This was the culmination of a carefully laid out Inquisition plan. Here is it's retelling:
+++++ GALACTIC SEGMENTUM ULTIMA +++++
+++ JERICHO REACH SECTOR +++
++ PLANET ELUSIS III ++
In the shadowed heart of Elusis III – a world long forsaken – the crumbling edifices of faith and empire watched as Thoryk and his Void Hunters stood ready. The air was thick with the scent of decay, the once-hallowed grounds of Eleusis now a testament to desolation. The ruins whispered of ages past, but to the Space Wolves, the only voices that mattered were those of their kin and the call of the hunt.
Gathered within the skeletal remains of what was once a grand cathedral, its spires reaching out like fingers grasping for salvation, Thoryk addressed his warriors. His voice, roughened by the din of countless battles, carried the weight of their purpose.
"Brothers, we've traversed the stars, borne upon the Sea of Souls, to stand upon this forsaken soil. Our path has been marked by blood and fire, a testament to the oaths we've sworn." His gaze swept over his pack, the fierce warriors of Russ, each bearing the scars of their journey. "Before us lies our quarry, the Tyranids of an yet unassigned Hivefleet, beasts whose existence threatens the very fabric of our realm."
He paused, his hand resting upon the pommel of his axe, a weapon that had sung songs of death in unnumbered battles. "This hunt," he continued, "is not just by our choosing. We've been guided here, by whispers and machinations not our own." A hint of disdain colored his tone, a rare admission of their entanglement with the shadowed cabals of the Imperium's inquisitorial circles.
"The Inquisition..." he spat the word as if it were a curse, "believes that this pathogen, one they'll have us implant on the creature, holds the key to turning the tide against the Great Devourer. We are the Emperor's executioners, not pawns of their shadowed courts. We do this not for their glory, but for the survival of humanity, for the Allfather, and for the legacy of Russ."
Around him, the Void Hunters shifted, their resolve hardening. The weight of their journey, the battles fought, and the blood spilled, all led to this moment. The air was charged with anticipation, the electric prelude to the storm of battle.
He unsheathed his axe, the blade catching the dim light that filtered through the overgrowth. "We are the sons of Russ, the hunters in the darkness. Let this beast hear our howl and despair. For today, it faces the Void Hunters, and we do not falter, we do not fear."
With a final, rallying cry, Thoryk led his warriors from the shadow of the cathedral, their forms melding with the ruin and the wild, a pack of ghosts in the gloom. Their journey, a long road marked by sacrifice and bloodshed, had brought them to this final confrontation. And though they served at the behest of the hidden agendas of the inquisition, their hearts beat for the hunt, for the glory of the chapter, and the redemption of those lost to the dark. The Space Wolves, warriors born of ice and fire, faced their task with a grim determination, the echoes of Fenris in their hearts, and the legacy of their kin fueling their resolve. This hunt was theirs, and theirs alone.
+++
"Our plan is simple, yet it requires cunning. We lure the beast into the open, using the Invictor Warsuit as our anvil. When the moment is right, we strike, swift and deadly. Our target is the Psychophage, we corner it and deliver the pathogen – it's more than a weapon; it's a message. And today, we deliver it straight into the heart of the swarm."
As the Warsuit roared to life, its weapons systems coming online with a menacing hum, Thoryk's Void Hunters braced for the onslaught. In the dim light filtering through the shattered stained glass of the cathedral, the Reivers lay in wait, their breaths quiet as the grave. Jorik, the squad's second, watched through his visor as a brood of Termagants skittered into the plaza, unaware of the death that awaited them. "On my mark," he whispered into the squad's comm-link, his voice a low growl. The moment stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring, before he gave the order. "Now!"
The Reivers burst from their cover, the silence shattered by the roar of bolters and the screams of the dying tyranids. Jorik moved through the Termagants like a wraith, his combat knife a blur of death. "For Russ and the Allfather!" he shouted, a battle cry echoed by his brothers as they carved a swathe through the swarm. Their initial assault was devastating, but as Jorik turned to signal the advance, he saw them — more Tyranids, pouring into the plaza like a living flood. "Fall back and regroup!" he ordered, but his voice was drowned out by the cacophony of battle.
Meanwhile, Thoryk engaged a brood of lurking Leapers with a fury born of necessity. Each beast eventually fell beneath his axe, and as he paused to survey the battlefield, a new horror revealed itself. Atop the ruins, shapes moved — creatures he had not seen before, their forms obscured by distance and shadow. As he watched, they unleashed a barrage of jagged projectiles that filled the air like a deadly hailstorm.
Caught off guard, Thoryk could only watch as the barbs tore through the air toward him and his warriors. The sensation was alien, a furious storm of organic shrapnel that bit and tore at flesh and ceramite alike. "What new devilry is this?" he muttered, his astonishment giving way to grim resolve. "To me, Wolves! Stand fast!"
Jorik and his Reivers now faced their own nightmare as they lured their target in. The Psychophage, a monstrous maw of teeth and terror, charged into their midst. It moved with a speed that belied its size, each movement a promise of death. Jorik had heard tales of these creatures, how they feasted on the psychic essence of their prey, but to see it was to believe. As it bore down on them, he could feel the air crackle with malignant energy, a palpable wave of dread that sapped the will to fight.
"We need to — " Jorik's order was cut short as the Psychophage collided with him, its bulk smashing through their defenses. Around him, brothers fell, their armor no match for the beast's ferocity. It was a living engine of destruction, and for a moment, Jorik could have been said despair.
It was a feint, part of the plan, their own blood sacrifice to the cauldron of battle. The Invictor Tactical Warsuit came in with a roar of engines and the whine of charging weapons, it unleashed hell upon the Barbgaunts that had Thoryk pinned down, the barrage of firepower tearing through the creatures with merciless precision, and drew the attention of the Psycophage.
Thoryk's breath fogged inside his helm as he locked gaze with the beast, its eyes a maelstrom of hunger and ancient malice. The air was thick with the scent of blood and ozone, the latter a testament to the psychic energy crackling off the creature's hide. Around them, the battlefield was a cacophony of roars, gunfire, and the screams of the dying.
"Today, you fall," Thoryk muttered under his breath, his voice a growl of defiance against the din. With a primal roar, he launched himself at the creature, his power axe a beacon of vengeful light in the gloom.
The Psychophage met him with equal fury, its talons and betentacled maw seeking to rend and tear. Each strike from the beast was a brush with oblivion, its movements so swift they bordered on precognition. Thoryk's armor bore the scars of their exchange, ceramite gouged and rent by the creature's ferocity.
Yet, with each passing moment, Thoryk's resolve hardened. He fought not just as a warrior, but as a guardian of humanity, bearing the weight of countless lives upon his shoulders. "For the fallen, for the Allfather!" he bellowed, each word punctuated by the clash of metal against chitin.
Their struggle was a storm of violence that seemed to stretch on without end. Thoryk's muscles screamed in protest, his body pushed to its limits and beyond. The Tactical Warsuit scattered the enemy forces around the two dueling beasts, giving Throryk the much needed space to find his mark. His axe finally cleaved through the Psychophage's defenses to strike at its head, and as the beast fell numb, a moment of eerie silence fell upon the battlefield.
Thoryk pulled the steel-cased vial from its mag-lock on his gauntlet and wielded it like a parrying dagger, plunging it deep in what he assumed was the creature's brain matter. As the vial dosed in, the beast's roars dimmed, its struggles ceasing as the concoction took effect. Thoryk watched, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, as the creature that had been a harbinger of death moments before now lay still.
"We hold the line," Thoryk gasped, turning to his warriors, the few who remained. His voice was a rasp, carried on the wind. "Till the end, for Russ and the Allfather!"
The Invictor Warsuit, still standing amidst the carnage, turned its weapons outward, a guardian against the encroaching dark. The Space Wolves, battered and bloodied, rallied to Thoryk's call, forming a bulwark of flesh and steel against the tide as they prepared to make a tactical retreat, as killing this brood now would prevent the pathogen from spreading through the hordes beyond this front.
Thoryk knew this was but a pyrrhic victory. The cost had been high, too high, but they had bought humanity another day, another chance.
+++
As the last light of day faded from the sky, the Space Wolves prepared for what was to come, their spirits unbroken, their resolve unyielding. "We stand," Thoryk whispered, not just to his brothers, but to the souls of those lost. "We fight. We endure."
In the heart of the jungle, far from the echoes of battles past and those yet to come, the Space Wolves stood ready. The night would be long, the fight arduous, but they would face it as they faced all things: together, as a pack, as warriors of the Imperium, as sons of Russ.
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