A.N: I own neither WH40K nor MGE.

Affatim Restituatur 5/9/21

It was a rainy evening. The skies dark and gloomy. There was a storm brewing, and based on the howling wind and the darkening skies, it seemed to be a big one. A robed person hurriedly jogged down an overgrown cobblestone road towards a small cave carrying a large bag. He very nearly dropped the bag and panted in exhaustion before knocking at the entrance in a specific rhythm. He waited but a moment when the door was opened and a similarly robed person pointed a crossbow at his throat cautiously before confirming his identity and letting him though.

With a thud, the cultist dropped his bag of supplies on the ground before kneeling before another robed man, this one with exposed arms littered with tattoos and scars all bearing the marks of Chaos Undivided.

"A hundred apologies mi'lord for the delay, I barely avoided a pack of werewolves. I have brought the materials needed for our spell, but I still have reservations about all this." the marked man gave his subordinate a dry look. "Explain. Now."

"Even as we speak, the gods continue to hamper us. Ares has turned her back on us all, casting her despicable blessings across the world and preventing us from defending ourselves. The Chief God is but a paper tiger, unable to offer any aid lest she suffers more injuries. The other gods are against us, never have they lifted a finger to even help us. And the forces of the mamono continue to overwhelm the world realm by realm, emboldened by their success! What can we do against our foes and their gods? It's obvious that humanity has fallen out of favor!"

"Fool. The gods of this world are nothing but children in a playground." the man smacked his subordinate across the face savagely, stray teeth being sent onto the ground from the blow. "The true gods are far more powerful then these pathetic pretenders. Their parlor tricks are nothing compared to the sheer might of the Great Four!"

"B-But mi'lord what can they do?" the cultist asked fearfully, holding his sore face gingerly. The marked one could only laugh manically, a laughter of one who has been exposed to dark, dark truths of the world and came out emboldened by it.

Far away in another galaxy, it is the 41st Millennium, and there is only war. War and countless suffering of unimaginable proportions. Across the galaxy in hundreds of planets, in thousands of battlefields, millions of men fought, bled, and died for the two-headed eagle. For one man, he was born into a galaxy of war, molded by it, embraced it and made all the more lethal from it.

He was a son of Krieg, destined to die on the battlefield. Another faceless statistic to be used in the slaughter by uncaring Generals. This slaughterhouse had a name, the miserable planet known as Vraks Prime, a planetwide butcher's shop that harvested millions to billions of souls. An armory world that had flaunted the rule of the Imperium and dared them to retaliate.

A task only the Death Korps of Krieg was fit to do.

Like the rest of his regiment, Grenadier 859623-880465-Ludwig was deployed onto the planet with only one goal in mind. Take the planet back, or die trying. And die they did, trying their damn best to complete their objective. Stalemate after painstaking stalemate, the Death Korps inched towards victory, paying in blood for every minuscule kilometer gained.

The Siege of Vraks was a miserable campaign, one that has been waged for twelves years now when the situation went from bad to worse. Chaos has arrived in full force. Fighting continued on regardless but the situation truly took a downward spiral for the worst when their position was suddenly full of Khorne Berserkers. The traitor astartes had dropped in from orbit and the fighting was fierce. Thousands died and ground was awash with rivers of blood, uncaring of whether it was imperial or traitor blood. The first line of trenches were hopelessly overwhelmed and the imperials butchered.

The Kagori Offensive was stalling.

In the second line of defense, the Grenadier watched the advancing wave of traitor militia stoically, taking careful aim along with his platoon and opened fire. He has been fighting for only seven of the twelve years the war has taken place and he was eager to make this his last.

Their opening salvo annihilated the first wave. The next salvo pulverized the second wave. The third wave was barely gunned down before the traitors reached their beloved trenches. By the fourth wave they were in fierce melee, with traitor and imperial forces alike fighting with tooth and nail in the mud and blood. By the fifth they were hopelessly overwhelmed but they kept fighting on regardless. There will be no surrender. No retreat.

The chanting grew louder. The marked one was walking in a circle, anointing specific spots in a glowing symbol on the cave floor with a strange, almost ethereal resin. The sickly material was seemingly absorbed into the hard stone, the symbols hurtful to see for some of the less faithful present, but they carried on regardless. People in neighboring villagers began to feel shivers, as if some malevolent being was stalking them. The cave slowly began to feel colder, a deathly chill having settled in and reaching deep in their bones. Distantly cackling can be heard, malevolent amusement of a dark entity just beginning to notice a new toy to play with.

The imperials fought a fighting retreat. With the presence of traitor astartes bolstering the invigorated traitor militia, the regiment was called to fall back in the face of the onslaught but to no avail. There would be no retreating today. With their escape caught off from reports of Traitor Titans dropping in, the Death Korps of Krieg dug their heels in and died where they stood down to a man, making the traitors pay for every fortification, trench, and hole they manage to occupy.

With the Death Korps surrounded by all sides, they fought knowing that their sins would finally be forgiven. As the heretics continued to charge forward, the Grenadier recited the litany of sacrifice with the remainder of his decimated regiment and their collective might charged at the heretics with their bayonets held high. As the deaths piled up, so too did the opposition as the Vraksian militia melted beneath the furious Death Korps counter attack and even the traitor astartes supporting them were given pause.

The Grenadier dodged clumsy strikes from the heretics, blasting the Vraksians to bits with his hellgun or stabbing them with his bayonet. He threw a grenade and watch in satisfaction as a horde of heretics disappeared into tiny bits and together with his tattered squad he blasted a traitor marine to a pulp even as the madman butchered their commissar and annihilated a whole platoon.

Pandemonium everywhere. With the imperials fighting with a fervent fury that only a cornered beast can manage and the traitors imbued with an bloodthirsty hunger for that final victory. Bodies littered the mud and blood stricken field and it almost seemed like the imperials could break the encirclement around them. He almost smiled grimly as the flamer in all his fury bathed an entire portion of the battlefield in purifying fire.

A roaring wave of purifying promethium that burnt traitors to cinders, melting their flesh off their bones and turning them into screaming bonfires.

The 12th Line Korps will endure.

The ritual was at it's apex now. Erratic warp energies were being released dangerously, with many cultists being suddenly vaporized by them. The damned barely had time to scream in agony before they were flayed to the bone and their blood oozed into the ground. The oily blood moved quickly, crawling into the crevices of the ritual and causing it to ignite into warpfire. The scalding heat began to choke the very air and laughter of neverborn began to surface. Too late did the cultists realize that the marked one had used them as fuel for the ritual. The only thing they could do was scream hopelessly as their very souls began to be devoured by the warp all while the marked one never once ceased his infernal chanting.

The fighting was fierce and the imperials fought on zealously, but even pure determination could not save them as a corrupted titan made it's presence known, having been sent to clean up resistance in the stubborn area. The once venerable machine was a twisted, heretical parody of the noble war machines of man. With an almost dismissal flick of it's arm, it spat a weapon soaked in the Warp's power. It exploded and the people in the area just disappeared without a trace.

It was almost anticlimactic. A shriek of warp sorcery and a bright explosion and that part of the battlefield just disappeared, vaporized clean without a trace. Desperate resistance proved to be futile as the imperials began to be slowly and meticulously eradicated from the field, one trench at a time. And as the titan turned to aim at it's next target, the Grenadier stared blankly. The remainder of his platoon raised their weapons and fired, never stopping even as the titan seemingly grinned at them from it's broken and corrupted faceplate, firing a warp infused projectile towards their position. A terrifying mixture of warpfire and lightning came rushing towards them. So this was the end then.

The Grenadier almost smiled. It was a fitting end. There was a bright flash, he registered something like brief electrifying pain to the point of being paralyzed and dipped in acid before he suddenly felt weightless. Distantly he heard the shrieks of warp abominations before all was dark and he was submerged in what felt like an ocean.

The ritual had reached it's apex. All the cultists present have been killed, their very souls plucked out of their body and fed to the greedy ritual. Still, even despite the numerous burns across his body the marked one never ceased his chanting. If anything it increased in fervor and he began making cuts into the corpses around him so that the blood would be shed quicker.

The madman smiled at the insanity before him, praising the dark gods and welcoming them into a virgin world ripe for conquest. Just moments later all the warp energy was released as a large explosion, one that rocked the very earth itself. The cave was engulfed in warpfire and a wave of wrongness rippled across the land.

Distantly throughout the realm of human and monster, men and women froze up in cold sweat while children began screaming in fear. Expectant mothers gave birth to stillborn babies whilst others birth horrific monstrosities. The sky roared as if in anger, with great storms raging for days on end while even the gods of the realm themselves began to shiver in fear. Change...was in the air. The laughter of thirsting gods began to grow more audible and the night was full of terrible dreams and omens. The end times grew nearer. A dark, harrowing future was coming.

It started innocently enough, with the earliest days almost peaceful and normal if not for the feeling of something not right in the air. Deep down there was just a sense of wrongness permeating the air, as if they lived on borrowed time. The neverborn servants began to haunt the world, drawn to places of great suffering under the yoke of the oppressive Order or debauched Royal Makai.

Nurgle's touch and Slaanesh's blessings began to become enamored in everyday life. Miserable and dour peasants toiling away in sickness and poverty quietly renounced the worship of their false idol, the useless Chief God, and embraced the Father of Decay, Nurgle, who was all too happy to have more converts in his family.

The warp, previously missing, began to slither it's tendrils onto the world. A connection was made, from one reality to another as they began to merge together as one. Displaced travelers of the 41st millennium began to appear all across the realm, in forests, in villages, even in cities and demonrealms themselves.

All with the same characteristic, bearing the mark of chaos or the symbol of the Aquila. Over the months, the realm began to feel the effects of the damning ritual as witches, proper witches with uncontrollable psychic powers began to manifest themselves in horrifying ways.

Both human and mamono alike suffered from daemonic possessions, their only saving grace being the utter weakness of the host unable to handle the strain of such a horrific monstrosity literally tearing their soul apart.

A night of butchery where entire villages or forests became void of life before the daemon would finally be sent back into the warp when it's mortal vessel came apart by the seams. Many horror stories began to erupt over such events and soon it became customary for fearful villagers to begin burning anybody for witchcraft on pyres, whether they were truly innocent or not.

Meanwhile the Royal Makai's upper caste began to...experiment with increasingly depraved and degenerate practices in search of fulfillment. Horrid things were done and slowly, the upper echelons of the mamono society were steadily corrupted with excess and gluttony.

They became more twisted, more sadistic, and more callous, particularly those who had a penchant for such things already. All of which were done under the ignorant eyes of the Monster Lord herself, her and her family blind to the dangers of poison festering in their veins. The mother of all monstergirls of course knew something was wrong...but could not pinpoint exactly what it was that felt wrong, twisted, and evil.

The presence of "amalgamation heretics" began to increase as well. They were madmen, doomsday prophets who harked at the ignorant masses to abandon the worship of weak gods and to follow the true Four. It started benign enough, with the more stable heretics infecting the vulnerable populace with the words of the Ruinous Powers. Like wolves in sheep's skin, they pranced amongst the masses, corrupting them wherever they could.

Khorne would make you strong and powerful, to never feel helpless again. Nurgle would nurture you, to make you indominable to pain and misery. Tzeentch would give you hope, to give you a chance for change. And Slaanesh would give you the wildest pleasures of the world you would ever experience, unbridled excess and gluttony. Slowly the dregs of society, the downtrodden, the abused, the abandoned, began to believe.

Why should they worship an uncaring being like the Chief God? Who was a paper tiger at best and a useless, selfish scoundrel at worse? Why should they give her their love? Their worship? Their adoration?

Needless to say the Order Inquisition began to crack down hard on such heretics. It was at this time that the prophets shed their sheep's skin and emerged as wolves. They abandoned the pretense of helplessness, of a cordial altruism and showed their true bloodthirsty colors. They directed their flock, they blamed the Order and their tyrannical ways, and conflict erupted.

Where once the inquisitors had the highest form of authority, they found to their shock the true strength of an angry mob that refused to listen to reason. Torn apart and murdered, entire teams of inquisitors often disappeared entirely, or were found strung up as warnings. The Order looked upon these heretics with distaste and horror. Slowly society began to unravel in these areas as the amalgamation heretics converted more and more of the desperate and downtrodden.

The fires of a revolution, a violent one. And so too did the message slowly changed, as the faith of the Ruinous Powers corrupted and turned the downtrodden and desperate into their pawns in the Great Game. Steadily they became changed, becoming increasingly more twisted and corrupted as their worship of the Ruinous Powers steadily damned their souls. Where once they were united, they slowly began to fight with one another just as often as the Order and mamono alike. The Order watched incredulously as their territory began to erupt with violence as cultists fulfilled the whims of their masters.

Other times the realm encountered curious strangers, wanderers with dead eyes and tortured souls. Clad in foreign clothes and armed with foreign weapons, they were given a wide berth by the people they ran into. Treated as outcasts, they occupy the edges of civilization, always on the run from something or someone. All sharing a singular attribute, an absolute hatred for anything nonhuman, and those swearing allegiance the Ruinous Powers. Many a village was saved from the depredations of marauding mamono or cultists of the Four by such strangers, armed with powerful magic that shot brilliantly crimson bolts of light that could puncture through anything.

Though they certainly made a difference between freedom and servitude, they were barely tolerated by the Order, for these "godless heathens" who speak foreign tongues and worship a foreign god were, in the Inquisition's eyes, just as bad as the mamono and the amalgamation heretics and infinitely more dangerous. Already numerous people have been found, tried, and executed for converting to the Imperial Cult of this blasphemous "God-Emperor".

As for the wanderers themselves however, the Order decided to leave them be. They were useful for now, fighting the increasingly more numerous amalgamation heretics and mamono alike. Though there was an incident between a retinue of Inquisitors and one such wanderer whom they had hoped to capture to learn his secrets.

The man had easily butchered the team and it was only the intervention of a squad of Order heroes that they managed to capture him before he killed anymore of them. Though he was captured, he had committed suicide in their care before they could interrogate him more about his heresies and strange equipment. What kind of life did a man live to willingly take his own life whilst captive? It was a sobering thought and one that the Order did not know how to answer.

If only they were able to figure out how to work his strange weaponry. Even now, scholars are still scratching their head over how to work the man's strange weapon and what his resilient armor was made from.

Worse still is that these wanderers began to find each other, and recognize their brothers in arms. Slowly they began to grow into a wandering army, always on the prowl hunting for heretics and mutants. There were even rumors of one such wanderer having become an advisor to a city, turning it from a peaceful town to a fortified bastion of human might.

Though these developments were concerning to the Order, their benefits were not to be underestimated, and they simply watched on with worried eyes. Even more worrying however is how silent the gods have been lately, with priests all over the realm becoming silent as their prayers went unanswered.

There was change in the air. They were about to be brought into a new age. An age of fire and brimstone, of death and misery.

Perhaps they were annihilated. Perhaps they simply disappeared, as if never existing.

The Grenadier felt like he was in the warp for millennium, aimlessly floating around, the cruel cackling of neverborn surrounding him like a predator stalking it's prey. His grip on his hellgun tightened, never once letting go and he was sorely tempted to open fire but he just knew that would do little more then amuse them. Many times he felt their hungry grasps, but he stubbornly kept his eyes closed for if he were to open them it would no doubt lead to madness and ruin.

Eventually however, far too slowly he began to feel like he was being pulled away. Perhaps sensing their prey was going to escape them, the warp fiends began to snarl, as if trying to intimidate whatever it was trying to take him away to no avail. The snarls of the daemons began to die away as the Grenadier was dragged across the Immaterium, as if sucked in by a powerful vortex. Soon he could only hear deafening shrieks of the warp as he was seemingly dragged from one end to another before he suddenly met very solid ground.

With a painful grunt the Grenadier face planted on what felt like hard rock. Knowing that anything to do with the foul warp was likely to end in misery, the Grenadier cautiously opened up an eye, expecting to see he had landed on a blasphemous hellscape with a daemon ready to skewer him. Instead he saw only a green grass as far as the eye could see and a beautiful clear sky that Vraks Prime certainly lacked.

It was too blue. Too...beautiful. He looked around some more and found to his horror a severe lack of trenches, barbwire, and corpses. There was no choking smog, no muddy earth chock full of chemical waste or toxic refuge. Just green grass as far as the eye can see.

The air was clean and the skies were a bright blue. It was horrible. The Grenadier struggled to get up, finding himself painfully sore all over but his training had him force those feelings away. He sat up shakily, as if he just woke up from a long slumber. He tried to recall what had happened but all he remembered was falling down after taking a lasbolt to the leg and staring at the horrible traitor titan standing above him. When it opened fire, his vision had mercifully blacked out before he got a glimpse at the horrific warp infused attack.

He was surprised to see that his body was virtually unharmed again as if it was never injured at all, just aching horribly, though his gear still appeared to be battleworn and scars still littered his body. But like his training had taught him, he pushed those thoughts and feelings aside and stood up fully. His bones creaked and he was pretty sure he felt like his body was about to keel over, training or no training, when he leaned on a boulder. He patted himself down and did a quick sitrep, finding himself still armed with his trusty hellgun and a few spare charge packs in his webbing, along with a few grenades and blessedly, his bayonet and shovel.

The Grenadier stood up and began looking around his surroundings a little clearer, standing straight and shouldering his hellgun in case he needed to fire it quickly. All around him was the sign of a rather peaceful forest, or what he thinks is a forest anyhow.

There's a rather alarming lack of deadly fauna and flora trying to maim him. What a strange forest. He was in an unknown environment, possibly chaos tainted after his exposure to the warp. He must find imperial territory authorities immediately and establish contact for orders. Grimly, he began marching forward in one direction, determined to reestablish contact with military commanders for further orders.

Across the realm situations like the Grenadier mirrored each other, with guardsmen being deposited down in varying conditions from barely scratched to as good as dead. Sometimes whole squads were dropped down, alongside the heretics they were previously fighting.

Other times fighting vehicles were dropped, smoking wrecks that had become steel coffins for the crew inside. One such tank was visibly writhing, as if alive. A few slimes nearby approached it curiously before they recoiled in disgust as they peered inside the numerous holes of the tank. Their trip through the warp was not kind to the crew, the tankers bodies fused with the tank itself.

"K...ill...me..." moaned one of the tankers weakly in pained misery, his face half melded together with the auspex of the tank. The slimes screeched in fear and retreated away from the damned vehicle. The demented leman russ was awake, and the corrupted monstrosity began to slowly churn it's broken tracks, sheer force of will causing the tank to rumble forward. It's barrel became a snarling mouth of the daemon and it breathed living warpfire that consumed everything in it's path. Both human and mamono alike were burnt to ash and scattered to the winds.

Nearby snarling traitor militia brawled with imperials in a wartorn forest, the once verdant field becoming another bloody battlefield for the two sides as trees were uprooted and the ground became littered with the dead. Investigating mamono were slaughtered indiscriminately, either by imperial or heretic it mattered not. It didn't matter to the two sides that they had been dragged through literal hell and spat back out.

All they knew was that their enemy was near and that was enough for them to start fighting with each other savagely.

A few human peasants who saw the fighting retreated in fear, frightful of the "magic" weaponry and legging it back to their village, causing a few traitor militia to cackle as they followed after them despite the fierce fighting, abandoning their comrades in favor of weaker prey. One of the peasants tripped and fell onto the ground, crying out in fear for help before a heretic caught up with him and grabbed him around the head. Snarling the traitor pushed his fingers into the screaming man's eyes and began brutalizing him in the name of the Dark Gods.

A few mamono that were nearby intervened to stop the madness, tackling some of the heretics before they could murder any more. But there were too many and the traitor militia rushed forward like wolves pursuing sheep, ignoring the monstergirls and following after the fleeing peasants. The ones that were stopped fought on fiercely and a mantis felt genuine emotions for the first time, potent horror at just how demented the man she was struggling with was.

"What is wrong with you?" the mantis said slowly, unused to speaking too much. He just screamed gibberish at her, spitting and cursing.

"Grrraaaaghhhhh! For the Dark Gods!" he frothed at the mouth, slamming his head into her face and cracking her nose, dazing her.

With a sadistic glint in his eye he slam his fist across her face again and brought her down onto her knees before he whipped out a cruel curved knife, intent on gutting her like a fish before a lasbolt messily blew his head apart. The mamono stared at the corpse in terror before gulping and turning to thank her savior. She froze as she saw the lasgun pointed at her head.

"Kill the mutant." the faceless man said monotonously as he executed her, punching a hole right through her head and killing her instantly, "Purge the heretic."

He turned his lasgun and made a sweep, firing crimson bolts at monstergirls and traitor alike, gunning many of them down before a few vraksians began firing back at the krieger. The korpsman grunted as the return fire perforated his greatcoat and punctured his lungs. He was blasted off his feet and backwards onto the ground, coughing up blood but content that he died fighting.

As the light died away and he joined his Emperor in heaven his comrades caught up with him and the killing resumed.

The village living peacefully on a river bank nearby woke up to a scene of nightmares as their fleeing huntsmen and gatherers were chased by madmen intent on butchering them. Brave militiamen began to form up to tackle them but they were inexperienced and fought against veterans of trench warfare. The cultists cared not of the wounds they got or whether they even died and gleefully charged into the lines of pitchforks and makeshift weapons.

In the treeline hidden from view a pair of succubi who were tasked with observing the village watched the humans kill and maim each other in gaping horror.

"W-What are they doing?" one of them said to her sister.

She could only mumble quietly, her eyes unable to leave the slaughter that was happening in front of her, "I do not know, b-but I've never seen anything like it before."

They watched on as the vraksians wasted no time butchering the poor defenders, the militiamen never having to fight this viciously before in their lives. They were picked and quite literally pulled apart limb from limb. A screaming militiaman looked on in disbelief as a heretic gleefully tore into his guts with his bare hands, heedless of the pitchfork stuck through his back. The militia were hacked to pieces by the traitors and it seemed the village's defenders were going to be annihilated when the korpsmen caught up finally.

"Bayonet charge!" ordered a watchmaster, his platoon rushing out of the forest and letting out a fierce battle cry.

The vraksians, maddened as they were with bloodshed, were expecting the imperials but they were still too preoccupied with the village militia.

As such, the heretics were impaled in the back or stabbed by opportunistic militia. The melee was fierce with the korpsmen using shovels, bayonets, and sometimes their own bare hands to kill the enemy. The succubi could only look on in stunned silence as the imperials messily killed the vraksians, blood and gore soaking the ground which was beginning to be littered with bodies.

A vraksian growled as he opened fire with a heavy stubber in his hand, scything down foe and ally alike. Heads exploded and bodies disintegrated as hundreds of rounds flew through the air indiscriminately.

It was only stopped when the traitor himself was gunned down, a dozen lasbolts hitting him all at once and causing him to blow up into fine red mist. The fighting was fierce but the traitors were outnumbered and the korpsmen and the village's militia slaughtered them to a man.

The terrified villagers stood shakily, as if in disbelief at what had just happened. All around them were the slain bodies of friends, lovers, and family with the same frozen expressions of horror and agony. A dozen korpsmen were also dead, surrounded by thrice the number of vraksian traitor militia.

It was a quiet moment of horror and uneasy peace, one that was so fragile you could just feel the tension.

That peace shattered the moment a flare shot up into the sky from deep in the forest. Faint shouts were heard as were death screams and explosions. Suddenly a corrupted tank plowed out of the forest, wreathed in warpfire and spewing death in every direction.

The watchmaster watched it stoically as the remaining villagers screamed and ran at the sight, turning to his remaining battle-scarred troops and shouting, "Forward! For the Emperor!"

The Grenadier marched on stoically, never once slowing his pace as he walked through the strange landscape before him. He had stumbled upon an old overgrown cobblestone road by chance and had been on the road ever since. He had encountered numerous natives in the progress, wary travelers who avoided him as much as possible. His attempt at interrogation was also a bust as they barely understood any of his questions.

They did however have a name for him.


A powerful "Order" bastion that, should the Grenadier continue down the road, will eventually see. When asked if they served the God-Emperor, they had become confused and asked if that was another name for the Chief God. The Grenadier growled and began to educate them properly on who the God-Emperor is lest they be identified as heretics. Perhaps sensing their lives in danger the travelers eagerly agreed with his rhetoric and left as quickly as they could once he was done.

"Preposterous. I will have to find the nearest church of the ecclesiarchy to report such weakness in faith." growled the Grenadier as he marched on. However to his distaste there was another situation.

"Oh? What's this?" purred a sultry voice, causing the Grenadier to pause and turn to see what had spoken.

And his disgust instantly went up a notch. In front of him was a trio of what could have passed for scantily dressed humans if it weren't for their obvious piglike attributes. One of them made a strange expression as she leered at him, "What's a dour looking man like you doing on such a road all by his lonesome?"

The Grenadier stared at them stoically, fingering his trigger and ready to fire at the barest hint of aggression. The line between mutants touched by chaos or borne from abhorrent technology and those simply divergent of the holy human form naturally is a fine line. He pointed his hellgun and ordered, "Identify yourselves or be eliminated."

They stared at him in confusion before laughing amongst themselves. The Grenadier felt a twinge of annoyance but he kept his guard and discipline up. He viewed the strange mutants carefully and watched as they made a move as if to pounce him, licking their lips and looking at him with what he could only perceive as lust. They held clubs in their hands and leered at him, giggling.

"Will we do this the easy way or the hard way tough guy?" she taunted, a lecherous smile on her face.

Hostile then, possibly slaanesh tainted as well.

"Kill the mutant." he said monotonously as he lifted his hellgun up and opened fire quickly before they could react.

The lasbolt shot out with a loud thunderclap at lightning speed and punched a giant hole in the leading mutant's chest, bursting through and causing her to fly backwards into a broken heap. The two mutants looked on in shock at their fellow's death and the Grenadier easily put them down before they could react any further. Their deaths were brutally quick and straightforward mercifully enough. Nonchalantly he checked his hellgun over, content with it's condition and ammo supply before moving on as if he hadn't just murdered three mamono. He left their rapidly cooling corpses behind callously and after that he didn't have any more incidents on the road.

Soon he was at the edges of what looked like outlying farms, the golden fields being worked by farmhands and millers. His appearance terrified many and the farmers kept their distance away from him. He walked up to the city's gates and the guards on duty sputtered in surprise at the stranger in front of them. They held their spears at him fearfully, causing the krieger to pause. Seeing how they were refusing entry, he lifted his hellgun up.

"Let me in." the guard on the left scoffed, though he was shaking uncontrollably.

"H-Halt! W-We've had your type before and we don't want any trouble. You d-damn foreigners always give us so much trouble!"

The imperial gave the guards a blank look, causing the two Lescatian guards to sweat even harder as they stared into his skullfaced gasmask which seemed to look right into their souls. He was fully prepared to just shove his way past them both when someone walked up to the guards and whispered something in their ears. The guards appeared confused for a bit before they adopted relieved expressions and stepped aside for the Grenadier to pass.

Narrowing his eyes, he walked through suspiciously, his hand close to the trigger.

The man was clad in concealing robe and simply said, "Come. Follow me imperial. There is much for us to do."

The Grenadier was sorely tempted to just ignore the man when he flashed the imperial a symbol he finally recognized. A small pendant with the Aquila on it.