Lost and Found (Warhammer 40k SI)

Chapter 92: Cypra Mundi, Everyone gets a relic!

POV: Bolaar, Captain of the Star Dragons 9th company

Bolaar was once again impressed at the efficiency the crew of the Argent Drake managed to display as they cordoned off an entire hangar bay for him in a similar manner as they had when they first rescued the Star Dragons.

His brothers and their serfs had arrayed a number of secure cases as the various relics they intended to return were brought forth from their vaults and the ship’s armoury. The sheer number of Heresy-era power armour suits they had accumulated and somehow managed to repair from their trip to the Processional was staggering. The relics and rarer items were the most wondrous, but that did not mean the remaining wargear was not valuable.

Knowing the personality of some of the Astartes chapters they had invited, Bolaar had wisely prepared what he would call a ‘highly combustible coolant’, but what one of the Mechanicus Adepts assured him was an Astartes-rated beverage.

Bolar inspected the identification tags of the first arrivals as they entered the docking space before he removed his helmet. Unsurprisingly, the first to arrive were their brothers from the Iron Hands and the Brazen Claws.

Once they drew closer and entered the hangar itself he called out. “Iron Father Strontos, Captain Erod, well met, brothers.”

“Captain Bolaar.” Strontos swept his Auspex around the hangar while he studied Bolaar’s armour intently. “That... is quite a rare and powerful suit of armour you have adorned yourself within.” He walked forward and extended an arm in greeting.

Bolaar clasped it briefly before he turned to Erod and extended him the same courtesy.

“You called, and we have come. Though your message was rather vague, Brother.” Erod stated in a curious tone. “For what reason have you called for so many different chapters?”

Bolaar smiled softly. “The Omnissiah has truly blessed my company after the loss of our cruiser. We were rescued by the Rogue Trader, Lord Admiral Drakios, and what transpired afterwards was... highly eventful.” Bolaar chuckled wryly. “We have come into possession of a great number of relics that we wish to return to their appropriate chapters, and others we simply wish to share. None of the rare relics are tied to our chapters specifically, however, I would like to offer you both first right of refusal for several sets of ancient power armour and weapons we’ve recovered from various wrecks and space hulks and refurbished.”

He held out a dataslate to Strontos, who extended a thin dendrite and scanned the contents within. “Most impressive, Captain Bolaar. We would certainly welcome such armour and arms into our armories.” He passed the slate to Erod, who began reading with interest.

Before Erod could continue, the next arrivals announced themselves well in advance. Bolaar caught the sound first. The steady sound of approaching power armour echoed across the hangar. It was not subtle, nor was it intended to be. Moments later, Erod and Strontos heard it as well, their attention shifting in unison toward the source. Both turned, expressions tightening with faint, shared displeasure at the intrusion.

The Space Wolves had arrived. Captain... Wolf Lord, Bolaar mentally corrected himself, Ragnar Blackmane, and one of his officers, Haldor Icepelt. Neither wore their helmets, and both had been speaking loudly before Ragnar spotted Bolaar and bellowed his greeting: “You! You must be Bolaar!” The wolf spoke with a deep, confident, and resonant voice.

“That would be correct; I am Captain Bolaar of the Star Dragons. I bid you welcome, Wolves of Fenris,” Bolaar spoke as he moved to meet them.

Haldor reached up and gave one of Bolaar’s pauldrons a quick strike with the back of his gauntleted hand, the clang echoing faintly, “You saving some pauldrons for the rest of us?” He asked in jest as he grinned wolfishly.

“While it may look somewhat unconventional, this armour has grown on me,” Bolaar shook his head in amusement. “I thank you for taking the time to answer my call,” he continued more seriously.

“Your message mentioned having something of ours, aye? I will admit it was enough to get me curious,” Ragnar admitted as he turned, sensing the gaze of the other Astartes. He gave a nod of acknowledgement to both Strontos and Erod.

“Indeed, you are some of the first to arrive, and we will likely have to wait for the others before we can fully begin, but fret not, I have what might be called... a drink. If you would care to partake while I fetch the items in question.” Bolaar spoke, gesturing to the large open barrel of deep azure liquid with a few dozen Astartes-sized mugs arranged neatly around the barrel.

“A drink?” Ragnar glanced at Haldor, who nodded appreciatively. “We’ll give it a try. What’s it called?”

“I have no idea if it has a formal name. I’ve been calling it ‘coolant,’” Bolaar admitted, getting a laugh from Haldor, who walked over and dunked a mug into the barrel.

Haldor took a large swig and furrowed his brow for a moment before he swallowed and took another large gulp. “This is not half bad! Decent flavor, chills the throat on the way down. ‘Coolant’ indeed! Ha!”

Bolaar let the pair drink as he turned and walked over to the wall of cases. He selected one and hefted it with ease. He walked back over and set the case on one of the prepared tables. He got a notification that additional Astartes were on their way after passing screening. “In spite of what I said before, I believe these belong to your chapter,” Bolaar said, cracking open the case as the two wolves made their way over to reveal the two weapons.

One was a brutal-looking chainsword. The adamantium teeth were etched with runes that frost over mid-battle, forming jagged ice along the spinning chain designed to shatter armor and flesh alike in sprays of frozen ruin. The teeth exhaled a constant vapor; the wispy air was cold and biting. The other was a long, elegant frost blade of pale, almost translucent blue metal perpetually rimed with hoarfrost. Its edge glowed faintly with a cold blue light, and its surface flickered with snow-like reflections.

Haldor’s eyes sharpened as he looked at the two weapons. “They do, these are indeed Fenrisian Frost Blades. The long blade is Hrafnís, Fang of the Last Winter, and the chainsword is Skjaldmaw, the Winter Reaver.” He reached out to gently run a finger along the flat of Hrafnís's blade. “Pray tell, Captain, where did you find them?”

“We found these in the cursed ship-graveyard known as the Processional of the Damned. A harrowing tale for a later time, perhaps. In addition to these blades, we recovered numerous relics – Astartes and not – most dating back to the Heresy. I believe the particular wreck we found the blades on also had a few of the old suits of Mark III and Mark IV armours, which we recovered from there as well. Unfortunately, most of the identifying markings had been worn away, but we would be glad to give your chapter a few of them as well,” Bolaar explained as he gestured behind him at the large wall of containers.

“These weapons are extremely precious to us,” Haldor spoke with utter seriousness. “Each has a name and a story meant to be sung and passed down. Each was made from parts of Fenris itself, and they carry a deep history. Their return will likely be heralded by a massive feast. This is no small token, Captain. Our honor demands we repay this gift.”

Bolaar nodded, “There is a small favor I would ask of you, and of everyone who comes and accepts the gifts I have prepared. I ask on behalf of our Venerable Ancient. He wishes to hold a gathering here on Cypra Mundi and for as many Dreadnoughts as possible to attend. He was disheartened to hear Bjorn was not with you, but wishes him well.”

Ragnar studied Bolaar’s face intently as he chewed over the odd request. Of the two Wolves, Haldor was the one who broke the silence first. “You return two sacred relics to us, and all you ask is to borrow our dreadnoughts for a few days?” He asked incredulously.

Bolaar nodded, “That and perhaps you remember the favor someday. These blades belong with you, they are rightfully yours,” Bolaar said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Ragnar burst out laughing and raised his mug, “I can drink to that! You Iron Bloods, raised an honorable one,” he called out to Strontos before turning back to Bolaar, “Captain Bolaar of the Star Dragons. We will remember this.” Ragnar promised in a cold and serious tone.

Bolaar nodded, “You may remain if you like to observe and partake further, or depart at your leisure. Though I will say a few of the relics may provoke more... interesting and volatile reactions from their Chapters,” he said with a wry smile.

The pair took him up on his offer and immediately began to bicker over whether they should move the blades to their ship immediately or linger to observe what else Bolaar planned to unveil. They waved off his offer of additional guards for the relics. Each of them straps one of the blades to their hip, though they take the now-empty case with them as they make their way over to the prepared seating. After refilling their mugs, they began speaking with Strontos and Erod, who had also seated themselves to watch from the sidelines.

Bolaar’s attention was drawn to the sound of heavy footfalls. He turned, but it was not the lumbering form he anticipated, but the gilded, ornate form of a Dreadnought he had never seen before. Green with draconic iconography and intricately patterned flames that merged with real, physical flames blasting from the halo worn by the Venerable. Engraved within the metal was the name of the honored: Bray'arth Ashmantle, and next to him strode the proud form of Forgefather Vulkan He’stan of the Salamanders, along with an entire cadre of Techmarines.

“Captain Bolaar, well met,” He’stan greeted him as he took in the gathered assembly and arrayed cases, studying them with a keen eye before he turned to the Venerable. “It would seem you were correct, Bray’arth, this was indeed worth our time.” His eyes lingered on Bolaar’s armour, the flames of curiosity flickering in his coal-red eyes.

“I could smell the relics,” the Ancient Dreadnought rumbled in amusement.

Bolaar inclined his head respectfully. “Forgefather He’stan, Venerable, Sons of Vulkan. I bid you welcome.” He gestured to Cogmane and Cogfist to fetch one of the cases. “I believe we have something of yours. I was told there may be a chance – given its age – that it was forged by your Primarch.”

He’stan and the other Salamanders visibly perked up with interest. Bolaar gestured, and Brother’s Cogmane and Cogfist opened the crate containing the Pyroclast Flame Projector.

The Flame Projector was a hefty thing. A pair of blackened adamantium barrels, scar-scored and heat-warped from usage, sat at the fore of the assembly. The silver grey metal and ceramite form of a complex heat shield separated them from the upward facing handle and trigger mechanism while a series of hoses and power cables dangled at the rear for linking it to an Astarte's power pack. The weapon was meant to be held in an under-slung fashion. A few of the ancient fuel hoses were in need of repair and replacement but the weapon was otherwise whole, the dark black fuel canister intact though several of the exterior warnings had been worn away with time. Two stamps, distinct maker's marks, could be found tucked away on the main assembly.

He’stan sucked in a breath upon seeing the weapon. He stepped forward and ran a hand along the barrels. “It is likely that it was originally made by Lord Vulkan and later adjusted or repaired by another Forgemaster – as many such relics were in time.” He stepped aside so Venerable Bray’arth could take a closer look.

Bray’arth loomed forward to examine the weapon briefly, “I concur,” He rumbled as his Auspex and eyes picked out the stamps. “This one bears the stamp of Forgefather T'kell.”

“There are other relics you may be interested in, namely we have recovered and refurbished several suits of Crusade-era power armour that we secured in our visit to the Processional. We would be happy to share them with you,” Bolaar explained as Bray’arth concluded his examination.

“We would be delighted to take a look, Captain,” He’stan replied as Bolaar led them towards the rear of the hangar to show off the rows and rows of Astartes mark III, IV, and V power armour suits.

“Might I inquire if the artisan responsible for your own armour had a hand in their refurbishment?” He’stan asked Bolaar as they perused the rows of armour racks. “The work is exquisite. In particular, the runic warding schema.”

“Two Magi of the Mechanicus helped Brothers Cogmane and Cogfist in refurbishing everything we have to share today. The Magos responsible for the runes did help repair a handful of the suits, but I am not certain if any of the ones marked for your Chapter were amongst the ones repaired by them specifically. More guests are coming in now, if you do not mind waiting and would care to partake, we have drink. The relics are freely given back to their rightful Chapters, but we do have a humble request to make of you, which I shall elaborate on soon. There may be an opportunity for you to meet the Magos in question.”

“Salamander! Come try the coolant!” Blackmane yelled across the hangar.

“Wolves drinking? Typical,” Venerable Bra’arth grumbled, despite his dismissive tone, he lumbered towards the assembled gathering with the rest of the visiting Salamanders in tow.

“Please feel free to take the cases,” Bolaar said before he turned towards the two figures who entered the hangar in unison, their contrast striking even among the assembled giants. Unlike Bolaar and the majority of the guests thus far, both had chosen to wear their helmets.

One wore the deep, noble red of the Blood Angels Chapter, his armour adorned not with excess, but with solemn purpose. Bone-white markings traced the edges of his warplate, and his helm – fashioned in the grim aspect of death – marked him unmistakably as a Chaplain.

The other was clad in black. Not the ceremonial black of mourning, nor the stark void of anonymity – but the functional, absolute black of the Deathwatch. His pauldron bore the silver arm and sigil of that brotherhood, while the rest of his armour carried the subtle scars and markings of many a different campaign.

“Watch Captain Tannister. Chaplain Sangrael,” Bolaar said, politely inclining his head. “I bid you welcome.”

Watch Captain Tannister returned the gesture with measured precision, his helm turning slowly as he surveyed the hangar – the gathered Chapters, the crates, the relics, the faint excitement mixed with tension. “Captain Bolaar,” he replied. “You have assembled... a rare congregation.” There was no judgment in his tone, but there was a hint of a question as to the purpose of this gathering.

Sangrael said nothing at first.

Bolaar studied the Chaplain more closely. The Chaplain stood as if his shoulders were burdened by more than his armour. There was a stillness to him – not the controlled stillness of discipline, but the strained quiet of something held tightly in check. His armour bore the marks of recent conflict, and though an Astartes could not truly tire as mortals did, there was a weight in his posture that spoke of something deeper than physical fatigue and stress.

Given what Bolaar had been told of Baal’s fate by Nicole, he could only imagine the Chaplain's current woes.

Bolaar broke the silence deliberately. “Watch Captain,” he said, turning slightly toward Tannister, “you have come alone?”

“I have,” Tannister answered.

“That may prove... inconvenient,” Bolaar replied. “We have a number of items for the Deathwatch. More than one warrior could reasonably carry.” Tannister’s helm tilted a fraction.

“Truly? I have not heard of that many relics being unaccounted for,” he said, sounding puzzled.

“No,” Bolaar agreed neutrally. “I do not imagine you had.”

“Still,” Tannister continued, “I will see them secured. Additional Deathwatch assets can be summoned once their existence is confirmed.”

“Of course. We appreciate your patience,” Bolaar let that thread rest for the moment, then turned back toward the Blood Angels Chaplain. “For you, Chaplain,” he said more quietly, “We have only one relic.”

That, more than anything, seemed to draw Sangrael’s attention fully into the moment.

“One,” the Chaplain echoed with mild interest.

Bolaar gave a slight nod. “Though, I suspect it will suffice.” He gestured, and two serfs rolled forward a reinforced barrel, the dark iron drum the size of a man was unsealed and its contents sloshed around. Even before it came to a stop, several nearby Astartes shifted – subtle, instinctive reactions.

The smell hit next, the coppery tang of blood filled the air. Within the barrel, a dark, viscous pool of blood filled its lower section. From its rippling surface protruded a haft of blackened metal, etched with devotional script now obscured beneath layers of coagulated crimson.

Even the Space Wolves grew quieter. Blackmane scented the air with a frown.

Bolaar folded his arms behind his back. “We recovered it from the Processional,” he said. “It has... resisted our attempts to placate it.”

A faint, almost imperceptible trickle ran down the haft as he spoke, as though the weapon itself was bleeding from a fresh wound.

“Perhaps,” Bolaar added, “you might know how to make it stop.”

Sangrael moved with a smooth inevitably. “A relic...” he said, his voice low, and filled with restraint. He stepped to the barrel and looked down into it.

For a moment, he did not move. Then, slowly, he reached in. The blood parted around his gauntlet without resistance. When his hand closed around the haft, the reaction was immediate. A faint tremor passed through the air and Sangrael froze. Then, with deliberate care, he drew the weapon free.

The Crozius Arcanum emerged from the pool in silence, its head was a heavy and brutal thing, a gilded skull flanked by feathered wings designed for judgement. As though the weapon itself was weeping, blood streamed from the eyes of the skull in a slow but steady trickle.

For a heartbeat, the entire hangar held its breath.

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Sangrael brought the weapon up before his helm and held it aloft.

Then, Sangrael dropped to one knee, the impact of which rang softly across the deck. He bowed his head, pressing the crowned head of the skull of the Crozius against his helm, and began to chant.

The words he whispered were a quiet litany, the fragments of which were carried barely audible across the deck:

“...by the blood of the Angel...”

“...by the sacrifice remembered...”

“...be stilled... be at peace...”

As he spoke, the flow began to slow down – not all at once but gradually and reluctantly, like a wound closing against its will. Minutes passed and no one interrupted, they simply observed the unusual ritual. Until, at last, the final drop fell and there was silence. Sangrael remained kneeling a moment longer. Then, slowly, he rose. When he spoke again, his voice had changed and while it was not stronger it was steadier.

“I thank you, Captain,” he said, “For the return of the Weeping Maul.” The name seemed to carry a weight of its own. A few among the gathered Astartes shifted at its utterance.

Bolaar inclined his head. “We deemed it best returned to those who would understand it.”

Sangrael looked down at the Crozius in his grasp. “It mourns,” he said quietly. “As we all do.”

“Then I am glad,” Bolaar said amicably, “that it has found its way home.”

Sangrael stood in silence for a long moment. Then, he gave a single solemn nod carrying his burden with renewed purpose as he stepped back.

—--------------------------------------------------

POV: Watch Captain Tannister of the Deathwatch

Tannister stepped back as Captain Bolaar continued greeting the various Astartes Chapters as they came. In the time that he had returned that strange Crozius, more Chapters had arrived.

Tannister took note of a few individuals. A number of Captains or the equivalent had just entered, and Bolaar was doing surprisingly well at managing the various egos. A Captain from the Exorcists Chapter stood out, a massive individual who identified himself as Silas Alberec, Captain of the third company. There was a Dark Angel who named himself as Korahael, Master of their Fourth Company; beside him was Nakir, the Master of Souls, and Grand Master of the Consecrators. Along with an Iron Snakes Captain named Priad, Naroosh, Captain of the Death Specters, and Joghaten Khan, the White Scars 4th Company Commander, and Master of Blades. Behind the Captains were two Lieutenants from the Imperial Fists and Howling Griffons.

The words the Captain had uttered earlier had him curious about what sort of treasure they had to return to the hands of the Deathwatch. More than he could carry? Perhaps a vehicle or some rare armour?

Bolaar’s two dutiful Techmarines were busy performing rites over the various cases as they pulled out particular objects based on who had arrived.

He did not doubt that anyone from the chapters that had chosen not to attend this event would regret it once they heard about it. The Star Dragons were being generous – suspiciously so.

Bolaar suddenly clapped his gauntlets together. “Brothers, I thank you all for taking the time to attend. As it is past the appointed time, any latecomers will be welcome, but there are a few items that we feel we must return to their rightful chapters. As there are no Ultramarines present. The item in question will be entrusted to one of their successor chapters.” He gestured to Captain Priad and Lieutenant Prodyn, coaxing them forward before the assembly.

Two Star Dragons emerged from behind the crates, carrying a towering vexilla pole. They anchored it in place before the assembly, before they reached up and unfurled the banner itself.

A magnificent banner was revealed, the fabric was a deep, regal cobalt blue woven from heavy, metallic-threaded cloth that resists flame, shrapnel, and decay. Even so, its surface bears scars. Surrounding the prominent Ultramarines omega, the banner is segmented into quadrants or bordered panels, each depicting campaign honors in the style of ancient Macragge heraldry that is embossed and inlaid like miniature works of art forged into the cloth itself. Laurel wreaths, Roman-style numerals, and stylized battle scenes mark ancient compliance actions across Ultramar and beyond.

Tannister admired the ancient Heresy era banner, as do the other Chapters present. There was a short but brief discussion between the successors before Captain Priad stepped forward to carefully grasp the pole of the banner from the two Star Dragons. “I will see this returned to the Ultramarines, on my honor,” Priad declared proudly.

Bolaar nodded and turned his gaze on Tannister. “Cogmane, Cogfist, my Brothers, is the presentation ready for Watch Captain Tannister?”

“They are, Captain,” Cogmane replied, gesturing for Tannister to follow.

Tannister walked forward to one of the tables prepared near the back of the hangar. A few of the other Astartes showed clear interest in whatever they plan to return to the Deathwatch. Tannister was not prepared for what awaited him on the table.

A dozen Xenophase blades lay neatly arranged next to one another. He paused for a long moment before reaching out and grabbing two of them. The blades looked identical. As he activated them and gave each a swing, he could tell they did not just look similar; they were identical – or as identical as physical objects could be. He put one down and hefted another, going through half the blades before finally speaking.

“What is the meaning of this?” He growled, turning to the closest Techmarine. “Explain yourselves.”

The Techmarine spoke, “They were recovered from the Processional of the Damned.” Tannister sensed a half-truth buried in that statement.

“Perhaps, but these blades are identical, and without wear. These blades are rare relics; they typically show a great deal of variance. I can find no data that would even suggest we ever lost twelve such relics, and they lack a maker's mark. So I say again: Explain.” Tannister watched as the Techmarine under scrutiny glanced towards Bolaar. Who, in turn, looked frustrated for the briefest moment before he glanced towards the hangar entrance, where the sound of another dreadnought lumbering towards them echoed.

“You don’t like them?” A high-pitched, clearly female voice called out. Tannister turned and blinked at the unusual sight.

The Venerable Dreadnought Baldos had arrived, and perched upon his shoulder was a petite child in Mechanicus robes.

“Why is that child seated upon the Venerable one?” He overheard one of the Salamanders ask. “Is that... allowed?”

“I suspect it’s because the Venerable allows it,” replied He’stan.

“Venerable Baldos has a list of individuals permitted to ride him,” Cogfist supplied helpfully.

“There’s a list? Just how many people are on it?” One of the wolves asked in jest.

“One,” Cogfist replied flatly.

Before Tannister could speak, the young girl spoke up once more, “If the lengths are a problem, I can adjust them.”

Tannister stiffened. “Adjust them?” He asked incredulously as he used his armour to identify the child. The moment he highlighted her in his systems, he was hit with a string of notifications, a high-priority classified report from the Deathwatch team accompanying Lord Inquisitor Striker was flagged as the highest priority.

He began reading as fast as he could, and as he read, he spoke, “The construction of these blades is forbidden by the Deathwatch under penalty of excruciation.”

He boggled as the child had the audacity to giggle at him, “My permissions predate the founding of your order by two millennia, Watch Captain. Though, I doubt you could find an artisan capable of modifying the blades as well as I can on this side of the rift.”

Tannister was able to infer a great deal from her words and the information packet. He had moments to choose a path; press the issue, or simply take the offered gifts before the assembly. It was an easy decision to make once he fully digested the packet. “I see. You are responsible for these blades, then. On behalf of the Deathwatch, you have my thanks, Princeps Cavalerio. If it is not too much trouble, perhaps some minor modifications to the lengths of a few of the blades could be made?”

“Sure, that is not a problem, Watch Captain,” she said in a chipper tone as she kicked her feet back and forth. “Hey, Bolaar, sorry we’re late, did we miss you returning Dorn’s shield?”

“Dorn’s WHAT!?” The Imperial Fist exclaimed, his voice echoed across the hangar and beyond.

Bolaar sighed and massaged his temple. Tannister got the distinct impression this was not an unusual interaction. “No, Princeps, we had not gotten to that item yet. I suppose it would be fitting to handle the last major relic now,” Bolaar said as he went to personally grab the secure crate. “Perhaps you would like to explain while I retrieve it?”

Everyone else had easily forgotten about the phaseblades and was eagerly looking on as Bolaar reverently retrieved the case containing the personal item of a Primarch.

“So, we believe this to be one of the early prototypes of the Vigil-pattern Storm Shield, crafted personally by Rogal Dorn. The age, materials, the maker's mark, and physical dimensions all match. The biggest clue to who previously owned the shield was the handwritten notes on the inside!” She spoke, just as Bolaar unlocked the case and revealed the shield.

He was not surprised when the Imperial Fists and Exorcists present all knelt: The item had a faint, impressive aura about it that even he felt the effects of. Many others bowed their heads respectfully to the object.

The silence was broken when Blackmane let out a loud whistle, “That is a nice damn shield! Dorn’s own! Congratulations!” He praised hefting his mug and breaking the silence.

—------------------------------------------------

POV: Nicole

After the shield, a number of the non-relic items were shown to their respective chapters. They all seem more than happy to accept the items in question.

“Hey, no!” I say as I launch off of Baldos using the lifter to glide through the air and ignore gravity. I land on top of the crate of disintegrator weapons and reach in. “I’m keeping a few of these pistols for ‘study,’” I say firmly as I pull a few of the pistol weapons from the crate and look towards the Ultramarine successors.

Baldos just laughs loudly as I do so. The Astartes look around briefly and don’t try to contest my claim. Wise of them. I pass the weapons off to a squad of Skitarii who take them back into the ship.

Once Bolaar is done explaining the origin of some of the crates, he brings up Baldos’s request.

“I would ask the attention of all of you. While these gifts are given freely, there is a minor, secondary request we have of those present.” He nods respectively towards Baldos, “On behalf of Venerable Baldos, we seek to invite every Dreadnought present in the system to a gathering and implore you to lend them to us for but a week,” Bolaar explains as I scamper back to my perch on Baldos’ shoulder.

Baldos adds, “The littlest one will perform maintenance on all who attend, warding their hulls as mine has been. I would gather a council of the dead. If they slumber, I ask you to wake them. I will share the wisdom of the Ancients.” Baldos turned to Blackmane and asked, “Lord Bjorn?”

“No, Ancient One, as far as I know, he is back on Fenris,” Blackmane replies.

“A shame,” Baldos rumbles.

“I will attend, I will bring my brothers,” Bray'arth interjects proudly.

I give the Dreadnought a smile and an appreciative nod.

“That is all we ask. Everyone is welcome to remain as we arrange for the transport of your items,” Bolaar says politely.

“Wait!” I yell from Baldos’s shoulder. “The physical gifts have been given. But I have another gift for many of you. A gift of knowledge. The gift of... divination.”

I take control of the lighting and turn off all but the single spot light directly above me as I stand and close my eyes, letting the air crackle around me as several of the Astartes tense.

I point a single finger towards the Salamanders. “Vulkan He'stan, the flame you seek resides on the planet named ‘Zero.’”

My finger trails left and settles on Blackmane. “In the fifteenth year, two hundred wolves lost to time shall return on the world they burned, Prospero.”

I move to point at Nakir, “Beware Darkmor, it will consume the Unforgiven.”

My finger continues to drift and lands on Sangrael. “Baal will be nearly consumed by the Devourer. The Lord Regent will come to their aid in their final hour.”

Sangrael sucks in a sharp breath and clenches his Crozius.

I let my hand drop, “The rift war has begun. If nothing is done, the siege on Dharrovar will break under the boot of Haarken Worldclaimer. Vigilus will go from a war of beasts to a war of nightmares. Ravaged by Orks, Genestealers, Dark Eldar, Traitors, and Chaos. Lord Calgar will desperately duel the Despoiler – and fall.”

I let the lights flicker back on as I look out into the assembly. Some faces are contemplative, some look horrified, and many look wary of me. I feign a sign of exhaustion and sigh wistfully.

I turn and stare down at the Dark Angel, “Master Korahael. Where are you headed once your vessels are repaired?” I ask softly.

“We have pressing matters elsewhere.” He replies vaguely.

"Perhaps, but a far more pressing matter raises its head in Vigilus-" I manage before he interrupts.

“You do not order me, witch,” he growls.

Bolaar is within my Auspex range, and I catch him wince ever so slightly; several other Astartes present give Korahael incredulous looks as they note the utter lack of tact. “Careful, son of the Lion. If you get any less tactful, you’ll start sounding like one of us – and you lack the rugged charm of a Wolf to make it work.” Ragnar chided, vocalizing his annoyance loudly. Baldos lets out a hiss that sounds like a loud huff as he vents some excess heat from his chassis, the thin visor slit glowing ominously red. Under my hood, I roll my eyes and give Baldos a soft pat that helps him calm down.

“Are you so certain there is nothing I can say to change your mind?” I ask rhetorically, leaning forward, my eyes glittering with mischief. “Perhaps you’d like to discuss the matter in a less public setting?”

“I am doubtful that anything you could say can sway my path,” he replies coolly.

“Oh?” I sigh dramatically and send a private message encrypted and isolated to a private frequency just for his ears. “Well... does the name... Osandus mean anything to you?” I ask softly with a bright, knowing smile.

The fists of his armour both clench hard enough that they audibly creak. “I retract my previous statement,” he speaks through clenched teeth. “Tell me: What do you know?” he asks, clearly forcing himself to remain polite.

I giggle, “I know exactly where he and his band reside. The system. The planet. The very continent. Hidden behind psychic obscuring wards, foul rituals, and an eternal storm. They are messing with an archeotech weapon that is best left alone. Consorting with the Despoiler. So... what say you?”

Korahael sharply turns to Bolaar and asks firmly, “Have these... divinations of hers ever been wrong?”

Bolaar shakes his head, “Not once yet. If you require further proof. Look into the classified report by Lord Inquisitor Striker.”

Korahael nods slowly with reluctance. “Then we will go.”

I clap my hands together, “Glad to have you. I intend to inform Imperial High Command of the importance of Nachmund soon. As one of the few stable routes through the Great Rift will form there, the gauntlet must be secured. Though we have a few years before the situation deteriorates.” I admit, and that catches the attention of everyone present. “In the meantime, if any of you are bored... There may soon be Tyranids of the Genestealer variety to deal with here on Cypra Mundi.”

—-------------------------------------------------

POV: Magos Biologis, Biophagus Zygor Gravox

Gravox was feeling unsettled. The Forum had not gone as anticipated, and the Patriarch's insistence that he volunteer for a closer examination and possible infection of the unusual girl was bothersome, as the cult was dealing with multiple problems already. Attempting to procure her was difficult, high risk, her diverse protective detail alone was problematic and her redacted profile raised many unanswered questions. Still, he obeyed and would do his utmost to carry out the orders he had been given.

For now, he retreated down to his true sanctum, not the false Biologis conclave he presided over on the surface. The sanctum of Biophagus Zygor Gravox lay far beneath the manufactorum-filled crust of Cypra Mundi, entombed within kilometers of plasteel, ferrocrete, and rock. No official chart recorded its existence – even the data vaults of the priesthood referred only to a sealed maintenance reservoir.

In truth, it was neither a reservoir nor a maintenance chamber.

It was a lake.

A vast, circular cavern whose edge spans the horizon. The chamber’s ceiling vanished into darkness above, lost behind webs of gantries, cable arrays, and servo-skull lanterns drifting like pale mechanical fireflies. Rusted cathedral walkways clung to the cavern walls, spiraling down toward the center where the lake waited – thick, black, where faint bioluminescent flickers could be seen within.

It was not water. The lake churned with a foul biomass slurry: liquefied tissue, rendered proteins, and nutrient broth constantly circulated through kilometer-long pumps. Vast filtration pylons rose from the viscous surface like the towers of a drowned city, each one pulsing with red lumen lights and belching clouds of warm vapor.

At the lake’s center stood the reason for the chamber’s existence. A skeletal island of adamantium pylons sat half-submerged in the slurry. Within and below massive restraint frames held a colossal corpse suspended half-submerged in the nutrient sea.

The corpse of the Queen.

Even dead, it dwarfed everything around it. The bloated thorax of the creature rose like a fleshy fortress above the surface, its armored plates cracked open and pinned apart by enormous mag-clamps. Vast rib-like structures curved outward where Gravox had surgically removed layers of chitin to expose the pale organic machinery beneath. Tubular arteries thicker than industrial pipes hung from its body, many severed and replaced with braided cables, fluid injectors, and chrome augmetics. The Queen’s largely missing head - an elongated, crown-crested, and hideously regal if misshapen thing - hung forward on a skeletal neck, its eyeless face frozen in a silent scream that had ended centuries ago. Massive conductive bolts were driven through the outer plates of the skull into the tissue within.

But the corpse was not still. It twitched and shifted as muscles spasmed. A distinct tremor rippled along one of its limbs as electrical current surged through implanted electrode clusters.

From the command dais overlooking the lake, Gravox watched the movement with mechanical patience.

For all its faults, the wider Mechanicus had gotten one thing right. The Motive force was real and with the power of carefully managed surges of bio-electricity, he could trick even the long-dead corpse into a faux semblance of life and action.

“Stimulus injection: sequence sigma-nine,” he hissed, “Amplify bio-electric induction by four-point-six percent.”

His mechanically enhanced neophyte minions and lesser Aberrants leapt to obey. Along the lakeshore, the rows of loyal inducted attendants activated massive induction pylons. The machines hummed as they poured controlled arcs of electricity into the lake of biological slurry. Blue-white arcs of current rippled outward, racing across the surface like living snakes of lightning.

The arcs of current struck the corpse and the Norn-Queen convulsed violently. Deep within its exposed abdomen, something moved.

The corpse had been dead for nearly two centuries when he acquired it – an impossible relic recovered from a battlefield that the Imperium had deliberately erased from its records. Most would have incinerated the carcass.

Gravox had instead asked a more interesting question. What part of a Norn-Queen truly dies?

Electrical pulses stimulated dormant nerve clusters. Pumps forced nutrient slurry through artificial circulatory systems he had grafted into the corpse. Dozens of reactors harvested the creature’s lingering bio-electric potential, amplifying it and feeding it back into the body. A closed loop of stolen life.

The result hung beneath the creature’s abdomen. Great gestation sacs. Hundreds of them. He had lost count of just how many gestated in the depths of the nutrient lake, unable to break free without the right series of bio-electric impulses.

Translucent, fleshy pods - some the size of cargo containers, some smaller, and some far larger – hung from the Queen’s distended reproductive organs like a string of obscene grapes on the vine. Thick umbilical cords connected them to the corpse’s exposed flesh and more vanished down into the depths of the lake.

Within the sacs, shapes twitched. Claws pressed against membranes. Spines unfurled. Jaws flexed in silent hunger. The pods pulsed slowly, illuminated from within by faint bioluminescent organs growing in darkness.

Gravox leaned forward. “Astonishing,” he murmured. The Norn-Queen no longer possessed a guiding synaptic will, Its brain had liquefied long ago. But its biological machinery remained intact – vast evolutionary engines designed to produce war-organisms with terrifying efficiency. Their glorious Patriarch had stepped up to fill the role as the primary synapse creature in the Queen’s stead.

All it required was energy and direction. That direction now came from Gravox himself.

He had spent decades mapping the creature’s genetic pathways, identifying the glands and nodal clusters responsible for the creation of Tyranid bioforms. Where the Queen once received instructions from the Clawed Omnissiah, Gravox now injected carefully crafted electro-chemical patterns – primitive instructions mimicking synaptic commands.

Crude? Yes. Blasphemous? Extremely. But oh so deliciously effective.

The creatures within the sacs were unstable; they typically emerged from the sacks feral and violent. Connecting them to the Broodmind was by no means guaranteed. So far, the only true success was with the curious Ymgarl strain of Genestealers. His sister, the strongest Magus in their coven, was making great strides in syncing the minds of other more psychoactive creatures with the Broodmind. Such creatures had to be kept carefully sedated, locked away behind layers of wards and obfuscation to ensure they remained unnoticed. He was also making attempts to bridge the gap between the minds of the lesser organisms and the Broodmind with crude mechanical implants. Servitorization was far from the worst use of the creatures. The project was working, in time anything born would be able to seamlessly join with the Broodmind and only then once the project reached its apex could Ascension finally begin.

A sac split slightly as internal pressure increased. Pale fluid seeped down its sides while something inside unfurled elongated limbs. A partially formed creature slammed against the membrane. But the shape was wrong. A shame, another unstable mutation.

Gravox’s mechadendrites adjusted a dial. “Terminate gestation unit seventy-four.”

The sac convulsed as a surge of electricity boiled the fluid within. The organism inside spasmed and dissolved back into nutrient slurry, which immediately began pumping back into the lake. Waste was unacceptable. But each failure was another point of data.

Gravox chuckled, “Iteration improves,” he whispered while across the lake, another gestation sac began to open.

Mechanical claws descended from overhead gantries, carefully slicing through the membrane. Thick amniotic fluid spilled into waiting containment channels as the newborn organism slid partially into view.

It resembled a Tyranid warrior – but it was stretched out, elongated in ways that looked twisted, its armor plating fused with crude mechanical implants Gravox had introduced during genetic manipulation.

It was a magnificent hybrid, an experiment for the ages. The creature screeched weakly, its limbs twitching in the air. Gravox extended a surgical manipulator toward the hololith.

“Specimen eighty-three,” he declared. “Viability assessment beginning.” His eyes turned toward the immense corpse hanging above the lake. The Norn-Queen twitched again, electricity crawling across its exposed flesh as another cycle of artificial life surged through its ruined body. A dead god forced to give birth again and again.

Gravox felt something close to reverence, not for the creature of course, but reverence for the process. For the adaptability of the wondrous Broodmind.

“The Clawed Omnissiah teaches that knowledge must be reclaimed,” he murmured. “Biology is merely another machine awaiting proper instruction.”

Below him, the lake churned as hundreds of gestation sacs pulsed deep in the depths of the lake, each larger than the last. An army growing from the belly of a corpse.

His hunt for the ultimate warrior-hybrid of brood-flesh and engineered metal would continue.