//------------------------------// // Chapter XXIV // Story: The Marks of War // by DungeonMiner //------------------------------// Oraban flew through the forest, leaping from branch to branch with an expertise born of centuries of practice. He could only stay until day break, after that, the Farseer may arrive to brief them. No, he needed to be quick tonight. With his rifle slung onto his back, he climbed up higher and higher into the foliage. Gripping tree branches, he pulled himself up into the canopy. As his head cleared the leaves, he looked to the sky. That’s what made hunting ork so much easier. All you had to do was follow the smoke. He was close now. The hunt was about to begin. He dropped back down to the tree branches, his feet hardly making a sound as he leapt from branch to branch. He suddenly paused, hovering over a handful of orks. The creatures all milled about beneath him, without purpose and completely oblivious. This was a perfect start. He dropped from the trees, and his wraithbone knife sang. The knife ripped the ork’s throat open, sending a shower of black blood into the air. “Oi!” Came the shout, only for Oraban to disappear back into the trees. The thundering of the of the ork boyz shootah flashed and rumbled in the forest, but Oraban was gone. “What was dat? Where’d he go?” The lumbering thing grunted. Oraban leaped again, his knife flashed, ripping out another throat with practiced ease. Oh, this felt good. Another volley of large ork bullets followed him into the trees, but the dim-wits could not follow behind. “Dere he goes!” an ork yelled, before Oraban leapt back up into the tree, bounding off the branches to leap back behind the orks. The ranger dropped again, slitting a throat, before leaping back up into the canopy. “Oi! What happened to ya!?” the last ork called to his dead friend. Oraban leapt on him once more, digging his blade into the monster’s back and dragging it down the spine. The psychoplastic destroyed the ork’s backbone, splitting it perfectly down the middle, killing it instantly. This felt so incredibly good. Jumping back up into the branches, Oraban smiled to himself. Oh, this was so easy… He moved closer to the Waaagh!, undetected as he leapt from branch to branch. He stopped suddenly, as he found himself only two trees away from being in the massive opening the orks carved from the forest. It made an excellent sniping position. Unslinging his rifle, Oraban braced his back against a tree and took aim into the horde. Orks always had an odd signature through a pan-spectral sight. While most things appeared blue in various degrees of brightness, orcs were green, and for the most part, all the same brightness. It made it a little hard to see the ork in the psychic spectrum, and so, Oraban started in visible light. His scope skimmed over the orks, searching for something big enough to pick off. Orks were easy to target. Just find the biggest one and turn his skull into a smouldering las burn. No, not big enough, not big enough. Also not— His eyes went wide. He blinked. A quadruped figure, with bright orange fur stood in his sights. Years ago, Oraban had asked Sweetie Belle about her home and her friends. She told him about everything. The Cutie Mark Crusaders, Rarity, Ponyville, he saw it through his mind’s eyes as she spoke of the home and friends she lost. He knew her friends. And the only thing that the monster in his sights could be, was one of her friends. In the blink of an eye, a thousand thoughts ran through his head. Her friend was alive. He should let Sweetie know. But she was in the company of orks. What was the best way to get her out? Would she even cooperate, having lived with orks so long? And all these thoughts froze as a new one dominated his mind. Wings. The words of the Prince rang through his mind. “They were being led by a strange, winged creature I am told, and it killed all of them.” Rage flooded his being, and it took only the practice built of millennia to contain himself. His hand shook, and the only reason his rifle didn’t veer wildly off course was the gyrostatic arm keeping the rifle steady. That thing, is what killed his friend. That thing murdered the King and brought danger to these innocent Eldar. And yet he didn’t pull the trigger. She sat right there, perfectly in the crosshair. All he we need was a faint squeeze, and the King and Mesira in a single strike. Yet he didn’t. His finger hovered over the trigger, and as it did, all he could see was Sweetie Belle’s face. She looked so disappointed with him, so angry, and so terrified. He wanted to destroy this abomination. He wanted to fire a bolt of blue-hot las straight into that monster’s head. But he couldn’t. He remembered the first nights, when she wept as she slept, murmuring the names of her friends, gone forever. She had lost them forever that day, and yet, her friend was right there, at the end of his rifle. And he himself knew how it feels to lose a friend. Could he put her through that again? She wouldn’t even know that the little monster is here, a voice whispered from the dark corners of his mind. A single shot, and all that would have happened was that your little pet would have lost something she already believed was gone forever. She wouldn’t know, he thought to himself. There was no way for her to know. The only one who could tell her was himself, and if he made the shot, he would have no need to share. Only one shot, one squeeze. You’ve made a thousand shots like this before, killing hundreds of lesser races before. What’s the difference? She still sat, right there, in his sights. All it would take was the smallest squeeze. He sighed. He aimed. And he squeezed. And Rangers do not miss. ---=][=--- Sweetie Belle recoiled from the gate. She blinked, her hooves shaking as she stared, mouth open at the bare, wraithbone surface. That was Applejack. There was no doubt in her mind about who that was. All she could do was stare at the wraithbone gate, as her mind raced and reeled with the the possibilities of what this meant. She could go home. She could actually go home. It was right there. Only days away… Ponyville was just within reach. It would only take another two days and she could leave all this pain and suffering behind. It was...right...there… Tears formed in her eyes. She could go home. After thirty years… The psychic field she set up rippled, and she felt someone enter the area around the temple. It took her only a second to recognize Oraban’s psychic signature, and she breathed a sigh of relief she did not know she was holding. She stood, quickly heading back the way she came, before pausing suddenly. She took one long look at the Infinity Gate. She had five days… Sweetie ran down the hallway, heading back for the entrance. She barely made it in time to meet him at the door. “Oraban! Is everything ok? It took you a little longer than I thought,” she said, smiling as she found him walking up the last few stairs, rifle slung over his shoulder. He said nothing. Instead, he merely looked down at her with big, sad eyes. He stared at her, and Sweetie Belle did not need to read minds to feel the cloud of emotions that hovered about him. He simply stared at her. “Oraban?” she called. “This was good for me,” he said, finally. “I’m glad I went.” But Sweetie Belle knew better. He was not happy. ---=][=--- Only a few hours after Oraban returned, a new presence entered the field. Sweetie Belle blinked, before she spoke up. “I think that’s the Farseer…” “Hm?” Oraban asked, looking up from his rifle as he cleaned the focusing crystals. Sweetie Belle stood, before heading towards the temple door. “I think that’s Farseer Elahina.” “They’ve arrived?” he asked, standing. “They must have,” she said, before heading outside. Oraban followed. As they came to the temple’s threshold, he found that the Farseer had indeed arrived, along with a small squad of warlocks, psykers who had mastered the art of warfare. The warlocks spread out, taking positions around the temple as the ranger approached. “Sweetie Belle, a pleasure to see you again.” “Farseer,” Sweetie greeted with a bow. “Welcome to our humble abode.” Elahina smiled, before turning to Oraban. “The situation has changed.” The ranger blinked, before gripping his rifle. “How?” “The forces of Chaos have arrived on the planet,” she told him. “Chaos?” he asked, fear edging into his voice. “And the Children of the Emperor of Man are here as well.” Oraban cursed. “Is there no end to them?” “The worst is yet to come, I’m afraid,” Elahina said. “How can it get worse than this?” he asked. “We are surrounded on all sides, what could be worse than this?” “We have no plan,” she said simply. “All we can do is face them on the battlefield.” “What?!” The ranger gasped. “A-are...is...is there no other way? Have things got so bad that we must resort to this?” “We have found none, no,” she told him. “Th-then I suppose you will need me at the front line?” “No, Oraban. I need you and the warlocks guarding the Infinity Gate.” “I understand.” “Unfortunately, we’ll need to take Sweetie Belle with us.” Oraban blinked. “What?” “Her skills as a healer would be most useful on the front line than here.” “And...I...must stay?” Elahina regarded the ranger for a moment, before speaking once more. “Is that a problem?” Oraban hesitated. “No...no. It’s fine.” Sweetie Belle opened her mouth. “If I may…?” Elahina turned to her. “Yes?” Sweetie Belle opened her mouth before a psychic voice spoke to her. “You will return before the fifth day, I promise.” Sweetie Belle’s eyes went wide before all of her mental defenses slammed into place. “How did—?” “Who taught you how to erect your defenses, Sweetie Belle?” Elahina asked with a smirk. Sweetie Belle frowned. “Reading my mind is not fair,” she thought back. Elahina smirked and gave a light chuckle. “Perhaps it is not fair, but it’s for the best, I’m sure you would agree.” Sweetie Belle continued to frown. Elahina smiled, before turning back to Oraban. “We must be off. Protect the temple with your life, that is what your Craftworld asks of you, Starstrider.” Oraban slowly nodded. “Come, Sweetie Belle, we have little time, and the world will not wait for us.” Sweetie Belle nodded, before turning to the Ranger. “I’ll be back, alright?” Oraban simply nodded, gripping his rifle. ---=][=--- The wave serpent hummed gently as it hovered in next to the massive carnosaur. The massive reptile had a gigantic artillery cannon strapped to its back, while Alaitoc warriors worked on the tank. For not having a plan, the Eldar knew what they were doing. The Farseers had only found that the fight would take place in the crater just south of an abandoned Eldar fortress. There, the carnosaurs and the tanks would sit on the ridge, firing from long range while the rangers, warriors, dragon knights, and the Aspect warriors, the elder who walk the path of the warrior, would face the enemy on the field. Shortly after her arrival, Sweetie Belle actually found herself walking through the camp of Alaitoc’s warrior cast, passing by the fractured camps where each Aspect held their own resting place. Each Aspect had their own style of combat, that they had mastered over centuries of training. They all had their own special rune and colors, and their own leader. The Exarchs, those that had lost themselves on the path of the warrior, lead each Aspect shrine, and were currently away, speaking with the Farseers for guidance as they set their strategy. This suited Sweetie Belle fine. She met most of the Exarchs, and there was no love lost between any of them. Still, she had nothing to do, and felt the need to stretch her legs. She watched with mild interest as she walked past the Dire Avengers, the blue and white ranged infantry that were masters of the shuriken catapult. She gave the white, red, and green Howling Banshee’s a wide berth. The highly mobile melee specialists always gave her a chill, their psychosonic amplifying masks always put the unicorn on edge. Beyond the banshees stood the Striking Scorpions. Dressed in green, gold, and black, the Scorpions were a melee unit as well, focusing on stealth rather than the howling power and speed of the Banshees. They made no sound as they moved through the camp, and even their chainswords whirled silently. The Fire Dragons, in contrast, held their pre-battle rituals loudly. The anti-tank force were the most prominent force here, in their bright reds, yellows, and oranges, and would have been most effective against the armor-heavy ork forces. Now, however, they were willing to bring their fusion guns and melta bombs to bear against the tanks of the forces of chaos, Astartes, and greenskin alike. The only other Aspect on the field were the red and white Warp Spiders. Sweetie Belle had always felt an odd kinship with these brave warriors. They kept to their own, and had a unique, bleak outlook on life. They were unique in that they risked not only their lives, but their very souls in the name of victory. Their massive, heavy armor held what was called a Warp Spider Jump Generator, a warp generator that would jump the warrior into and out of the realm of She who thirsts, so that they may navigate around obstacles in the world around them. Their weapons could shred a man to pieces via a monofilament wire, and their very method of fighting made them the bravest warriors in Eldar culture. That and the fact that they were named after Button’s species made them somewhat oddly cute in her eyes. She walked through the Warp Spider’s small camp, receiving the occasional nod from the stoic fighters, but little else. She nodded back, offering services to repair their armors and perform maintenance on their weapons. Most refused, while a few needed her to perform quick fixes on the psychoplastic that encased them. It was here that Elahina found her. “Farseer,” the wraith spider greeted. Button chirped, also greeting the farseer. “Kelmena,” Elahina greeted back. “Sweetie Belle, I wished to speak with you.” “Well I am here,” Sweetie Belle said. “What did you wish to say?” “We have decided that you shall be a field medic, working while the battle rages on.” Sweetie Belle felt her mouth go dry. “Very well,” she said. “To protect you,” Elahina continued, “you shall be attached to a small squad of wraithguard.” Sweetie Belle grimaced. She had made it a point to avoid the wraithguard. When there were not enough guardians, not enough Aspect warriors, when the might of the living was not enough, the Craftworlds would occasionally call upon the dead. The souls of the departed, held in the Infinity Circuit of the craftworld, could be pulled out and placed in wraithbone constructs, the smallest were twice as tall as an Eldar man, while the largest were gargantuan titans, where that same Eldar man would only stand at the ankle. While mighty machines, the idea that they were once living Eldar disturbed Sweetie Belle to no end. They couldn’t see her, either. Since they relied on psychic sight to navigate and find their targets, her own condition made it difficult to see her. This, unfortunately led to a few issues with almost being stepped on during her first meeting with the possessed machines, and she had never really forgiven them. “Could I be with someone else?” she asked. “Anyone else?” “I understand your hesitance, Sweetie Belle, but you need not worry. You shall be accompanied by a warlock.” Sweetie Belle grimaced. That only made it slightly better. With a psyker nearby, the wraithguard could use his sight to better their own. “I’m not going to get a choice, am I?” “We have no choice,” Kelmena said as she worked her joints and checked her armor once more. “We are all pawn of fate, and fate brings death.” “I would still prefer if my death did not come from being stepped on,” Sweetie Belle told her, before she finished reinforcing the armor. “This is your duty, Sweetie Belle. So we have spoken.” Sweetie Belle sighed. No arguing out of that one. ---=][=--- Kraagan burst into Vulek’s tent, ignoring the various debaucheries he proudly displayed on every skin wall. “Hey!” the Emperor’s Children captain growled, head tentacle waving about angrily. “You get out of her—” “It’s time Vulek,” Kraagan said, his voice silencing the Slaaneshi captain. “What?” Vulek asked, confused. “It’s time for war,” Kraagan said simply. Vulek opened his mouth on the very edge of stammering. “Prepare your men, we march for the fortress north of the crater.” Vulek began to growl, before he stopped, and seemed to consider something. “I see...and your forces will be there?” “Of course,” Kraagan replied. “That’s where we plan to perform the summonings, and bring our force to bear against the Eldar, ork, and the corpse worshipers alike.” Vulek paused, and regarded the old, helmeted captain for a long second. “Very well, Kraagan... we shall move.” “I can play your little game, Legionnaire. I can work your shadows as well as you.” He had no idea that he wasn’t even on the same playing field. ---=][=--- While Kraagan told Vulek it was time to move at the Chaos camp, Kraagan was also walking through forest with a small squad and his sorcerer. Perhaps it was through some secret sorcery, or perhaps through an art only known to Alpharius Omegon’s children, who can say? Yet still, while Kraagan began to lead his forces, he also stood outside the temple of the Infinity Gate. “Why have we not moved?” Festerus complained. “The gate would have been easier to take with only the ranger and creature to guard it, now we have traded the small beast for six warlocks. We should have attacked sooner.” “We will attack when we must,” Kraagan told him. “The timing is wrong. We must wait.” Festerus almost growled. “Timing? We are wasting time!” “No,” Kraagan said. “We have two days yet. Just two days…” ---=][=--- “Not Even The Dead Know The End Of War.”—Imperial Thought of the Day. It's time, Ladies and Gentlemen. It's time for the war, and everyone's gonna get a piece. Ork, Astartes, Eldar, and the forces of chaos all gathered in one place. We'll see you all next time. "Are we just gonna gloss over the fact that you killed Scootaloo!?!" Bye!