//------------------------------// // Lunam suprema // Story: Lament and an emerald tide // by Lord_Draigo //------------------------------// In the past six days, Equestria has mounted a valiant but fruitless defense. Luna looks over her war board, snorting with contempt as another scroll declaring a retreat arrived in front of her. The Greenskins have been crushing most resistance to their advance out of the crash sites in Manehattan and trottingham. So far, She’s ordered most of the professional soldiers to hold the everfree valley and Canterlot, since the Beasts have already come within a hundred kilometers of the capital. The moon princess looks out the window, eyes focusing on the black smoke clouds in the distance, marking the Greenskin battleline. Her role as protector of dreams has been effectively abandoned, ever since the greenskins dreams had begun to manifest about. They were universally about war, eating, playing an odd game where they kick some poor green creature like a ball or all three together.     Muskets are good enough for posturing against another Epona bound power, but these space-faring monsters have far more firepower, in large quantities and powerful enough to pierce all but the hardest armor. Militia units are also drying up. Luna had around a million ponies to work with initially, but at this point, she can barely scrounge up three hundred thousand. Of course, the presence of at least one Princess may change things for the better, alas, Celestia is busy holding a fragmenting nation together. Cadence is off attempting to negotiate support from the Griffons and the Dragon tribes. Twilight has secluded herself in a lab to dissect the few examples of greenskins killed in combat and recovered back to Canterlot. Princess Luna is...wait a moment, Luna’s not that busy, since she can receive reports anywhere and she’s memorized the arrangement of the map. The lunar princess considers it for a minute, turning her head to the board and pile of bad news bearing scrolls, before looking out the window at the battle line. She elects to go make a difference rather than sitting and waiting for the Greenskins. A ring of a bell later and a pair of Lunar captains are standing at attention in front of her, armor shimmering with magical power, large, ornate crests rise from their helms, indicating achievements and rank through the colors arranged on the plume. “Assemble the troops, We are useless sitting around hearing bad news and doing nothing to stop it.” She stomps a hoof for emphasis “Thou hast an hour to prepare.” Luna turns and exits the room. The two obediently nod and exit the room, to go collect their total of four hundred troops, some of the best in the empire. Luna levitates over her war helm, looking it in the eyes for a moment. The empty red lenses stare back, their ancient eyes crusted with dust around the edges. After a few moments of contemplation, Luna dons the helmet, the contacts that had been jury-rigged to connect it to the magical charge of the armor hook into her gorget, clicking into place. She lets out her breath, an artificial rattle echoing out of the helm as her view illuminates with the red data-filled display. Before her eyes had even adjusted, the helm had already given her a small map in the corner and had a small scrolling block of data in another, which would be useful if Luna knew High Gothic. Alas, she does not. With her helm in place, she exits the room, armor-shod hooves clicking on the stone floor. In the parade grounds outside of the castle, the Lunar guard have assembled, their dark grey and blue armor standing in contrast to the light colored cobbles. Most of them were in their full armor, helmet and all. Those that were lacking in the helmet were preparing to put them on. Luna looks over the assembled ranks. The four hundred are some of the best fighters in all of Equestria. Luna has always felt that keeping them on guard duty is a waste. The captains bark out their orders, and those incapable of flight run to the chariots, hitched to their more airworthy comrades. Once that had been accomplished, Luna strides out to the front of the host, looking them over for a few seconds, before nodding and extending out her wings. the well oiled armor sections worn on her wings silently moving with the appendages. Luna breathes in, before throwing herself into the air, joined by the sound of hundreds of wings joining and following behind her. She doesn’t need to look to know that her host has followed her in its entirety. The air is calm, but the scent of smoke carries along the faint wind from the field of battle, it only grows stronger along the one hour flight, along with the sight of the trench works the Ponies have built across the entrance of the valley. Around a kilometer from the trenches, the greenskin forces look to be camped for the night, having constructed a series of ramshackle towns with a few giant machines standing among them, apparently called gargants and stompas by their users. At least, it seemed that way until Luna hears the sounds of gunfire drifting through the night, and one of the giant machines start walking towards the trenches. Luna banks towards the giant machine, followed by her host as she lowers her altitude. She alights in the forward trench. Her nostrils flare at the scent of gunpowder and oil in the earthworks. Most of the Ponies firing their muskets at the approaching crowd of several hundred greenskins are militia, with a few of the armored professional soldiers supervising. The commanding officer, a major from the marks on her armor bows to Luna. Her armor is dented, the livery of her house having been worn into unrecognizability, and not much is really visible of her besides a Light blue horn and her blue and white mane. “Major, how goes the battle?” Luna enquires, she can see it’s terrible, but might as well hear it from the horse's mouth. “W-well, your highness, We’ve held our ground here for the past half day, but the Greenskins continue to assault us. While our losses have been lessened by building out a trench network, I-” She is ducks as an explosion blooms bright behind the trench, presumably from greenskin artillery. The cries for help afterward chilled Luna somewhat “I don’t believe we can sustain this sort of losses for long. As is We’re barely holding while the Greenskins seem to only get stronger.” “Well then, we shall assume command of this trench section. Our forces can engage with the foe, and reinforce your section. How much of your Battalion is left” The Unicorn does some math in her head. “I-I believe that of the Thousand I had, I’m down to four hundred and thirty-seven, your highness” “Then we have arrived at an opportune time. GUARDS! TAKE UP POSITION IN THESE EARTHWORKS, I SHALL FELL THIS METAL BEAST!!” Luna uses the royal canterlot voice to issue the orders, before taking wing, looking over the greenskins running right at the trench. Most of the hideous creatures look to wield crude melee weapons and pistols. Those around the giant machine seem especially animated, as if it were powering them. Luna takes herself to eye level with the giant machine, her horn lighting up teal, a similar aura appearing around the thirty meter machine. She focuses hard, pouring energy from herself into the focal point of her horn. With a series of loud groans, she begins to crush it, the steel buckling under the immense magical energy. Several greenskins on the ground see her, and open fire, their bullets bouncing off her armor harmlessly. The machine then turns it’s giant cannon to face Luna, with great effort, and levels it at her, somewhat crumpled, but seeming quite lethal. The distinct thud of a shell being loaded carried to Lunas trained ears. Luna stops crushing the machine in her magical grip to shield herself with a quick and sloppy magical force field just as the shell blasts out from the cannon. The explosive strikes Luna’s shield and shatters it, the remaining blast wave carrying through and hitting Luna like a truck. The force knocks Luna from the sky, her descent about as graceful as a brick. The pain is immense, Luna thinks she’s broken at least two ribs, maybe even had something rupture. Then there was the Landing. Her wings were the first to hit the ground, crumpling, with several breakages, then her back, fortunately, the armor and wings cushioned her enough that her spine remained unbroken. She coughs up some blood, breathing heavily into her helmet. ‘How stupid’ She thinks. ‘I think I can make a difference on the field, and here I am, coughing up some organ and shattered on the field of battle. Not even a proper warriors death, just a miserable, slow failing of the body if I’m not recovered’ A tear wells up in her eye. Her sister was right, she was cut out for the war room, not the field. Perhaps if she hadn't been so straightforward about fighting the machine, to make a show of force rather than disarming it first, this wouldn't be happening. Luna wallows in her own sorrow for around a minute, the greenskin charge having stalled due to some sort of infighting, with the crew of the giant machine having stopped to watch. Then she smells something off, something that one usually doesn’t smell on the field of battle. It’s not the sting of powder, or the greasy smell of engine fumes, or even the copper of her own blood, but an ozone scent, like some great magic is transpiring. Suddenly, a bright flash practically blinds the wounded Alicorn and A thunderous crack deafens her. When her vision clears, twelve giant figures stand before her. They all look to be some form of hulking armored giant, similar in size to the leaders of the greenskin squads. Each one is wearing the same sort of helm, with an odd snout and small, triangular eyes. Ten of them are in deep yellow armor, with one shoulder pad bearing a sort of checked heraldry. The other two are quite distinct from the rest. One is garbed in black, with golden chains and bone-colored parchments adorning its armor. A ball with holes on a chain dangling almost to the ground bears some sort of incense, a strong one judging from the smell. Above its head, a golden halo rises, arcing with some sort of energy. It bears some form of repeating weapon in one hand, the belts of ammunition jingling below it. The other hand bears some sort of rod with a winged version of its helm on the end, presumably a bludgeoning weapon. The haunting thing is the helmet, a bone-white, gaunt face, with burning red eyes and a ghoulish smile. The other unique giant is garbed in blue, with a set of ivory colored robes flowing over top of the suit of armor. Its helmet is covered on the top by some form of shroud. In one hand it carries a similar weapon to the other’s repeater, except one of the barrels is longer and has tubing around it. In the other hand it bears what looks to be a sword wreathed in translucent crimson flame. The two, seemingly leaders, look at one another when they see Luna, and start to animatedly confer as their troops take up defensive positions. Their language is incomprehensible to Luna, yet sounds familiar. After a moment of thought she realizes that this is the language that the singing was in for several days before it suddenly became comprehensible. She clears her throat, and attempts to speak to them. “w-who art thou? Steel giants?!” her attempt to keep composure is hampered by her voice cracking and the weakness of her pointing. The two look back at her, before speaking once more to each other “-What makes you so sure that they're harmless, high librarian?” reclusiarch Julius bellicoso snaps at the his psychic battle-brother, his high gothic bearing a distinct aristocratic tint in spite of the centuries he'd been among his fellow marines. “did the warp whisper to you that these xenos are alright? Or have you been driven mad?” he cocks his skull helm to one side, glaring sideways at his comrade. The librarian looks back at the other marine. He technically outranks the reclusiarch, not that he'd pull rank here. He thinks carefully for a moment before answering, his deep melodic voice bearing the air of an intellectual. “first things first, the xeno right there is a potent enough psyker that we could use her presence as a beacon for our teleport. Secondly, a psyker of that magnitude would be able to instantly destroy us if she were to desire doing so, meaning that since we're alive, she wants us that way. Third, they speak low gothic, meaning some form of human contact has occurred before. Finally, they’re against the greenskins, a far greater foe at the moment.” Chief Librarian Herodotus Faust turns his gaze from his comrade down to the equine at his feet, cocking his head inquisitively. He clears his throat before addressing her in Low gothic. “We are the Lamenters, well, technically just the terminator force, sent to clear a beachhead for the rest of the chapter. I am personally Chief Librarian Herodotus Faust, head of the chapter librarius, that’s Reclusiarch Bellicoso, head of the chaplains of the chapter. Those are the ten best line veterans of the chapter and-” He turns at the distinct roar of five storm bolters letting loose into the ork lines. The terminator assault squad readies for a charge, locking shields and igniting the crackling energy fields around their hammers. The reclusiarch joins with them, yelling his orders into the squad vox. The terminator with the cyclone missile launcher steadies his feet before letting loose into the orkish lines. The Frag missiles lance from his shoulders and strike the orkish front to great effect, blowing several orks either apart or at the least into their own comrades. The Librarian lowers his combi-melta, allowing it to fall on its sling so he can raise the now-free hand. He focuses, a deep red spear of psychic energy forming in his gauntleted hand. He raises it above his head, before throwing it with a loud whine from the hydraulics of his armor. The spear flies gracefully through the air, slicing through any ork it hits as it they were made of air. The librarian raises his bolter again, letting loose short, precise bursts of fire. He hails the thunderhawk on vox, and the pilot quickly responds. “This is Faust, we have made planetfall, be advised that local population appear to be friendly xenos, we have a minor gargant approaching our position, tell Phoros he is clear for planetfall.” “Roger that, Faust, be prepared for Phoros to make planetfall” The large gunship drops below the clouds, skimming the tops of trees on approach, the large Turbo-Laser fires, the incandescent beam lighting the sky in blue for one second before the light faded. It was a direct hit in the core of the machine. The gargant carries on for another few steps, before the structural damage catches up to it. With a groan the machine falls to the ground, exploding as the ammunition went off from the impact, chain-reacting with the reactor. The thunderhawk screams overhead, and twelve figures descend from it. One of them is a lot larger than the rest, slamming into the ground first, and most violently. The Dreadnought recovers quickly from impact, its blood fists eagerly grabbing at the air in expectation of battle. Phoros himself descends slowly, borne aloft by his jump pack, and accompanied by a team of ten vanguard veterans. They land just in front of the Librarian, the light of their power weapons illuminating their numerous battle honors and sigils. The Chapter master looks over to the Chief Librarian. In spite of his mk4 power armor helmet, he can feel the displeased glare of the Lord Astartes. “Faust! How did you not ever bother to ask whether these creatures are xenos?” The chapter master gestures at the barely conscious equine at their feet. “Lord Phoros, they're harmless. That's the most powerful psyker I've ever seen laying there. If she were an enemy, we'd be dead. Also, I'd like to know how that one got a power armor hHe'll. He gestures at Luna, whose helm bears a striking resemblance to Phoros's Malakim looks back at the understandably frightened xenos, before looking back to his oldest friend. He sighs deeply, deflating slightly l. “i trust you, but if they don't comply with our work, I will not hesitate to destroy them all.” The edge of malice in the chapter master’s voice is tangible. “now, let's get to what we came here to do.” Lord Phoros turns to face the orks, the vanguard veterans behind him bracing themselves. At a single order along their private vox,  the marines ignite their jump packs, flying headfirst into the orkish Lines. While the orks are tough, no flesh can stop power blades from tearing right on through it. Phoros himself is a sight to be seen, a whirlwind of death and blood. His golden armor gleams through the green viscera caking it. His fighting style, largely based on spinning, stands out from the rest of the space marines. Every so often, he’d fire his inferno pistol into a nearby, unlucky ork, the bright beam briefly showing the carnage around him. The librarian stays back somewhat from the fighting, using his psychic might to fell orks that come too close to his gunline, mainly spears and crackling lightning. The chaplain and his terminators tear their way across the field, bludgeoning any unfortunate ork to literal paste if it got in their way. The dreadnought tears it's own path, what he doesn't crush with his fists, he burns away with the meltagun and heavy flamer mounted beneath the green-stained claws. If one were close enough, they could hear muffled laughter coming from the armored sarcophagus. Luna loses consciousness within a few minutes of her first meeting with humans. Her guard move as a single force, streaming from the trenches and brutally destroying any Greenspan that comes close to their fallen monarch. Once the medical specialist confirmed that Luna is stable, they moved again. In near unison, they departed much like they came in, this time bearing their unconscious leader back to canterlot. Even without the guard, the ork forces pull back to their base, obviously cowed by the sudden arrival of astartes and destruction of their stompa. The nob in charge of the assault, who'd taken command when the boss lost his mind, due to a thunder hammer splattering it, called a retreat. The nob was no genius by any measure, but he understands The danger that space marines pose, and he would rather flight another day than die in a bad scrap. The space marines suffer only one casualty, a vanguard veteran whose plasma pistol exploded. He’ll live, but he's out of the fight until his prosthetic is prepared. Meanwhile,  the Death korps make their planetfall in the everfree valley, under orders to not harm the locals. Their primary site was in the viscinity of the town called 'ponyville'. Not much is known about it to the imperial guard. The dronelike infantrymen obey their orders, treating the locals with apathy, as if they're a minor inconvenience. The officers, Who have a bit More free will took a liking to the sweet locals. Many brought the humans gifts as tokens of appreciation. The lower ranking officers decline, fearing court martial for being too friendly to the xenos. The higher ranking officers get chummy, might as well given the length of the campaigns the korps usually engages in. The commissars, while doubtful, keep to themselves. This does not sit well with the Lord General, he remembers the last time he'd been friendly to xenos. It got him a nice cushy scar across his gut. Thus, he makes a call out to an old friend...