pearls that were his eyes. If he felt surprise at the welcome someone as ranking as he, he didn’t show it. Waiting casually near the still settling thunderhawk, was a lone scout, who bore a most peculiar weapon, at least it was odd for one who wore the carapace armor of a scout. He was very sure of himself, for who could stand so completely at ease around a being as wondrous as Vaania Saalista? The strange scout’s first words made everything perfectly clear.
“Welcome to Vulkan’s Anvil, Master Saalista. I am Acolyte H’phest, apprentice to Chaplain Surtur. He has bid me to await your arrival. I shall take you to him forthwith, as I’m sure you are anxious to join the festivities.”
Captain Saalista merely nodded his head and fell into step at the acolyte’s right side. They wound their way through the ship, Saalista marveling inwardly how this, his own ship’s sister, could be so markedly different? They approached an enormous set of wooden doors, carved with all manner of flame, hammer, and drake icons. In its center, painted and carved was the Chapter Icon in the midst of the Promethean Cult’s imagery. Before anyone could touch the doors, they pivoted and turned into the chamber on their own. Without breaking stride, Vaania Saalista strode through the doorway. He approached the dais at the far end of the long hall, trestle tables forming a virtual gauntlet of merciless killers for him to walk. In silence, red eyes followed his path, till finally, he knelt before the high table. The man sitting at the table, though not armored, was still one of the most intimidating sites the Imperium had to offer. The mountain sized man leaned over his plate, elbows resting on the table top. In the dim, fire lit room, his glowing red eyes surveyed all around him. As Saalista knelt, Chaplain Surtur’s rumbling deep voice said, “What have I told you about kneeling before me, Bird Man?”
Rising from his kneeling position, and not taking the bait, Captain Saalista replied, “Ahh, it is good to see you again old friend.”
Putting down the chunk of food he was gnawing on, Surtur rose to his feet, the scales of his finely wrought leather rustling quietly amid the sounds of the crackling fires. He moved around the table to embrace Vaania as a long lost brother returned home. As they broke the embrace, the very same scout who escorted Vaania to the hall burst through the door out of breath, if that were even possible for a marine, without further ceremony he rushed to the two officers of the Astartes bearing a small data tablet.
As he approached them, Chaplain Surtur calmed the young man down, “Slow down son, catch your breath. What could possibly be so urgent as to leave you breathless and unable to speak?”
To which the young acolyte replied, “M’lord, astrotelepathic message came in, with the highest levels of encryption. Only you can open it.”
Chaplain Surtur responded, “All on my vessel can open any astrotelepathic message, so why bring these things to me, when I am not needed?”
“Master Surtur, only you can decrypt the message, because it’s not a standard encryption, its Astartes.”
Chaplain Surtur took the data slate from his acolyte, and promptly opened the message. Even his normally stoic face couldn’t hide the consternation and worry that the message brought.
“It would seem, my friend that we shouldn’t tarry here for long, getting reacquainted. I asked you come here, for exactly this message. The Fire Readers foresaw this moment, and requested that I call on you for such a task,” Chaplain Surtur said, handing the slate over to Vaania.
He read the proffered data slate and read what had caused such a reaction in the chaplain. He scarce believed what he was reading. He looked up, drawing himself up to his full height, half drawing his hammer from its place at his side, and proclaiming in his most commanding voice, “The 19th are ever ready to bring swift retribution to the enemies of the Imperium. I await your orders.”
“Stow your weapon, I did not ask for your presence here for you to serve beneath me. I ask you to join the Prometheans as equals, and brothers. We will need your tactical mind just as much as that hammer you keep by your side.”
To this, Captain Saalista merely nodded. They both turned, heading towards the great seat, at the table of honor, Vaania said over his shoulder to H’phest, “send a vox communication to my ship, have them bring more brothers over here, “ before he could continue, Chaplain Surtur took up what the Captain was saying, “Tonight, we feast. We feast as warriors, as brothers. We feast to honor the past, to honor our heritage and primarchs. We feast to honor the dead, and the future dead, those who may not return from this undertaking. Into the fires of battle!”
“Unto the anvil of war!” captain Saalista finished. Then he continued, “Victorus aut mortis.”
“Victory or death, indeed brother,” the chaplain replied.

This portion you're about to read is merely an interlude, designed to keep the rabid ravens at bay, until more is written. but fear not! for i am currently writing more yet to this, umm, saga. We'll see how much more i put into the next portion, and if im happy with it.

Red sand swirled through the desert that dominated the planet Klexus. The earliest exploratory surveys conducted by the Mechanicus showed that this once was a verdant, green life filled planet. Now the polar forests were the only portions of the planet that had any color besides red. Just because the sands had blasted most of the surface of the planet, did not mean that it was void of life. Far from it, the planet was a veritable death world, filled with savage beasts of monstrous proportions. From orbit, the ships were able to detect something. What that something was, no one could be sure. It was almost as if, whatever it was, it didn’t want to be detected. Mechanicum surveyor teams were sent down to the surface.

Shortly after, all contact was lost with them. A small contingent of scout forces from the Helgan 3rd Heavy Cavalry Regiment was sent down to find out what happened. They made camp in a tactically sound location, in the draw of a mountain range, where the large camp would be protected on two sides from assault. Quickly, they came under attack from the sands. They rapidly sent up vox communication to the fleet in orbit, letting them know what undoubtedly happened to the previous surveyor groups, and that reinforcements would be needed. By the time the first drop ships arrived bearing Leman Russ battle tanks, it was too late for the scouts. The drop ships landed on the pad marked out in the camp, but the camp itself was empty of life. Evidence of the fate that had befallen the scouts was everywhere. Crushed lasguns mingled with pools of blood, but where were the bodies? Drop ships were constantly coming and going, leaving their precious cargo of tanks and artillery pieces.

The men, under the strict guidance of Colonel Cambra, were expeditious in setting up a heavily fortified camp where a proper military offensive could be mustered from. It had space enough to bring down the super heavy tanks, full maintenance sections, and the regiment’s aviation units. Troops of Thunderbolt and Lightning fighters, and Marauder bombers were brought down to the surface, along with all of the gear necessary to fuel and restock munitions. Of all the units he wished that he had with him, the one missed the most by him was Crazy horse Troop, if only because he felt that the shadowsword tanks in that troop would be most useful in the coming campaign. The anomalies that originally brought the ground forces down to the Klexus’ surface continued to plague the scouting parties sent out to discover what they were up against. As it stood currently, the forces he had with him would be more than enough to destroy any enemy’s will to fight, if only he knew what enemy was out there.

The colonel, seeing that continuing to send out mere men out to scout the planet was folly; he would merely waste every life in his regiment that way. Therefore, he sent out an Astartes encrypted message, hoping that someone from the Emperor’s space marines would hear it. Soon, Jarl Wybjorn arrived with ten men. Hoping that this was merely the spear tip, Colonel Cambra relayed all that he knew to Wybjorn. The Jarl, leader of his chapter saw that his mere ten men couldn’t hope to achieve any sort of victory on this planet themselves, so he sent an astrotelepathic message to Chaplain Surtur, hoping to bring the legendary Salamanders to Klexus.




Warning klaxons wailed across the bridges of every ship in the Imperial Navy fleet stationed in orbit over the surface of Klexus. Swiftly ascertaining that the numerous fleets were much larger than their own, they moved the fleet to the darkened side of the planet, where this unidentified fleet’s sensors could not detect them. They waited, like roaches in shadow, for the arrival of the Salamanders’ fleet to arrive, not realizing that the numerous fleets arriving in the system were, in fact, several separate fleets comprised of many companies of many different chapters of loyal space marines. Until finally, after what felt like weeks, the emerald ships of the Salamanders’ fleet, under the command of Chaplain Surtur arrived. The fleet itself was spectacular, not only in color, but in sheer size, as it soon became apparent that he did not come with only his own ships. The black shadows that were intermixed with his fleet that in any other circumstance would be a deadly gap in his formation, were in fact, filled by the dark hulled Raven Guard fleet, under Shadow-Captain Vaania Saalista; Out of there hidden places the naval fleet responsible for the guardsmen on the surface moved into orbit along with the now gargantuan fleet. As swiftly as possible, the Chaplain and Captain boarded a lone thunderhawk and traveled to the planet surface, to be briefed on all that had transpired, and decide where to go from there.

sorry about the length of this latest section...hope you enjoy none the less!!


The whole complex was abuzz with activity. The guardsmen were too busy to notice, nor even to be in awe of the current space marine presence. The large forms of the marines moved effortlessly and invisibly throughout the camp about their business. Hundreds of Guard tracked vehicles were being tended to, in anticipation for the upcoming offensive. Though none of them knew who they were facing yet, it caused some nervous rumors to be spread through the camp, and spread like wildfire they did. The brave men of the Helgan 3rd Heavy Cavalry were anxious to get into the thick of things. The infamous unit, also known by the epithet “The Devil’s Own” were suffering through the worst part of war, waiting.

A small black speck, unnoticed by most, save the marines present, appeared over the horizon from the north. The red sky and black clouds obscuring the shape of it as it flew, unmistakably towards the camp. Shortly, the unmistakable sound of the thunderhawk transporter could be heard by the marines throughout the camp. Whop Whop Whop. The sound of the turbines turning over as it flew in towards the camp. The leader of the marines present turned to his nearest Sergeant, “Lad, go tell that runty colonel that he should be expecting some good and proper reinforcement shortly.”

“Aye, Jarl” Sergeant Ingolf replied and strode off towards the colonel’s tent, his myriad weapons clattering on his armor.


Whop whop whop whop. The beat of the thunderhawk’s low velocity drive became audible to everyone around the maintenance bays. Mechanics and ammunition loaders all stopped what they were doing, looking in the direction of this new sound. There were murmurs about what this new aircraft could be. Everyone there knew that the marauders weren’t due back for another 3 hours, and on top of that, they had flown to the west. A few of the men present thought to grab their weapons, but thought better when they saw Jarl Wybjorn, the leader of the marine forces already present, calmly walking towards the marked landing pad. The sound of the thunderhawk’s beating engine got louder and louder, until most of those without the benefit of Astartes augmentation were covering their ears. The tail of the thunderhawk dipped down, as it lowered down to the pad, kicking up a tidal wave of red sand. Most of the guardsmen who were previously tending to their machines were leaving the bay tents, stepping into the ruddy red light of day. All were curious about this new, black and green thunderhawk that had ruined the comparative peace of the early day.

Once the dust had finally settled, there was a large crowd of desert fatigue wearing guardsmen gathered before the ship, waiting, though they kept what they felt was a safe distance from the already present space marine. His wild look belied his loyal nature. A thin strip of unkempt hair at the very top of his scalp ran from his forehead down toward the back, long unshaven beard, face painted for war gave Jarl Wybjorn a feral look that demanded clear passage from lesser beings. The assault ramp at the front of the vessel finally opened, and two magnificent beings strode down, shoulder to shoulder. Both wore black armor, though that was where almost all similarity ended. One’s armor drank in the light, the other radiated holy fury. While one was wearing his helm of office, the other let his long hairs hang free, blowing in the desert breeze. While there were many differences between the two, one thing was abundantly clear; these were commanders, used to giving orders and seeing them done unquestioningly.

“I wish I could greet you on a more joyous occasion, however time is short,” Wybjorn said, beginning to turn towards the Colonel’s command tent. Captain Saalista and Chaplain Surtur split and walked to either side of the Marine.

“How do the Night Ravens fare these days, Wybjorn?” Vaania asked, genuinely interested in his former protégé’s chapter. The fledgling chapter was still trying to make a name for it having little to no history, aside from those engagements fought alongside the 19th company of Raven Guard. “I see that some of my lessons have been taken quite literally,” he asked quickly, amused at the armaments of his former students.

“Oh, this,” Wybjorn asked? Touching his numerous swords, spear and shield, as well as his bolter, “Well, you did always say that in battle it is easier to draw a fresh blade then to draw a blade from the flesh of a fallen foe,” he said with a smirk, quite proud of the standard he enforced within his chapter. Indeed, every one of the darkly armored Night Ravens walked around the military compound with nearly a half dozen weapons strapped to him. The very few standard weapons among all were a spear and shield, along with the bolter. “We may look like the space wolves brother, but we fight like ravens. Shortly, I think, you will find this out.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. But tell me brother Wybjorn, How are these spears of yours constructed?” Chaplain Surtur asked.

“The only way possible Salamander. By my own fists,” Wybjorn replied, “each man of my chapter must fashion his own spear. In this way, he is ultimately responsible for the balance of the weapon and he cannot pass the blame of a failed weapon onto another artificer, but rather he must reflect on himself, should he still be breathing to be able to.”

“Spoken like a true man of the forge,” the chaplain said a look of pride hidden by his skull helm. “Tell us what you think of the guard commander.”

“He’s a good man, that’s for sure. Those tanks will sure serve well in a pinch. The only thing he says he is lacking; are his Shadowswords, whatever those buggers are,” Wybjorn said.

The two elder marines shook their heads with a chuckle at Wybjorn’s remarks about the Shadowsword. Who honestly did not know about many of the variants of baneblade plying the battlefields of the galaxy, especially a member of the Adeptus Astartes? They continued walking on, toward the command tent, nearly a kilometer away from where they had departed the thunderhawk.

“Oh, my boys were digging around, trying to figures out just what happened here. Thought your chaplainship might like to see this,” Wybjorn said, producing a tooth about the size of his forearm from his side.

“This is a Fire Drake’s tooth, you’re certain that it came from this planet?” the chaplain asked, thoroughly intrigued. He took the tooth, to examine it further, “Do you realize just how large this particular beast must be?”

“Well, I know it’s big enough to have broke a tooth on an explorator vehicle. That’s where Ingolf found it, up in the mountains there. Best we can tell, based off what little in the way of track it left, and the amount of carnage there was still left when we arrived, that the bugger came from out of the dune seas there,” he continued, pointing off towards the middle of nowhere, “whipped the whole lot of mechanicus folk good and proper, an’ then head up that-o-way,” he finished, pointing up into the rock encrusted mountains.

They walked on, the chaplain lost in thought about this new development; Captain Saalista looking about the scenery before him, seeking as much tactical knowledge as possible before entering the command structure, for calling it a tent was an understatement. Before long, they reached the command center of Colonel Cambra, and without further discussion or hesitation, entered. Ducking through the low doorway, into a world of controlled chaos, runners ran to and fro, with messages for commanders, and various officers. In the middle of it all, was a figure who exuded calm and cool under pressure. Colonel Cambra stood leaning over a tactical table, pouring over a map, trying to gain any sort of information as to just what they were in for on Klexus. Shortly, the three giant Astartes warriors were noticed, and the noisy hubbub silenced, as everyone stopped and stared at the marines in the doorway. Turning from the table, the colonel waved stood to attention, waiting for the marines to join him. The flak boards creaked as Wybjorn walked down, and they positively groaned when Chaplain Surtur walked down to the table in his terminator armor. Strangely Saalista made no audible noise while making his way to the table. The colonel kept introductions brief, “I am sure by now that you know that I am Colonel Cambra, commander of the Helgan 3rd Heavy Cavalry Regiment, and what we are doing on this rock of a planet, we still don’t truly know. The rest of my command and staff will be along shortly, for now though, I would like to know with whom I am dealing. Aside from Jarl Wybjorn, of course.”

“Chaplain Surtur, of the Salamanders, it is an honor to serve with your esteemed, if somewhat ill reputed unit,” the chaplain intoned nodding in respect towards the unit colors posted in the corner of the room.

In a soft voice, Captain Saalista introduced himself, “Shadow-Captain Vaania Saalista, Raven Guard,” the murderous coals that were his eyes boring into the Colonel, and the map.


A line of officers filed in from a side door as the marines finished their introductions. Each wearing a grey overcoat that trailed to just above their ankles, obscuring the tops of their highly polished boots. Strapped to one side of their waist was a cavalry saber, a powersword not very well suited to close quarters fighting, but an excellent slashing sword, Saalista noted. On the opposite side of the saber sat a mask pouch, as the home planet of the Helgans, Helgast Prime, was one where a normal human could not hope to survive without the mask. The toxic atmosphere would seize the airways, as well as flense the tissue from any exposed skin. Their skin cast an unhealthy, cadaverous pallor, the skin of their eye sockets darkened with a look akin to bruised fruit, golden eyes glinted in the pale light, giving a glowing effect. The brutal nature of the Helgans had been born in the storms of Old Night, as colonists had crashed on what is now Helgast Prime, a world wracked with toxic storms that very nearly wiped them out; but as the old proverb goes, what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.

Captain Saalista also noted their bulky appearance, as most were wearing carapace armor beneath their great coat. The armor itself was modified to connect the hose of their mask directly into the gorget of the armor. Each had little ornamentation on his uniform, save crew marksmanship badges denoting that his tank had received the highest marks at a range.
Throughout the war council, no party could rightly determine just who or what they faced on Klexus. Though many possibilities arose, there was no joint consensus on the evidence at hand. The two most senior marines assured both Jarl Wybjorn and the Guard commanders present that whatever presented itself as malign to the forces of the Imperium would be crushed under bolter and tank.