The Stormbird bullied its way into the hangar bay with a brutal lack of finesse. Based on the old, Yndonesic ‘Warhawk’ design, it had clearly been repaired and modified until it was little more than an ugly mass of battle scars and armour plating. Even as it settled its aging bulk into the docking clamps it was difficult to distinguish if it was truly black, or simply a darker shade of grey smudged with layer upon layer of blast marks and carbon scoring. The forked rune of the disciplinary corps, however, was clearly visible on its massive flank, blazing its warning and implicit threat for all to see.

Ullis Temeter shifted his weight inside his armour, discomfort mingling with discontent, already unsettled by the constant, insect-like twitching of the Chittering Widdershins at his back, the Vorax Battle-Automata ceaseless in their hunger for activity. Their keeper was also a mass of tics and minor tremors, his Consul-Praevian more machine than man. Temeter’s battle-brothers had nicknamed the custodian of the Battle Company’s Legio Cybernetica contingent ‘The Anthracite’ because of the coal-like, metallic sheen of his many augmetics, a name he wore like a badge of honour, keeping him aloof and distant from his fellow Legiones Astartes. He was a hard man to like, and they had nearly come to blows when Temeter requested him for this assignment.

“Let the Ash-Maker and his bastard ‘Destroyers’ take this.” the other warrior had growled, his small swarm of servo skulls buzzing in mimicry of their owner’s ill-tempered choler.

“No.” Temeter had stated simply, his patience worn thin.

The journey to the hangar bay had been made in bitter silence.

“This is a thankless, honourless task – Even my charges deserve better than this…” grunted the Consul-Praevian before falling back into a fractious aquiescence .

Whilst it irked him to admit it, Temeter could not argue with that, and if truth be told, he feared the precedence of adding fratricide to the list of murderous deeds the Ash-Maker and his ilk were called upon to perform. The unconscionable thought that they might even get a taste for it made him shudder, and though he was immune to mortal fears, his blood ran cold at the concept of brother killing brother. This was another reason why he had selected the Chittering Widdershins for this duty rather than the Stalwart Choral. The maniple of Castellax Battle-Automata that were the Praevian’s only other charges, were viewed almost as full Battle Brothers by his men, and it would be considered ill-omened if they were forced to spill Astartes blood. The Vorax, by contrast, were alien enough in their form to be the lesser regarded, and so could be hated freely for discharging their duties.

Docking complete, the Stormbird cycled its engines and vented spent coolant. Its front ramp descended without ceremony, and thirty warriors clanked down it in lockstep, drawing themselves up into two, unequal squads before their host. Unlike Temeter, the bulk of their armour was a doleful shade of blue chased in brass, like a Terran sky threatening a storm over the Castrum-Cities of Old Albia. Their white pauldrons stood in stark contrast, accentuating the blood red mark of their legion – A rampant hound with a spiked collar.

Another figure strode from the Stormbird, his Mark III warplate the same indiscernible shade of dusky black as his transport. His left pauldron was embossed with the Raptor Imperialis, his right painted with the rune of the disciplinary corps. He carried a brutal, bearded axe in one fist, which he raised and smashed against his chestplate in the old, Unification-era greeting.

As he reached Temeter, he shucked off his warhelm, revealing a grizzled face mutilated by a long, ugly scar that ran from his right ear and across his right eye socket barely missing his nose as it continued to trace a path of ruin which disappeared beneath seal of his warplate’s collar. The pattern of gnarled and puckered tissue was the unmistakable handiwork of a Legiones Astartes chainsword, and Temeter noted that the warrior’s right eye, a brilliant azure blue, did not match the ditch-water grey of the left: A battlefield transplant then. The vat-grown implant’s colour would eventually fade to match the original, but in the meantime the effect was as striking as it was unsettling.

“I am Haadlingen, Consul-Opsequiari. Warhounds.” The man’s voice was a wet meat gurgle, his larynx clearly damaged in the same strike that had cost him an eye, “These are my charges…” He gestured behind him with the axe.

Temeter released the seals on his warplate and removed his own helm, “Welcome Consul-Obsequiari, how may we assist our brothers of the XIIth Legion?”

“You received our message? These men are no-one’s brothers: They have transgressed. Whilst our two legions serve together on this campaign, they are here to learn and be corrected. The XIVth Legion is famed for its endurance; stubborn defense; the restraint of the implacable advance. These men will learn those qualities. Dissent will not be tolerated. Discord will be crushed. I will cull them until those that are left, have once again won the right to be called ‘Brother’.”

Temeter looked dubiously from the disciplinary officer to his men: A twenty-strong tactical squad, their leader wearing the same livery as the Haadlingen and carrying his own axe. A ten-strong tactical support squad, all totting gleaming rotor cannons, even their own black-clad warden. He returned his gaze to the warrior in front him. Temeter was no stranger to the isolation of command, but he could not begin to imagine the gulf of absent brotherhood between the Consul-Obsequiari and his fellow Warhounds, nor the terrible duties he had doubtless been called upon to perform, noting the heavy bolt revolver holstered at his hip. ‘A thankless, honourless task.’ the Consul-Praevian had said, and one that the Dusk Raiders were unaccustomed to.

Temeter paused before answering, choosing his words carefully, “Your words, and this duty, do my Legion and its war-making a great honour. We will take your… ‘penitents’ …and together make them worthy of this trust.” Temeter thrust his gauntleted hand towards the other man.

For his part, the Warhound looked genuinely surprised. He regarded Temeter properly for the first time, before gripping his outstretched hand, “My thanks and my apologies: My duty means I am not used to being welcome…”

“Well, you are welcome here,” Temeter turned to his escort, “And on the subject of your duty, my Consul-Praevian and his Battle-Automata are at your disposal should they be needed…”

“Ha! Whilst I appreciate the offer, that will not be necessary,” Haadlingen turned back towards the Stormbird, yelling a single word, “Skieringer!”

Something rumbled deep in the bowels of the craft, the sound steadily growing in volume, shaking Temeter to his transhuman bones and resolving itself into the massive tread of a towering warmachine. Like one of the fabled jötunn of ancient Jermani myth, a contemptor-pattern dreadnought lumbered into the austere lights of the hangar bay. Over fourteen tonnes of potent choler and driven by the churning forces of an atomantic reactor, one arm terminated in the blunt mass of a chainfist, the other in the esoteric housing and projector array of a heavy conversion beamer. A potent symbol of martial might, resplendent in Warhounds’ livery, devastation made manifest.

Haadlingen turned back to Temeter, flashing a smile made gruesome by his ravaged face,  “This is ancient Skieringer, my predecessor. As I said: Dissent will not be tolerated, discord will be crushed…”