Astaramis was the first target. Its surrounding space was already a minefield of debris left over from what was left of the imperial naval forces of Konor. There were no terrestrial defense systems left either, the red spider-silk beams frantically locked in targets for missile silos that were empty or disabled. A faint laser light show of impotence. The Dusk’s Hand is a massive cruiser, verging on the scale of a Goliath, and when it peeled itself away from the warp, the web of beams caught and illuminated it immediately to no effect. Debris ricocheted off the hull which swelled and blackened with Fleshmetal in anticipation.

There was no hurry, the battle was raging on the surface of the planet now and Dusk’s Hand simply wasn’t properly equipped for full-scale naval combat anyways. She carried lethal cargo, heretics and mutants and worse, and her purpose was to deliver them unto the enemy. Chernabog was the only one to leave the Dusk’s Hand as it maintained orbit alongside the Terminus Est. Typhus was there on Astaramis, and he would see the work firsthand. Supposedly the dead walked here on Astaramis, and having died a number of times, this intrigued him.

On the planet, Baron Oda had never seen something so gruesome. It was silent apart from the distant rumbles of artillery shells. None of the factories were producing smoke or sound. It was mid-day and the district should have been crowded and buzzing like a swarm of bees. It was crowded all right, the streets were packed with his subjects but they were almost completely still. Oda recognized teams of workers from their trades: Thermal laborers covered in ash, others in radiation suits, but wait a moment, they were covered in burns, wounds, sores and tumors. These were dead men, and they were staring at Oda by the thousands, and they were all grinning like something was terribly funny. It actually was quite funny. Oda began to laugh, he laughed and laughed and then vomited onto the crowd from the balcony of his estate. it splashed across the face of a steelworker who was so badly burned that half of his torso was pulpy glistening red color, and he didn’t stop smiling or even blink.

“You should prepare yourself” said a frigid voice. Midas spoke through his helm which seemed to resonate at an even tone which gave him an otherworldly quality. He was hunched forward, head tilted slightly in Oda’s office which was not large enough to accommodate power armor comfortably, little lone a folded pair of leathery mechanical wings. “Everything else has been arranged, Typhus is already within the fortress. He is expecting you” Midas added. His helm rang in its high pitch for a moment longer than usual. This irritated Oda, but he was too terrified by the condition of his subjects and by Midas to let it show.



“So be it” replied Oda.



Oda was not a small man, though he was not quite at the stature of Astartes, Oda was able to afford a number of genetic and cybernetic enhancements. He was taller and stronger than most, parts of his skeleton was reinforced, but he would not fit into the mk3 armor stored in the Dusk’s Hand. This was just fine, as Chernabog had commissioned armor for Oda, and Midas made sure that he would wear it. He would have to be sealed in, and some surgical modifications would need to be made to sensitive areas to ensure that he would not drown in his own filth. They would have to be made immediately and there would be no time for it to mend properly, so Midas administered a series of injections to anesthetize Oda.

He would not know the extent of the damage, he would never actually get a chance to see it. He wouldn’t feel it either as there was not much of an “it” left to feel, and Oda’s power armor had an injector system that would keep him numb and giddy.

Oda was not prepared for how tall he would feel, he was also not prepared for his new strength. On his way out of the infirmary of his estate, he had crashed clumsily into the wall of the parlor and collapsed it. The study above the parlor had fallen on him as well, but it merely broke apart on and around him against the ceramite like a handful of toothpicks onto a rock. He was unable to free himself, and he was disturbed to find that his subjects had found him, and were digging him out. Twisted and pale arms pulled him from the wreckage, but they did not attack him. As Oda stood they just stood there smiling at him ear to ear. Finally he was loved by his people, and he would lead them to war.

“It is time” rang Midas, and it was.

