Lament and an emerald tide

by Lord_Draigo

Feasts of war

As the orks steam forward at their reckless pace across the void, another force anticipating some sort of battle slowly followed. The Lamenters at full chapter strength, of course, full strength is about two hundred marines and a smattering of dreadnaughts due to their penitent crusade. Accompanying them are the only imperial guardsmen mad enough and available in large enough quantities to accompany the Lamenters as their meatshields and general purpose troops: A six million strong group of Death Korps of Krieg troopers, fresh from the vats, or bunkers or wherever so many men came from in an atomic wasteland they call their homeworld. In addition is the remnants of the Lamenters fleet, a trio of strike cruisers and their battle barge Scourge of apostates, bearing the scars of recent battles with the tyrannic threat. For a rare moment, all of the marines have been assembled into the great hall aboard the Scourge.

As they steam across the system towards the planet their librarians had found important within the imperial tarot, the marines celebrate sanguinala, a holiday especially dear to them, given that the blood of the holy sanguinius pumps through their superhuman veins. The paltry two hundred and change marines fill barely a fifth of the hall designed to accommodate a thousand of the Emperor’s finest, their deep yellow armor or white robes, depending on what rites of practice they’d done that day contrasting with the grey floors and brown tables of the room. Seated at the front, at a great table raised above the rest sat their chapter officers, from the three remaining chaplains and the four living librarians, to their three remaining captains, one of whom is garbed in one of the few chapter relics not stolen during the Badab war, an ancient suit of cataphractii armor, thought to have been used during the horus Heresy. Highest among them, seated at an intricately detailed throne dead center of the high table sits Chapter Master Malakim Phoros, his gilded artificer armor glinting in the low light of the chandeliers, his glaive encarmine placed next to his seat, leaning on the table. The ornately decorated two handed sword's scabbard bears inscriptions of the history of the Lamenters.

Once most of the marines had finished their meals, chapter serfs running to and fro to attend to the wine glasses of their masters, Malakim stands, banging the table with one gauntleted fist to garner the attention of his fellow marines. They look up, most of them bearing the heavy scars of their eighty-eight year crusade. In a deep, melodious voice typical of any of the sons of sanguinius, he begins to speak.

“My Brethren, yet another standard year has passed, and we stand still a little fewer. But standing we are. I know we all lost some truly great brothers in the last battles, but we are still here. We were deceived by the astral claws, waged the badab war and still we stand. The minotaurs sacked out armories, and we still stand, and hopefully, we will personally execute a kill order upon those bloodthirsty maniacs and then we shall have our relics once more!” Several cries of ‘hear, hear’ reverberated through the hall at the promise of vengeance, all of the marines present were alive back during that cursed day. He continues once the crowd settles once more.

“In addition, we are but twelve years from the end of our penitent crusade, and then, only then, we may finally return to our true glory, and burn the enemies of man from the skies for once and for all!” His voice rises, Phoros was one of the few people in the imperium with idealism at his heart and it shows.

“We are blessed to aid another world soon, on this most holy of holidays, a sign has come to our librarians that our stop in this system was not merely a warp drive cooldown, but was serendipitous. Initial probes have found that the world is a feudal world, with a large psyker population, and minimal militarization, and it shall be soon beset by greenskins. We estimate that they will last approximately a terran month before the planet is totally stripped of anything the orks want, and the populace is annihilated. As the angels of the Emperor, we cannot stand for that!. In our holy crusade, we have been blessed to have been granted allies in this fight, in the form of the noble soldiers of Krieg” Even the youngest marine knew the contempt the chapter master was keeping under wraps. The wasteful grinding nature of the kriegites was directly opposed to his view that human life is the greatest blessing bestowed upon the galaxy. Of course, since they agreed to help, he wouldn’t hold it against them.

“On this great day of sanguinala, I ask that we remember our fallen brothers, that we remember the fallen of the imperium, and above all, the sacrifice of our spiritual father, whose sacrifice brought an end to the Horus Heresy once and for all! May the emperor protect, brothers, and may he deliver us once more through battle, if not, may our deaths be noble and in defense of those who cannot defend themselves, tonight, like many nights, we cry out, like our forefathers have, FOR THOSE WE CHERISH, WE DIE IN GLORY!” At his recitation of the Chapter’s battle cry, the lamenters come to their feet, clapping, a mixture of the soft sounds of ungloved hands and the roar of ceramite-clad fists. The chant was repeated in two hundred throats, a litany of duty, honor and fealty to the people of the imperium. Phoros sits back down, his artificer armor nearly silent in its descent as the after-dinner drinks were brought out. Phoros holds out his wine glass, a serf pouring the blood-red wine into his glass. The first company captain stands, raising his own glass, now brimming with crimson wine.

“A toast, to the Imperium, to Phoros, to Sanguinius, and to the Emperor!” Most of the marines present answered the toast, raising their glasses and drinking deeply, including Phoros. The captain looks over to his superior officer. He’s the de facto heir to the master’s seat, and he’s certainly being groomed to do the job. He begins to speak, quietly, to Phoros.

“Are you sure that we’re going to be able to defend this world, Malakim? I know that we are the sons of sanguinius, but our men are worn out, their equipment is still undergoing maintenance, hell, the thunderhawks are still being cleaned from the last battle, and you believe us and a small death korps group can stop a space hulk worth of Orks?”

“It doesn’t matter if we can, Jonah, it only matters that we try, it’s the rules our forefathers set down, and I’m not going to leave another world burned in the wake of a greenskin stampede, one which we can crush in its cradle. In four days time we will enter combat range and two days after that we will be able to make planetfall. I’ve already had the techmarines start awakening the dreadnaughts we hadn’t yet awakened for the feast in preparation for battle” He gestures around the room at the ancient war machines, standing sleepily at the edges of the room, those whose helmets lay exposed were glancing around. A few marines were giving them company, hearing stories in exchange for news of events since their last awakening.

“And the ones who are awake are going to stay that way.”

“Have you tried hailing the planet again, sir?”

“Yes, but again, they do not answer, the astropathic choir is broadcasting the message that help is on the way to them, but I’m not sure if they’re getting it.”

“Did you try transmitting in low gothic? Perhaps their psykers don’t know high gothic?”

Malakim Phoros looks at the captain, as if he’d just said something that made the older marine look really stupid...which is exactly the case. Malakim calls over a chapter serf and grants him his orders, sending the young man scampering off into the ship to have the choir change its tune, perhaps that will work to gain an understanding between the feudals and the imperium. He leans back, looking over his chapter, a small splinter of bloodlust driving the corner of his mouth upwards. Whatever happens in a week’s time, there will be blood, and perhaps, another step forth in the path of redemption. The marines start to file out of the hall. The chapter master gazes out the window across the void, eyes firmly planted on the world, currently designated as LMTKG-14532. The locals will probably provide a shorter, more efficient name once planetfall is made. A serf comes running in, kneeling before Phoros.
“m’lord, we've made contact.”
“good, inform them of their dilemma, i'll be on the bridge in a moment to direct discussions of defensive coordination.” he stands to his full eight feet, exiting the now-quiet hall.

Celestia bolts up in her bed, it bad only been an hour since she retired, but the sounds had woken her up. The chanting that has afflicted every unicorn has suddenly become comprehensible. They are difficult to understand, especially in her groggy state, but understandable they are. And the message has started to get clearer. Enough to realize that it's on repeat.

“citizens of LMTKG-14532, the lamenters chapter of the Adeptus Astartes has arrived in your system. In addition we are accompanied by several divisions of the Krieg siege fighters. We arrived in your system quite by accident, but have committed to combat, as your world is about to be beset by greenskins, please respond in order to allow for coordination. We will arrive in orbit in six terran days and make planetfall at that time. We estimate that there are only eleven hours prior to orkish arrival in your orbit, and only twelve before orkish planetfall. May the emperor Grant you strength -Malakim Phoros, Chapter master of the Lamenters and Lord commander of the Lamenters-Krieg outskirts crusade.”

That was the message that took four repetitions for Celestia to understand in her groggy state. Once she understood the message, she let out air through her lips. Her first question would be ‘What is a greenskin?’ followed by ‘WHO ARE THESE GUYS?’ of course, her first concern was the idea of an impending invasion. The sound of rapidly approaching hooves outside indicates she isn’t the only one who’s heard and interpreted the message in the new language. After a moment, Twilight bursts through the gilded doors to the bedroom, revealing the two unicorn guards outside the room, rubbing their foreheads, obviously irritated by the now comprehensible message. The princess of Friendship has a parchment sheet in her magic, and has presumably transcribed the message onto it if the hastily written paragraph is any indication. Outside, barked orders could be heard down the hall, along with the distant clopping of dozens of guards running.

“Princess, I presume you know this, but, the singing just became understandable, and the approaching objects just sped up, they’ll arrive by noon, and the message confirms this, and...and.” Twilight fiddles with the quill in her magic, at a loss for words for once. The very idea of alien invasion was, well, alien to the young pony, looking less like a major political figure and more like the terrified young mare she is. Her voice betrays the very same, in spite of her attempt to keep composure. Celestia looks out the window, the cluster of unnatural stars shining in the night sky exactly where one would expect them.

“I’m presuming Luna’s already begun to activate the militias and mobilize the Guard?” Celestia looks back to Twilight, a slight smile playing across her features. “For, if she has, I believe whatever these Greenskins are, they will not be on our world long.” Celestia allows the smile to spread, reassuring the younger princess, of course, internally, she’s analyzing how long a spaceborne threat that has resistance to magic would take to level Equestria. Her calculations aren’t confidant. Come dawn, Celestia will make a formal declaration on the matter

Meanwhile, as the White and Violet Princesses confer, The Midnight blue alicorn of night is already readying her war room. The small figurines Representing units of guard, militia units and other assets have been pulled from their storage boxes. A box of squares to represent enemies lay at the end of the table. Until they come planetside, she’d be unable to predict their locations. Thus, the mustering orders had the troops march to transportation hubs initially, with the mustering areas being The train stations at Manehattan, Baltimare, Fillydelphia and Canterlot. Luna had already ordered the guard to ready for war, the ten Captains of the household guard had already gone off to prepare their troops. She frowns at the table, this being one the first times she’s had the time to look over the full force composition of Equestria. It wasn’t good, in the days of yore, the Equestrian army was a force to be reckoned with, a million strong and ready to defeat any foe.

Now, it stands at a paltry hundred thousand full-time soldiers, and the two thousand of the Principal household guard. These soldiers were mainly in it for the free specialist educations given for their service, and were inexperienced young stallions for the most part, with the exception of the guard, who are just as wonderfully fanatical patriots as in days of yore. Luna smiles to herself. If she could get together a hundred thousand Ponies like that, she could make the world bend the knee to Equestria. She reminds herself that the conquering streak was what got her banished in the first place. She looks back to the table

The night princess groans, Most of the Full army is concentrated around Canterlot and the surrounding provinces, with small units dispersed all across the country. She hopes that the militias could hold until the big guns arrive. The actual field guns and bombards were all in Canterlot, practically mothballed for the most part. It appeared that black powder had been the only actual military advancement worth noting in her absence. The ponies still lined up with spears and pikes in front of the enemy and then charged like an irate porcupine. This time, the archers are replaced with muskets and the catapults with smoke-belching cannonades.

Admittedly, it’s hard to plan with half a day’s notice, a demilitarized nation and no idea where the enemy might land. The best case scenario would be these “GreenSkins” Landing in the frozen north, or maybe the Gryphon realms. Worst Case? A horde of space beasts land in the Equestrian heartland and overrun the seat of government before any resistance can be put up. Luna glances out the door as two guards march into the room, They carry a chest between them. The two have already changed from their guard duty half-plate into their wartime full plate, the gold-leafed suits imbued with numerous protective spells during construction, magic lightly flickering across the plate. The two unicorns place the trunk down with their magic, bowing before quickly exiting.

The trunk is ancient, crusted with dust and runes of protection. It hadn’t been opened in at least a millennium, and with good reason. Across its surface, words of warning are carved, inlaid with silver. The surface itself looks like the night sky, seemingly infinitely deep and filled with small, twinkling pinpricks. As some might have guessed, this is most certainly one of personal chests of Princess Luna, imbued with enough magical protection to vaporize a dragon if it were to try breaking into the box. Luna slowly trots over, horn lighting up in the half-dark room as she mutters the specific series of incantations to open the box. After each one, a loud click fills the room as each lock disengaged, or another spell is temporarily neutralized. It takes around ten minutes for Luna to finish the incantations. Once the chest opens, it reveals a sight for sore eyes.

The old war armor is just as she left it, from the full-body plate with a long slot for her mane to billow out as an impromptu banner, to the array of wingblades, magic amplifiers and a helmet made from strange armor found in the far north. It had been found in a strange aboveground shipwreck a millennium and a half ago. It had some sort of power source, which was long dead when it was found, along with its strange, bipedal occupant. While the helm surprisingly fit the princess, it took a lot of jury-rigging to make it run on magic, allowing for her to see in ways that nopony else can, such as seeing ponies through walls and making lights in the dark a thousand times stronger. This item is one of Her closest secrets. It was thought to be associated with dragons for a while, since it had a scale-like paintjob and symbols of hydras painted all over it. Of course, those have been scraped off and replaced with the elegant designs of the Night Princesses own craft.

She uses her magic to lift out the suit of armor, buckling each piece to herself slowly and sensually. This was one of her favorite moments in a war, putting on the plate piece by piece. First came the padding, like a thick jacket for absorbing blunt hits and maybe stopping an arrow or two. On top of that she puts on the chainmail shirt and skirt, allowing the metal to drape over her muscular form. Then she dons the plates themselves, each one buckling and linking to others to create a nigh-perfect protective covering, with the exception of joints, which only have the mail. Once Luna had armored up, she looks herself over in the mirror, admiring how she still fits into the ancient armor. Of course, Alicorns generally remain at the same adult size, but still and yet, it’s astounding that it still fits.

“If thou weren’t Ourself, we might consider thou as a royal consort” She smiles at the idea and the mirror, before realizing that she’d shifted back into the old royal we with a slight twitch of her nose and lip. She shrugs, might as well, since she’s shifted back into her old job. The night princess exits the war room out onto the balcony, and looks over the everfree valley spread out beneath the Equestrian capital. At this point, it’s a waiting game, Judging from the stars and the incessant singing in her Head, only about ten hours until Equestria must engage with a foe from the stars.

Luna comes to realization. If one can hear the singing, and knows where it's coming from, perhaps she could respond...she thinks about what to say, before she decides to try a simple reply and leave it at that for now...