Charon kept running every inch every yard to every mile, He didn't stop as he felt the murderous cold hungering presence upon his back and he would be damned if he would stop even when he didn't the witch blood took no chances as he went Charon kept running ducking and dodging even as he got out of that damned cave, and as he got into the jungle, His knife up he would cut at anything in front of him as he went soon until he found himself on a path partially cut away and somewhat cleared and looking like there had been other initiates of his size marching through, Running upon it he decided to run along it, Not because of course that it was something that could lead to his squad but more of the fact it was a easier path to run upon and kept keeping ground between him and that thing. By the time Charon made it to the others he was pale and sweating harder then any other time in his life.

"Mother.... Fucker..... had.... a... chainsword.... and... one.... of... our... knives.... and.... hounds......" Charon said as he began huffing and puffing as he saw the others after a long while of running Charon had felt exhausted mentally and physically from that encountered knowing deep in his hearts he would likely go through it again he hoped he would do it with everyone in a run so it was not just him being chased by that damned thing.

Hi-ho, Hi-ho, In the Mines We Go​

"Clear!" Pressurized air rushes through a winding tunnel deep beneath the surface of Zeussar. Sergeant Kenemon tips his head low, shards of stone whipping above him while dust rolls up behind to blind him and the rest of his squad. Thundering din of breaching charge rumbles off and away from the group, traveling down the tunnels until acoustic energy is spent. In its place a frantic clicking sounds through the smoke, hundreds of insectoid legs striking earth in panic as the disturbed subterranean hive of ants launches into protective action. A drum solo of staggered secondary blasts signal the entrance of several other squads of Initiates. An armored head rears out of the shadows looming up to chest height of the trans-humans. Promethium spills into a pilot light and warrior caste vanishes just as quickly as it appeared; Tiro claims first blood.

"Tiro, take us in, flush them out in a broad arc, pen them in and work with the other fire teams to keep us from being overwhelmed. Barron you're in third, after me, we'll trim up whatever gets past his flames. Charron, Arridan support your brothers and don't let them get bogged down, Alexander and Arrauth put your rifle and the heavy bolter to good use blowing apart anything even resembling a queen or her guard." An edge of excitement tainted Kenemon's otherwise professional tone, several week spent overseeing the Initiates digging out new defenses around the Crown had left even himself bored.

So many years had passed since Squad Kenemon stumbled out of the Quriq, narrowly meeting their deadline for data retrieval and return for pick up with a scant twelve hours remaining of their initial month. Whether by quirk of fate or prodigal skill they walked deeper down the treacherous path of initiation and reforging without a single casualty. Already some of the keener eyes within the Dawnbringers were watching their progress with carefully restrained interest, not the least of which was their Chief Librarian Alexander. Their next grand trial, undertaken with bodies built even sturdier and packed with more organs than before, saw them exiled to the Shattered Fangs where they spent the better part of a year scouring its blasted reaches for tokens of heresy and corruption. Pursued by fiercely territorial gangs, stalked by the humanoid Wendigos, and only able to look to each other for survival and companionship they again returned triumphant, in record time no less. Their prize had been forcibly excavated from an old vault sunken beneath the ruins of several collapsed buildings, Initiates emerging with a blood stained talisman of malign origin that one of the Temperers personally oversaw destruction of.

Now they lazed in a seemingly endless loop of drills, security patrols in Squat mines, and extermination sorties like the one undertaken now. Their fateful Wendigo hunt seemed like an age ago, what should of been the last hurdle to earning permission to finally leave the mother world had brought them high, then dumped them low into monotony. Blame the Captain, if you must was always Kenemon's classic reply when questioned why they were not crusading across the stars in support of their elder battle brothers. If only they knew relief was destined to rear its head so soon....

Aridan nodded while aiming down the sights of his bolter. "Aye, Sarge!"

A long time had passed when the inexperienced mountain child accidentally fired a bolter on automatic. Sergeant Kenemon's words had lingered with him, and the young man adapted well. After leading the squad out of the hell that was their first trial in the jungle, somehow losing the cluster crap of the wendigo combined with all the other things in the jungle that tried to kill them because of Tiro's explosion, they had barely made it back in time. Still, made it back in time they did, objective completed.

Once that had occurred, Aridan quickly reviewed the mission and learned from their squad's mistakes, his included. Since the incident with the bolter, he had never repeated a single mistake twice. The young aspirant still made plenty of them, though his observers would notice that, like a sponge, he absorbed everything. Speaking of which, though he never saw the statue with the scythe again, he could always feel eyes upon them. Aridan hadn't voice his concerns since his first few journeys down to the apothecarion with the others, though he wished his paranoia would lessen with time. It did not.

Their mission on the Shattered Fangs lingered with Aridan, for three reasons. First was the feeling of constantly being hunted, and how much he hated feeling that. The aspirant knew all of his brothers felt the same way, that instead of these heretic and gangers chasing them, it should be the other way around. Still, they had a job to do and so they did it. The second thing was that they never left anyone behind. Sure he had threatened that very thing on the first mission, but deep down he knew that should it come down to it, once the objective had been completed they would always go back for each other. Third was an experience where he smashed two cultists heads in with an ancient axe from the ruins after they had surprised and disarmed him. That felt good, like chopping trees down back on the mountains.

The day they had all made scout status had been a day of pride and somewhat bittersweet moment for Aridan. They had finally been welcomed into the chapter, yet they were not equals with the mass ranks of battle brothers. The scouts had merely earned their chance to attempt to succeed in the trials to become a full astartes, which is more than many of the corpses and serfs can say now. Still, the young scout now looked forward to the challenges they would have to face, as well as the better equipment they had access to in order to carry out the will of the chapter.

Unfortunately, being at the bottom of the totem pole, they had little in regards to variety of missions. A pattern of building fortifications, security patrols around the Squat mines, and extermination missions resulted. Aridan didn't mind too much though, since him doing such tasks meant someone else, such as a full fledged astartes, could be of much more use elsewhere. Now as the breaching charge blasted the hive open and a wall of flames follow, he aimed down the sight of his bolter at the opening, taking careful, deliberate shots at targets aiming to pin down his advancing brothers and sergeant. A large chain axe hung on the back of his scout armor, with a combat knife and bolt pistol at his side. The young scout only wondered in the back of his mind when they would be deemed ready for the final gene seeds, and the precious suit of power armor.

"The sun is rising bugs. And not one of you are going to enjoy it."

A gout of fire announces Tiro advancing through the tunnels of the insectoid pests, moving at the head of his own squad to bring forth fire and flame, purging all that would creep in the darkness. Light shining out from the sprays of heat, the astartes would move forth, unhelmed and with bared arms, prefering to feel the wash of warmth from his weapon across his exposed skin. In his time spent training, advancing through the trials, he'd grown even further, until he stood heads above his other battle brothers, his frame wide and built like a tank. He had agreed with this lifestyle it had seemed, for even during their trials to the Shattered Fangs, he'd never lost his enjoyment of the work they did. While others might remember the time spent being hunted and chased, and constantly on guard, Tiro remembered battle, and throwing back the islanders and their savage ways with their might. Where some brothers would recall the moment a Wendigo ambushed them in the middle of the night, Tiro remembered the time he simply tore a ramshackled vehicle in two, and fought the creature with it's frame and pieces. Indeed, The Dawnbringers were an extreme brotherhood to join, their trials a hellish inferno of challenge, and Tiro had proven time and again that he was in his element there.

Watching the ranks of the rushing swarm engulfed in the inferno he cast towards them, the man could not help but smile, hearing their screams of pain, smelling the exoskeletons roast on the open flame, seeing the unity and direction of a hive mind sent into disarray with the oldest tool of mankind unleashed. A small laugh was building in Tiro's chest, as he sprayed out the hellish torrent across the chamber, ensuring that any bugs that wished to close and assault them, would come through a single channel, into waiting guns. However, seeing a shifting form in the mass of flames, Tiro would release the trigger of his flamer, eyes lighting up, as he stepped forward.

The creature was no doubt panicked, lashing out at everything as it burned, it's senses ruined by the kiss of flames, yet still it had the instinct or drive to charge forward, out of the fire, and right into Tiro. The man struck, his fist slamming into the burning carapace of the creature's head, sounding out with a crack of shattered exoskeleton, yet he was not finished. Three more strikes would follow, Tiro breaking abdomen and legs to aid in crippling the creature. It had been some time since last he'd had a good unarmed session of training, and the man reveled in his chance now, laughter building up as he broke the bug down. Still blazing, the raging insect would be lifted up into the air, it's body ruined, it's mouth hissing, as Tiro threw it back into the fires to die with the rest of it's misbegotten kind. Standing before the firelight, it's shadows and glow dancing over him, this Angel of Death would truly wear the appearance of War's Fires.

"I've always enjoyed my bug extra crispy."

The man would comment, taking a long puff of his iho-stick, as with a savage grin, he'd return to the task at hand.





​

Dawnbringer's Tactical Council One: For Whom Do They March?​

Kremnar arrived first. Within the Grand Master's personal strategium a light spreads like dusty jade through bleak grey environs. Captain of the Second materializes as a hologram, unable to make himself available in person. Half a second passes into eternity as pressurized pistons hiss and the strategium's grand doors grind away from one another. A hundred lights come on with a clap of surging power that echoes from wall to wall and casts iron wrought boards, picter screens, a fleet of Servo-skulls and a small number of easily ignored Servitors lurking in the rooms corners. Master of the House, ever present to ensure matters are in order for the Grand Master, leads a cadre of Serfs in plain togas through the room so that atmosphere might be properly set with incense, refreshments, and location checked for any perfidious traps that, however unimaginably, might exist. As one they stop briefly to acknowledge Kremnar, hovering impatiently above a floor set projector. Heads and bodies bow before twisting into action once more, knowing better than to waste the commander of the Iron Reaper's time with words.

Several minutes of effort culminate in a dozen Serfs and their taskmaster arranged in uneven rows left and right of the entrance. Deep bows and total silence reign over body and mind as Diokletious enters, Knights of Dawn spaced a respectful distance behind him. Mere gravity of his presence seems to infect the air with discomforting silence, a rare effect for sure, and all too appropriate for the grim news he brings. Alas even sorrow and a weighty presence cannot drown out the thunder of an approaching Contemptor. Theodosius' iron wrought form hunches to enter the strategium, habit rather than necessity.

Red clothe spills from a veritable web of wires and cables above main table, a Servitor welded at the waist to a slender crane unit descends to the Ancient's side, tri-eyed lenses spinning and clicking in brief observation of dreadnought's condition before rotating in place to face Diokletious: the Iron Master was present, if not personally, then at least in voice thanks to the lobotomized slave. Taking stalk of the situation Iron Master remotely orders several more holo-projectors brought forward. Given another minute mounds of metal and complex machinery rise in place of the track mounted stone seats that serve those physically present. Both Gario and Menelaus join their brothers through this method, each one taking several moments to acclimate before acknowledging their battle brothers.

Akar and Maximillian arrive next, visibly chatting further down the hall leading up to strategium before quieting themselves out of ear shot. Lord of the Kerberos Company's presence piques visible interest in Gario and more restrained curiosity from Menelaus, for him to be away from the action is rare and likely means he has been personally recalled by the Chapter Master himself. Akar settles for standing, placing himself on the opposite side of Marcus, always Marcus to him, from Vilhelm's representing servitor. As First Captain Maximillian sits closest to Diokletious and his Knights of Dawn. Bringing up the rear Soul Smith Epimonos, better known as Castor to most their current company, enters and sits opposite of Maximillian at a rounded table edge that grants him vision on everyone. Alexander arrives last, curiously tardy and unusually easy to read for once: face distracted and eyes unfocused, perhaps off viewing somewhere else entirely.

With everyone gathered at last doors seal, walls briefly begin thrumming with the activation of deafening rods, and Serfs retreat out of sight where they shall remain silent unless ordered otherwise. All eyes fall upon the Chapter Master, Alexander's own focus returning as he shares a grave look of understanding with the man.

To Kill a Mockingbird​

Barron always knew that Tiro was flaming.


“CALM YOURSELF, BROTHER!” The roar came above even the din of death dirge of countless screeching insects. A blessing from the God-Emperor. Lungs half his body mass, and the voice to match. Something had to grow. “I WOULDN’T WANT YOUR ENERGIZING VITALITY TO BURN OUT BEFORE WE GOT TO THE GOOD PART.”


If you can’t beat ‘em, join em.


Overcompensation aside, Barron felt right at home in the Sarge’s wake. Cracked carapace and shredded viscera followed the scout, each of his easy steps accompanied by one, twenty-seven, some arbitrary amount of lifeless bodies crashing into the stone below. It wasn’t about the result--It was about the journey.


And when the road is being paved by the massive rumbling sword that, by now, felt as familiar as any hair on your head or any appendage you may still retain, the journey was bound to be damn good.


And bloody.


Very, very bloody.


Some of his peers no doubt had the luxury to remember and reminisce about the great glories of their past (some, Barron could even recall--though from what he remembers, most of those glories had been some combination of ripping and tearing of beast or machine), but most days, Barron found that he couldn’t focus on much but getting the Emperor-damned gore off of everything he owned. The God-Emperor had blessed him with a communion with the chainsword’s machine-spirits, aye, but sometimes Barron wished they’d be just a tad cleaner.


No, time seemed to have slipped past his brothers in a way different from the way it aged Barron. He had changed--That much was entirely too obvious to miss--but not quite like the others. He had grown, and he had learned. His footwork grew lighter with each passing moment on the training mats, and, by slight margins, as had his aim. He felt the unspoken bond between his brothers and he, a collective consciousness of faith, trust, and dedication to one another that pulsed harder and firmer each time their eyes met in jest or anger. He felt the weight of his duty upon his broad shoulders. Was it a choice, or a destiny? Here, in the bowels of a trembling earth, surrounded by friends and foe, Barron could not quite remember. He had faith in himself. His orders. His peers. His purpose. He felt it all now. Especially as the familiar scent of promethium and ichor surrounded him in a haze of ultraviolence.


But would he remember it? Would he feel the severity of the situation and the heat of battle when they returned to their quarters later, their spirits and bodies worn frayed by the demand of combat and weighed down by the grief of loss? The sensation had never stayed long for Barron, who watched the light in his brother’s eyes grow harder and sharper with each passing day. They had become the Emperor’s finest weapons, blades forged in the fires of battle and quenched in the blood of the Imperium’s enemies while he--well, he didn’t set quite right, it seemed. To others it must’ve been subtle, nothing more than a joke too many, or at an inappropriate time… But it all seemed just a tad less--grim than everyone made it out to be all the time. Was he not reflecting upon the tragedies of the past correctly or enough? He didn’t seem to be becoming anymore grizzled at all. Quite troubling, it was. And being lumped in with the likes of a crazy bastard like Tiro didn’t help much, either.


But--another ant was cut from the sky, mandibles closing with a pathetic snap as its head fell neatly away from its body--introspection was made for hindsight, his chainsword was made for now. He had a job to do, and jokes being appropriate or not, he’d do his damn duty.

Garrick didn't say a word as usual, hefting the heavy bolter with both hands close to his lithe -- for an Astartes initiate, at least; by human standards he was still considerably large - form, the carapace armour hugging him well enough. He looked this way and that with his mighty weapon in hand, undoubtedly hoping his assigned prey would find its way here; he did not wish to remotely waste this one opportunity he had to use a marvelous weapon; most of his training was with a mere boltgun (('mere' - he almost felt ashamed for using such a word, were it not for the comparison to what a treasure he held now)).

A glorious Voss-Encardine pattern Heavy Bolter, firing .998 caliber mass-reactive bolt rounds, far larger than the typical .75 that most normal boltguns used; the same principle of APHE put in a far larger shell, with a marvelously higher rate of fire that was well over a thousand rounds per minute. Garrick could not quite recall the specific numbers, though he knew (through personal experience upon training ranges) that it was considerably higher than any handheld Boltgun, though not quite as vicious as the Holy storm bolters were.
The power in such weapons was such that it made them adequate for destroying light vehicles such as the Chimera, or Sentinel, or even ork trukks; the power it had against infantry was something to hold in awe. He was utterly confident that unless he was to face Terminators, this weapon was something he would not feel disappointed in.

... Hopefully. The initiate knew that his drawback was in its sheer size; cramped quarters would in his unpowered state (the lack of power armour was something that made him envy his older brothers of the Chapter), make it slow to react with. That rate of Fire as well, was, while awe-inspiring, also a drawback; forty round drums and belts of ammo were chewed through in moments, meaning he'd have to keep spray control.

Still. He knew not to let his thoughts wander, racking the bolt back slightly to check that he had a mighty bolt round loaded, and checked his surroundings once more.
​

May my shots be true.

​

​

Elpidius Theodosius, or 'Marcus' as the scout-captain would forever remember him as and never refer to him as anything but, thundered his way forward, walking with an elegance that could make him seem far more as though he was but a gargantuan Astartes rather than a true walker; he proudly knew that it was thanks to such complex technologies that made up the Contemptor chassis that he used, that he was capable of such movements. Had he the far more common (and relatively easier to produce) Castaferrum dreadnought hull, he would be as bulky and clumsy as any other, even with many years to hone his movements.
One massive fist was set at his side, 'lax' and loosened in an attempt to mimic how one's hand hanged at ones side (though with something so bulky and thick, it was forever looking as though it was ready to crush whatever it lay its hands on). The other, held a gargantuan polearm of delightful proportions and skill in its manufacture, thick cables hidden under artistically designed plating that gave it a destructive power field far more honed than any that the smaller Astartes within the room could hold in their own weapons.

His chassis was covered in a thick 'cloak', as it were - more of a banner in its size and make - that came up over his 'chest' and atop his chassis, get wrapping itself around his arms underneath the pauldrons, allowing him to maintain the robed persona that he had sought to keep since his time amongst the - now, to everyone's knowledge, disbanded - First Legion, yet not to hide the massive armour that showed his nature of a Dreadnought.

He did not speak though; the large helm that was set within the front of the Contemptor that gave it a far more humanized persona than the other chassis stared down at his brethren. Of all people, it was Akar who always got his first nod of acknowledgement, and along with then Kremnar coming soon after, and then everyone else. However, his reason for not speaking was not a somber one, nor one of any anxiety, but simply...

What were they called for?​

"The Avenging Son has fallen."

The words hang in the air, the weight of their meaning all to clear for those who hear them, an unspoken gloom descending upon the usually radiant chambers of their meeting. Diokletious does not sit, but stands, helm removed in a show of respect to the fallen Primarch, another bastion of light extinguished in the increasingly dark and grim universe. His face is hardened, and set as a show of true grief for this news, for while not true sons of Ultramar, the death of any loyal son of The Emperor is a sordid affair to all those who remained faithful. Bowing his head, Diokletious brings up a data slate from his hip, connecting it's small frame to a cable leading into their vast table, so that the hololith built into it may activate, showing the image of a strange world, streams of information already streaming for all to read. It told the tale of Thessala, of the Ultramarines and their forces mission to seek out the Damned Lord of The IIIrd Legion, how Roboute had met his lost brother in open battle, of how at the apex of their duel, he had been struck down, throat split by the warp infused blades of the detestable traitor. The Ultramarines, thoroughly defeated, had limped away from this devastation, starting a journey to return their Primarch back to Ultramar. Locked in stasis just mere moments before his death, The Primarch of The XIIIth would now be another casualty in what was already being called, The Great Scouring.

It would be with this in mind, that Diokletious would speak, his tone even, yet his eyes telling of the sorrow to see another legend snuffed out in the wake of The Siege.

"The Primarch is gone, his mind and abilities now lost to those who need them most, and we, the people of The Imperium, are worse off for it. I know how many feel regarding The Avenging Son, on how our chapter should feel towards him, but not one of you here can deny that when others would have simply cast us aside, in fear of our lineage, or left us to rot in the dark, exiled in the shame of our Legion's choice, he saw fit to support us. From resources to build this very keep we meet in, from the ships and supplies offered, that we may continue our war against the darkness, from the simple vouch of acceptance he had granted us, now joined as Sons of Ultramar with all the benefits that come with our new identities, Roboute Guilliman has done much for us all."

He pauses, eyeing around him, looking to see if any would challenge this claim, hoping that no matter their opinions, that for the time being, they'd hold their tongue, before he'd continue.

"As such, I will be seeking out Macragge itself, and taking with me a grouping of both The Knights of Dawn, and a complimentary grouping of scouts and aspirants with me. Proper respect shall be paid towards The Avenging Son from our chapter, I shall see to it personally, and it will do good for our initiates to see the future we fight for upon Macragge. Yet, if any here doubt that we shall simply be paying lip service."

Diokletious turns a dark glare towards Maximillian, his next words clearly bearing only the most lethal intention. As he speaks, the image on the hololith shifts to a set of co-ordinates, not far off from Thessala if one was to take note. Alongside the star system co-ordinates, would be a listing of various ships, from a large grouping of chapters such as The Novamarines, Iron Snakes, Eagle Warriors, and others.

"Captain Maximillian.

The Sons of Guilliman are gathering here at this location, preparing to bring the full wrath of The Imperium down upon The Emperor's Children. You are to take your Kerberos Company, and join with them so that The Dawnbringers will pay just as much tribute in vengeance of The Primarch, as they would in mourning. You are fully sanctioned to utilize whatever methods you deem fit, and have full access to our armoury here on Zeussar. Furthermore, what compliments of The Knights of Dawn that do not accompany myself, will be under your command."

Diokletious then turns, his gaze set upon the task of slaying a Daemon Primarch, as the orders continue to come to others within the chambers.

"Alexander, you shall accompany the 1st Captain on this duty. Bring the full blazing power of The Dawnbringers down upon those oath forsaking bastards. Epimonos, stoke well the fires of your passions, for The Chapter needs your burning might, as you have been chosen to bring the fight to the Damned Primarch. Elpidius, you too shall be joining on this Crusade, so ensure you have made proper preparations in light of this.

Akar, you shall remain here as acting Lord of Zeussar, along with our Iron Master. I trust you will see to your new position with as much enthusiasm as you've given into your current captaincy."

Diokletious stops speaking, his orders granted out to all those assembled here. It was clear that in the coming days, there would be much to accomplish and do, and while he was eager to seeing it done, he would ask.

"Are there any other matters here you wish to discuss before we end this session?"​

The Avenging Son and the World to be Avenged​

Alexander stands as his lord does, having known the news well in advance seeing as he was the one to process the report from their Astropathic choir nestled in a hidden vault stashed somewhere between the Roots and the Hold of a Thousand Suns. Clasping both arms behind his back the Chief Librarian clears his throat, stealing whatever attention he had not already earned.

"Under normal circumstances I would not suggest anything less than a full scale deployment of all available Dawnbringer forces in a crusade of vengeance; unfortunately today brings us more than one great and terrible circumstance. Bring up File X-4-3, Image 8." Central holo-lith built into the table lights up, shading everyone in a deeper emerald that casts shadows over the other light sources in the strategium. A 3D image of a xeno creature renders before their eyes: four slender limbs support a cephalothorax and abdomen lined by a further four pointed limbs and eventually culminating in what is invariably a spiders head. "This is an Enchirid, member of a nomadic race of aliens that travel through the Warp; and this, File X-4-3, Image 1, is Cera-8-1." Projection of xeno shrinks off to the side, becoming windowed as fist sized image near table's surface, making way for the visage of a planet sprawling with massive cities. "Separatist world, haven of apostates, and a repository of knowledge regarding the arcane and the Empyrean. Some of you should find it familiar as the world mentioned in a report from several months ago regarding a nearby system that had been shrouded in a Warp storm since the earliest days of the heresy."

"I assume our reconnaissance teams brought back ill news?" Akar lofts a brow at Alexander, Diokletious and Epimonos the only others to likely recall that a team had ever been deployed to investigate. Chief Librarian dips his head in a nod.

"Codicier Omon reported that the Warp remained disturbed in the area in spite of the storms dissolution. Several days of monitoring culminated in a stolen psychic cry for aid. Several tribes of Enchirid spilled out of the Warp and onto Cera-8-1's surface. Initially prognostication efforts were blocked by the surviving population fighting back against the xenos. As time wore on their defenses failed on every level and Omon was able to plumb for secrets and updates. He believes that the Enchirid presence is no mere coincidence or bout of bad luck on the separatist's part."

"Based off what you have described I imagine a planet stashing the sort of lore that Cera-8-1 is would be valuable to a species that travels the Warp." Menelaus spoke, eyes clearly still locked on the Enchirid despite his own grainy resolution and its reduced size.

"Indeed, the Enchirids are excellent scavengers that, while lacking Orkish 'imagination', have been encountered using technology of Imperial and xenos origins, ranging from unidentified models of void craft to lasguns and Eldar shuriken catapults. The possibility of these aliens finding something of catastrophic potency is not out of the question. Furthermore, in the interest of full disclosure, I believe there is knowledge on Cera that would be far better if placed in our hands. Knowledge that would allow us to better combat fiends and abominations; like what has become of the Phoenician." Alexander turns his head and looks to Diokletious. Brow creases and eye lids heave, he knows full and well this will be a very hard sell.

"What keeps us from deploying the Iron Reapers to exterminate these Enchirid and allow your Codicier to retrieve whatever knowledge you seek Librarian?" Epimonos rises with a snort of hot air. "Guilliman has been slain and Fulgrim gloats over it as we speak. You tell us apostates, renegades, and heretics have been compiling all this data and research anyways, who is to say it's not tainted?"

"All the more reason to get our hands on it, so that anything corrupted by the traitors' touch cannot fall into enemy hands." Gario pipes up with a voice distraught with static. "What is the strength of our enemy exactly though? As the honored Soul Smith mentioned, would this campaign really require more than a single company?"

"Technically speaking a single company with ample fire support from the sturdier members of our fleet would suffice in warding off the Enchirid and likely prevent a possible migration closer to Zeussar. The variable nature of our foes armament makes gauging their true strength difficult at best, for even the repositories of Prospero where I first learned of them contained only the barest skeletons of information. Numbers are something else entirely and every single one of Omon's reports claims that more and more tribes are spilling onto the surface, and recently their numbers have swelled to the point they are summoning star ships into low orbit. Their current layout points toward either invasion of neighboring worlds to harvest supplies and resources, or fortification of Cera-8-1. Either way, it bids ill enough if our visions that I feel it worth bringing up in the face of Guilliman's fall. Too small a force would risk being wiped out or failing to do little more than blockade enemy forces while they plunder Cera-8-1's data vaults unobstructed. I believe the vast majority of our Chapter would be required to fully exterminate this threat in a fashion timely enough to prevent the capture, contamination or destruction of any knowledge relevant to our interests."

"Alright, over half the chapter for this, while we only send a single company and high command to avenge Guilliman, that will not look ill on our parts at all. Skilled and valiant as Captain Maximillian may be, it would be a slight to only send Kerberos company in the face of an assault by no less than a traitor legion and its Primarch." Caustic sarcasm morphs to something stern in Epimonos' voice. "A threat so close to home concerns me as much as you Alexander, however we are honor bound to turn our efforts to avenging the slain and aiding our cousins. News will be spreading among our enemies as well, and just as we muster to avenge one wrong they too will be mustering to write countless more. If anything we ought to be marshaling the bulk of our strength to reinforce Ultramar and its surroundings."

"The Soul Smith has a point. It would look, and perhaps feel, like dawdling if Fulgrim went on a tear through real space against our own and afterwards everyone looks our way and we shrug our shoulders and point at a mountain of corpses belonging to a minor xenos faction." Akar remains seated throughout it all, expression static and hands locked together on top of the command table. "It is work all the same, and wherever this council sees fit to deploy my boys will be ready, even if we toss them straight into the deep end of daemons and traitor legions."

"Surely it would be no grand slight when one considers the number of sons true to the Ultramarines' lineage that will show up. What if we were to prepare a mixed company of handpicked units to support the assault on Thessala? Put on our best face with the Chapter Master, Chief Librarian, Soul Smith, and Dawnguard leading the troops while the bulk of our forces remain to address Alexander's concerns?" Gario can be seen scratching the side of his head with deactivated power spear, weapon coming into frame and passing over Tauros pattern plate.

"That sounds like a very minor variation of what the Chapter Master initially suggested." Akar deadpans at Gario's image.

"Sort of, but the mixed company can contain elements from every other company. Have everyone there in spirit sorta while we make sure that these spider-men do not become a major threat to Zeussar. It's been less than half a millennia since we lost our first home world, what if something were to befall the new one before our Chapter has really even gotten its boots off the ground?"

"You sound like Brumdar, Gario, the what ifs are not our concern here." Master of the Recruits and Captain of the Half-Steel proceed to glower at one another, at last leaving floor open for input from the other veterans and fathers of the Dawnbringers.