The Cycle of Fate: The Second

He could appreciate the irony, at least. Not seconds before he had downed the third one, and had begun to feel confident he could take down the rest. It had taken several hours of careful stalking and patience, and things were looking promising, and then it turned out he might as well have stayed on the hill.

He dissolved back into the shadows and watched the orks practically disintegrate under the withering assault of the Marines; the dumb brutes likely didn't have time to even register the threat before meeting their demise. He also spotted the assassin sneaking towards the Stormraven, and was momentarily baffled. A closer glance revealed he was apparently without his Exitus weaponry: that would definitely explain it.

He grimaced. The temple operatives had a reputation of being fiercely attached to their tools, and Veer's were probably being hauled off to Emperor-knew-where by one of the dozens of orks who had made off with the transport's innards. Veer had seemed fairly stable, so perhaps he could still be used, but then again countless tales bounced through the ordo houses of psychotic assassins. He'd have to keep an eye on the young killer.

The Astartes seemed to be finishing up, and to his eyes seemed unharmed. Only one wearing armor though, and the rest seemed to only have one of two pieces of the wargear. More bad news. He knew that the Marines also set high store by their armaments and armor, and while he doubted they would do anything but their best, he was sure the loss would be weighing on their minds.

One problem at a time, though.

No sooner had the last ork been downed when the team rushed into the Stormraven, presumably to find their equipment. A grimace crossed his face; maybe the Emperor would smile and they would find something, but based off the amount of boxes that the orks had hauled off, he suspected not much was left within the transport. As he stalked forwards, he offered up a small prayer; they could use every bit of help they could get, if the ork presence was as large as he feared.

He briefly considered going in to help, but ultimately decided he probably couldn't do anything that the Astartes couldn't. Instead, he seated himself on a nearby log, and began mentally reviewing all of the facts and knowledge on orks he had accumulated over the years. One of the expired orks lay a stone's throw from his seat, and he blinked once. The now magnified corpse was easy to examine, and after some mental cross-referencing came to some conclusions that confused him. The skull formation and clan trappings suggested feral orks, as did the blade of the "choppa" and the fraternal interaction he had observed earlier. However, the slugthrowers they had employed looked startlingly more advanced than were typical of the feral subtype, and looked closer to the more traditional firearm employed by the "modern" ork.

An intriguing puzzle. Perhaps some genetic leap, or just genuine advancement? Maybe some spacehulk had crashed on the planet in the distant past, or conceivably there was another, more advanced culture on the planet... Earlier he would have discounted the possibility, but the Imperial survey team had stated there was no sentient life on the planet. While it was possible the orks had somehow arrived after the survey had been conducted, that seemed unlikely.

He had been unsettled by the limited amount of information at the start of the mission, but it was only now he realized how deep the well of ignorance went.

The Space Marines were finally exiting the wreckage, and he was pleased to note that they seem to have found a few items. He approached Veer, who turned around at the last second and greeted him. He stayed on the periphery while the Astartes discussed what to do next, unsure of whether he should interject. Eventually one of them asked his opinion, and he stated what little he could; he was as in the dark as them, for the most part.

Eventually they settled on a plan, and the Marines seemed confident enough, although he had a hard time imagining such warriors being unconfident. They struck off, and he trailed behind, hoping against hope that no more surprises were waiting in their immediate future. His mind turned back to the information he had absorbed over the past few hours, and his analytically-trained mind set to work. The stealthy movement came naturally, and only someone who knew him well could tell his thoughts were far, far away...