Conjunction at Octarius

Captain Gaspar Armistead stood on the embarcation deck of the Executioner, flagship of the 46th expeditionary fleet, and personal vessel to Balthasar the Bloody. The Gloriana class ship floated elegantly in high anchor above the planet 46-8. 46 because of the fleet which discovered it, and 8 because it was the 8th world discovered by that fleet. Armistead's men had taken to calling the planet Octarius, and now that the Remembrancers had heard it, the name was likely to stick. Armistead himself stood on a gantry overlooking the rows of Thunderhawk dropships filling the deck. His armor was the deep red of wet blood. Speckles of dried blood, deliberately left uncleaned, made a camoflage pattern across the red plate. He wore no helm, instead favoring a black cloak and tabard over his armor, with a hood drawn over his head. On his equipment belt were two blades, one crimson, and one black. The crimson blade was a sawtoothed beast, with a three feet long chainblade which could tear an Ork apart in seconds. The black blade, in contrast, was a simple thing. Its blade apparently of knapped flint, and its hilt of unpolished gold. It did not seem a dangerous thing, but in truth it was by far the more deadly weapon.

Armistead came to this gantry every time a ship launched, or near enough. He liked to marvel at the sheer audacity of it all. Their ship, and thousands of support vessels, had been parked above 46-8 for six years, and showed no signs of leaving. The planet below was an unending mountain range, with each peak climbing higher than the last. In the steep valleys between the mountains, however, lived billions of brutal Ork xenos, green monstrosities the size of an Astartes with an insane lust for war. In that way, Armistead supposed, the Bloodhounds and the Orks were alike. Thunderbirds deployed down to the surface of the world in squadrons, dropping off companies of marines on their three week hunting expeditions. When they returned, they would bring back trophies of the hunt: Ork teeth strung along wires, weapons of the enemy, and even, if the marine were boastful enough, the decapitated heads of the foe. Armistead had seen and liberated dozens of worlds which the foul greenskins had torn asunder, terrorizing the human populace for centuries. But here, on this crinkled ball of a world, the Bloodhounds hunted them for sport.

The voxcasters lining the walls of the deck crackled to life, jostling Captain Armistead out of his ruminations. The mechanical voices of a thousand speakers all spoke in unison, "A fleet has entered the system. All hands, all hands, a fleet has entered the system. Await orders as the fleet enters auspex range." The marines below stood in bemusement, unsure if they should continue boarding. The Captain, however, acted with knife-like certainty. "Disembark and muster on decks. Whether they are friend or foe, they will board us, and we must be prepared for it. Gear-check all chainswords and get your breacher shields." A holo-display on Armistead's eyepiece informed him he was summoned to the bridge. "I am summoned to the Hunting Lodge, brothers, see to your orders."

The Captain climbed up the many passageways of the ship to it's command center, the Hunting Lodge. It was a massive circular chamber with a hololithic windowed dome, through which one could see the surface of 46-8. On the walls of the chamber were arrayed thousands of trophies of war. Rows of ork heads, monstrous talons of the megarachnids, and countless trophies of the myriad beasts of a thousand worlds. Arranged against the many taxedermied trophies hung thousands of weapons taken from the many worlds who had surrendered before the might of Balthasar's Bloodhounds. In the center of the chamber stood seven Astartes, armored like Armistead. They were his brother captains of the Warpack, highest and greatest officers of the First Legion.  Each of Armistead's brothers were armed as he was, with crimson chainsword and black flint blade. Two among their number weren't present, fighting with the Primarch on the planet's surface.

Forming two concentric circles around the captains were navigation consoles, data readouts, and auspex stations. In the inner circle sat Commodore Frost and his command crew, in the outer circle sat support staff and auspex readers. All of their stations were set deep into the ground so that no one's view of their Lord's trophies would be occluded. Occasionally Servitor Helots would skitter into the chamber, report to one of the staffers, deliver or receive some message, and then scamper back out again.  The Lodge had always made Armistead think of a massive ampitheatre, except the audience was facing the wrong way.

Gaspar turned to his brother captains and spoke, "Have we identified the fleet yet, comrades?" Captain Abrams gave a gruff shake of the head, his rough black drakespelt gyrating from the movement. Abrams spoke in reply, "The Warmaster could have sent anyone, brother. They have only just made translation to realspace."

Gaspar watched as the hololithic displays began to render their long range scans. "That can't be right..." Gaspar said, his eyes memorizing every detail. If the scale of the display was correct, the ship entering the system was absolutely massive. On Terra Gaspar had once seen REDACTED's warship, The All-Seeing-Eye, hang like a jealous brother next to the moon. That ship had been more space station than ship, and even it would be dwarfed in comparison to the Space Hulk entering the system.

One of the servitors in the outer ring begane to tone ident codes for all to hear, "Expeditionary designation 666, command designation Legio VIII, Cognomen Void Lords." Captain Wyght's hackles rose, his slate grey eyes widening in anticipation, "The Void Lords are cunning warriors, the Warmaster has blessed us!" Captain Gaspar grinned in reply, "Yes, comrades, together we will purge these greenskins with the terrors of the void." Something about what Gaspar had said unsettled his brother captains, a visible awkwardness spreading among them. Before Gaspar could inquire, he heard the Hunting Lodge's portcullis blast doors begin to open.

Through the great bronze doorway came Balthasar Bornhold, Primarch of the Bloodhounds. Every inch of the primarch's skin was covered in a thick red mane of fur, ranging from the bright red of a hot brand, to the dull brown of dried blood. He wore bronze banded armor, twisted with iconography of screaming faces, snarling hounds, and dark riders. His vambraces and gauntlets were matte black ceramite, gouged with a thousand scrapes. His right gauntlet ended in a power talon, fueled by glowing red power cables like arteries. In his left hand he bore a long bastards sword made of black flint. Shards had been visible broken from the blade, turning it into a cruel, jagged thing.

Flanking the Red Lord were General Captain Cullen, Master of the Legion, and Lord Overseer Lazaar, the Mouth of the Warmaster. Captain Cullen's armor was bright and ostentatious, decorated with rubies. Overseer Lazaar wore no visible armor, covering himself with an oily black cowl. The black robes seemed to drip and flow like resinous pitch, and underneat Lazaar's cowl floated two bronze stars and a bright white smile like a crescent moon.