BANG!!!!!!!
BANG!!!!!
BOOOM!!!!
Multiple drop pods hammered into the ground like meteor strikes, their devastating impacts shattering the earth even as fiery retro-thrusters slowed their descent. Concrete and steel crumbled away in a cascade of rubble as one pod tore through a derelict building, its thunderous arrival echoing through the ruined cityscape.
The angels had arrived.
"SKRIIIIIIEEEE!!!!!" The piercing shrieks of the Whitespikes sliced through the air as they scattered in panic, fleeing to shadowed crevices while hurling defiant cries at the crimson-bleeding clouds above, where more pods streaked past like vengeful comets.
This city, once a thriving domain of humanity, had been overrun by the Whitespikes during their five years of unrelenting carnage. No longer a haven of human ingenuity and life, it had devolved into a festering breeding ground for these horrific creatures—nightmarish invaders that twisted the urban ruins into their lair.
BANG!!!!!
CRUNCH~~~~
Another drop pod plummeted onto a cluster of fleeing Whitespikes, pulverizing them into a spray of viscous green blood that splattered across the cracked roads. A massive plume of dust erupted on impact, blanketing the sky and surroundings in a choking haze, as the pod hissed to a halt amid sizzling fumes of superheated steam rising like serpents from its scorched hull.
THRUMMM...THUMP~~~!!!!
The pod's hinged petals unfolded with a hydraulic groan, slamming to the ground in a devastating thump that crushed a crippled Whitespike crawling feebly with half its body mangled and trailing ichor.
THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD
Heavy footsteps reverberated from within the swirling smoke and dust, each one a deliberate proclamation of unyielding presence.
"SKREIIIIII". Nearby Whitespikes shrieked in alarm, their cries laced with primal fury.
The footsteps grew louder, shadowy giants advancing with pensive caution through the haze. Obscured by the veil of dust, their forms remained elusive, yet their aura pressed upon the air like an impending storm—oppressive, inevitable, and laced with the cold chill of dread.
THUD THUD THUD THUD
Metallic echoes drew nearer, the sun piercing the shadows above as if straining to unveil the mysteries they concealed.
On the haze's edge, Whitespikes swarmed forward in a frenzied tide. These hexapod horrors, albino-pale as their name implied, resembled a grotesque fusion of praying mantis, deep-sea viperfish, and grasshopper. Most hunched at eight feet tall, their six limbs a symphony of lethal adaptation: four powerful legs for blistering locomotion that could outpace vehicles, two mantis-like forelimbs for seizing prey in razor-sharp grips, and two sinuous tentacles sprouting from their upper flanks for agile manipulation—or launching bullet-like spikes with deadly precision.
They poured into the dusty cloak undeterred, their senses unhampered by the murk; vision was but one tool in their arsenal, augmented by vibrations, scents, and an uncanny instinct for the hunt.
"KREIIIEE~!!!!!" One larger specimen perched at the periphery, screeching commands like a tyrannical overseer, its voice a guttural rasp that spurred the horde onward—not vastly bigger than its kin, but radiating an aura of crude authority.
WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP
The rhythmic thrum of helicopter blades slicing the air seized the creatures' attention as the aircraft approached, weaving between skeletal buildings. The downdraft scattered dust veils, revealing the massive, alien structures below—pods yawning open like mechanical maws, yet eerily vacant save for the inert metallic husks.
The Whitespikes screeched skyward at the intruders, their cries a cacophony of rage blending with the chopper's mechanical roar.
"Command, this is Alpha 1. We're in proximity to the crash site. Objects in visual—no figures in sight," a soldier reported into the comms, his voice steady amid the whirling blades.
"Copy. Maintain proximity. Await further directives Ken," came the crackling reply from command.
"Copy." The soldier, Ken, scanned downward with his squad, their faces etched with tension. The state of NORAD was grim; directives had shifted from aggressive offensives to desperate defenses, then to outright blockades—containing the Whitespikes at bay from humanity's dwindling bastions, no longer daring to engage.
"Ken, what is that?" A voice cut through his reverie, laced with unease.
"What is it? Do you have visuals?" Ken demanded, pivoting to follow the soldier's gaze. He snatched his binoculars, peering intently.
Nothing. Only the alien metallic structures persisted, now crawling with Whitespikes sniffing curiously, their tentacles probing the air in vain.
"What did you see?" Ken pressed.
"It was like a shadow passed by there," the soldier replied, pointing at the building ruins, his brow furrowed in doubt.
"Perhaps a visual error," Ken concluded, though a prickling unease settled in his gut—like unseen eyes boring into them from the gloom.
"OK, keep your eyes peeled. If sighted, do not engage until command gives the order," Ken commanded, his gaze lingering on the gunner, who nodded grimly.
"Copy."
'What the hell are we looking for? What the hell are those?' Ken pondered solemnly, staring at the steaming pods that warped the air around them with residual heat, their surfaces gleaming ominously.
"Is it me, or do you feel like you're being watched?" the pilot muttered, his eyes darting nervously as he gripped the controls.
"What do you mean?" another soldier asked. Seven in total, their squad felt exposed in the open sky.
"I don't know—just a feeling," the pilot admitted, maneuvering the console with a subtle tremor in his hands.
Below, Whitespikes roamed aimlessly amid the ruins, oblivious to the silent predators encircling them.
Unseen figures stalked the ravaged landscape, their movements a whisper of death—steps muffled by advanced gravitic dampeners, forms cloaked in adaptive cameleoline shrouds that bent light and shadow to render them ghosts. The Raven Guard, masters of stealth from the shadowed halls of Deliverance, embodied the art of unseen warfare. They melted into the debris like ink in water, exploiting every fractured wall, collapsed beam, and dust-choked alley. No rustle betrayed their advance; their power armor, forged in the forges of Kiavahr, hummed with suppressed energy fields that absorbed sound and vibration, turning thunderous strides into spectral glides. Hearts pounding with disciplined fury, they felt the thrill of the hunt—the cold calculus of ambush, the electric tension of proximity to the foe without detection.
The air grew thick with anticipation, each breath measured, each glance a tactical scan through pale-sight visors that stripped the world to monochrome clarity, piercing haze and gloom to reveal every twitch of enemy movement.
In the ruins of a shattered building, one figure crouched low, his gaze locked on the hovering transport above. Through his helm's tactical display—pale sight, as his Chapter named it—colors faded to desaturated grays, enhancing contrasts and laying bare the hidden. Eye strain banished, shadows yielded their secrets; he tracked the helicopter's thermal bloom, the faint heat trails of its crew. Turning subtly, he signaled his companion with fluid hand gestures and micro-movements: *Non-hostile.* He gestured toward the chopper.
*Xenos swarming this region. Relay information. 200 per my count... 204.* His signs were precise, economical—born of millennia of Raven Guard doctrine, where silence was armor and misdirection the blade.
In the shadows, his brother nodded, peering toward distant ruins that, to mortal eyes, held nothing but desolation. But to them, it was familiar terrain—home ground for the sons of Corax. He signaled onward, receiving a curt affirmation from the receiver, who pivoted to relay further.
The Whitespikes remained ignorant; at this moment, the hunters had become the hunted.
High above, helicopters drifted past ruinous buildings, rotors whipping eddies of dust as crews strained to spot anomalies.
"Still no movement. Were they empty?" Ken couldn't help murmuring, frustration edging his voice.
"Don't think so—those things look opened. Whatever was inside is already out," the gunner replied, eyes tracing the labyrinthine ruins below.
"What did Hart call them again?" the pilot inquired over the comms hum.
"Angels," Ken answered curtly.
"Perhaps they're with us in spirit," the gunner quipped, a grim smirk twisting his features.
Eye rolls and sharp glances met the jest, the squad's tension unbroken.
"Come on, the world's coming to an end—a bad joke should be the least of your worries," the gunner pressed, amusement flickering in his eyes amid the grim backdrop.
"TZZZ.... Contact.... I repeat, contact. Heat signatures spotted. All units switch to thermal vision. I repeat, switch to thermal vision.... TZZZ" The comms blared suddenly, crackling with urgency.
"That's Alphonso... Prey K4..."
"This is Alpha 1, we copy," Ken responded, as the squad scrambled to don their optical gear, hearts racing with adrenaline-fueled alertness.
Switching to thermal, Ken and his team scanned anew, the world shifting to glowing hues of heat and cold.
Frowns deepened their expressions.
"Is this a joke? Still negative visuals," the gunner grumbled, squinting through his visor.
"Keep looking—perhaps they're not here," the pilot suggested, banking the chopper slightly.
"Prey K4, this is Alpha 1. Do you have confirmed visuals?" Ken queried through the comms, his voice taut.
"TZZZ..... Negative, thought we saw something..... False alarm." The reply came swift and sheepish.
The gunner shot Ken an annoyed glance.
"Made me nervous for no reason," he muttered, starting to remove his gear.
"Keep 'em on... just in case," Ken ordered, a knot of foreboding tightening in his chest.
The helicopter pressed onward, rotors thrumming relentlessly.
In the ruins below, silent figures glided with predatory deliberation, evading Whitespike detection like wraiths in the mist. Shadows became their sanctum, the fractured city their canvas for reconnaissance.
*Like reported... they do resemble the Tyranids. But nothing like we've encountered before. Perhaps another kind of insectoid abomination,* one signed, his gestures fluid in the dim light.
*Indeed... are you ready?* The other replied in kind, glancing at the squad who offered subtle nods.
Throughout their advance, no sound escaped—only icy stares and silent signals conveyed intent. Even the acute senses of the Whitespikes failed to pierce their veil as the Astartes slipped past like forgotten echoes.
*Ready.*
Twelve xenos lingered in proximity; five brothers comprised the squad—a perfect asymmetry for annihilation.
*Go.* At the signal, combat blades—massive, monomolecular edges befitting transhuman warriors—were drawn with a whisper of steel.
FWOOM
"GAHHH~~~"
"GHHKK~~"
"SKRR~~~"
Muffled gurgles erupted as blades cleaved through chitin and flesh, severing shrieks before they formed. The strikes were surgical: one brother lunged from shadow, his knife punching through a Whitespike's thorax with a wet CRACK, green ichor spraying in a brief, silenced arc. Another twisted mid-leap, his blade slicing tentacles mid-fling, the appendages flopping with a soft THUD. Tension coiled in the air—the electric hum of suppressed power packs, the faint ozone tang of active camo fields, the visceral satisfaction of warm blood cooling on ceramite gauntlets.
THUMP.... THUMP
Lifeless husks slumped to the ground, pooling green blood that steamed faintly in the chill ruins. One Raven Guard squatted to examine a corpse, his pale-sight dissecting its physiology with clinical detachment—probing mandibles, tracing limb joints, noting spike-launching mechanisms amid the reek of alien viscera.
This ritual repeated across the terrain: ambushes erupting in silent fury, decapitations swift as thought. For swarm-hunters like the Whitespikes, the Raven Guard were apex predators—luring stragglers into kill-zones with feigned vulnerabilities, then striking from voids unseen.
A few seconds prior, at a high vantage in a demolished spire, a silent sentinel fixed his gaze on the commanding Whitespike. His long-barreled las-fusil rifle tracked it through crosshairs, scope hesitating between vital points—the throbbing neural cluster in its skull, the pulsating heart-equivalent in its abdomen. He waited, form distorted by cameleoline, shadows his eternal ally. Every few heartbeats, his eyes flicked to flanks, ensuring no encirclement.
Then: *Go.* The order rippled silently.
The barrel aligned on the head.
FWOOMM
A muted crimson beam lanced out, vaporizing the skull in a puff of superheated mist.
THUD
The body tumbled from its perch on the drop pod.
It wasn't over. With each precise trigger-pull—FWOOMM, FWOOMM—a Whitespike crumpled: one mid-leap, its form crumpling with a CRUNCH of collapsing exoskeleton;
"SKRIEE...GAHKkk~~"
another screeching halfway before a beam cored its vocal sac, reducing the cry to a gurgling WHIMPER. Tension mounted like a storm front
WHUP-WHUP
the distant sound of helicopters underscoring the massacre, the acrid scent of las-burnt flesh mingling with dust, the palpable shift as swarm cohesion fractured into chaos. Hearts thundered in armored chests, the Raven Guard feeling the grim elation of Corax's legacy: not brute force, but the scalpel of shadow.
He wasn't alone; across multiple vantages, brothers aimed and fired in synchronized volleys, mowing down hundreds in a ballet of death.
FWOOSH
Ground teams picked off strays—blades flashing in arcs, bodies hitting with muffled THUMPS—while snipers ensured no alarms rang out. The air hummed with suppressed energy, the ruins alive with the ghosts of Deliverance: silent kills, lures drawing foes into traps, strikes that ended threats before they began.
Unlike other Astartes Chapters, this was their honored way—silent and precise decapitative strikes, ghosts in the machine of war. They stalked like specters, lured with illusory weakness, and struck without mercy or sound. Silent but deadly, they were the Raven Guard: sons of the Liberator, the Shadowed Lord, Corvus Corax, Lord of Deliverance. In this forsaken city, their talons closed unseen, turning predators to prey in a symphony of shadowed retribution.