Flight of the (not so) Fallen Angels

**Characters included:**

* Kazarin Ardas By GoldenCustodes
* Agiel Ramian  By LargeMike99
* Mikael Abris By RagnarVulkus
* Askelitan Dyas By TrollingPanda

Based in the Foretoken Roleplay Project made by ChaoticHawk though is not cannon to the actual RP as the time it is set in as not yet come to pass.

**Flight of the (not so) Fallen Angels**

***Circa 42nd Millenium***

***Location: Crimson Heart, Eye of Terror***

It was a dark and stormy night upon the Crimson Heart. Warp storms weren’t uncommon upon this part of the planet’s rotation within the Eye of Terror. Crimson bolts of warp lightning rained down from above from darkened clouds that seemed to obscure the night sky above. The mad laughter of starving gods and their hosts seemed to echo around the planet’s twisted surface; gleefully making war under the cover of smoke-like clouds that obscured even its distant moon. Rain fell, black like tar yet as viscous as water, as a roiling storm seemed to consume the planet like the jaws of some unseen god-like creature that closed around it. And within the Heart itself, where the Astartes of the Chaos Warband known as the Foretoken resided, all was quiet. With members unable to leave to complete their separate missions due to the warp storm raging outside, many were asleep or resting. Multiple members were off-world, members of high command that left to seek their individual goals. Some trained while others simply burned time, waiting for the storm to pass or the next fight to break out. But even they were not patient and many simply took to their rooms or started their prayers to their dark gods. The place was empty, and all was quiet. All was quiet but the nigh silent hum of well-maintained artificer power armour that seemed to silently stalk the halls.

Agiel Ramian awoke to a cold ceramite hand gently grabbing his shoulder and shaking him awake. The voice that woke him up was sharp and familiar, dragging him out of a dreamless sleep like a man being pulled out of roaring flames.
“Ramian, wake up,” A voice commanded him awake. The destroyer turned, quickly awake as he looked around in the darkened room of the barracks. Bright green eyes stared back at him, green as the forests of Caliban and as sharp as diamonds. It wasn’t the eyes that sold the man out but his voice.

“Champion Ardas,” Agiel started as he rubbed his eyes and immediately sat up. Kazarin was standing beside his cot, his helmet under his left arm and his other on his shoulder. How long had it been since he’s seen that man without his helmet? He couldn’t recall such a time in the Foretoken when he had ever seen the First Captain without his helmet. And even then, he had only seen one time, a singular time, just before the fall where the Deathwing Companion had been without his helmet. It had been brief, no more than a few seconds as he had walked proudly to his initiation, where he had seen the Companion discussing something with Astelan before he pulled on his helmet once more and walked away. “What’s going on?”

“We’re leaving, grab your gear and take no more than you need. We’re going,” Ardas started, pulling his hand away from his shoulder. The Astartes stepped away for a moment, seemingly looking through his open door before he returned to his side. The man’s eyes were sharper, sharper than he had ever seen in his lifetime; sharper and brighter than he had ever seen before. The captain seemed to carry himself differently tonight, straightly and like the warriors he watched leave Caliban time and time again.

Agiel quickly pulled himself together, getting up in a flash and pulling on his power armour. He looked at the captain for a long moment, as the Astartes seemed to peek out of his door once more. Not like that of a panicked animal, but of a vigilant watchman with steely eyes and a nerve of adamantine. “Leaving? Leaving where?” The Astartes turned, looking over at him.

The Astartes lifted his finger to his lips, indicating him to be quiet for a moment. They both waited for a moment, listening to a discussion between two other Astartes as they passed by. Then Kazarin spoke. “I’ll tell you when we’re out of here, just grab your gear and meet me here.” Kazarin pushed a piece of paper in his hands. “I don’t want you caught up in this if this doesn’t work.”

“If what doesn’t work?” Agiel protested quietly, not liking the secrecy that Kazarin was suddenly taking with him. The last time people were keeping secrets from him his homeworld was literally pulled asunder. “What the hell are you doing?”

Kazarin looked back at him, clearly contemplating something before he shook his head and cursed under his breath. “We are leaving this place,” Kazarin explained a little further.

“Why?” The Calibanite asked, questioning the Terran Astartes.

Kazarin visibly looked down at the floor for a moment, again contemplating what he was going to say next before he chose his words. “Our primarch is back, he’s calling everyone home. And from what I can tell, Luther too.”

At the mention of their Primarch, Ramian paused and looked at the former companion with utter disbelief. “You’re being serious?” He asked, wanting to confirm what he had heard and that he had heard that correctly.

Kazarin just nodded once as he pulled his helmet on, the helmet locking with a faint hiss. “And that is why we are going.”

“You would go back to the legion that nearly killed us?” Agiel questioned, voice and tone seeped with young bitter malice that Kazarin was too familiar with.

Kazarin turned to face him, blood-red auspexs glaring into his soul. Not just into but seemingly through his soul and maybe into the wall behind him. “And do you insist we stay here? Surrounded by mad men and creatures that we are barely able to call human that have been twisted by powers beyond our comprehension?” Kazarin asked back, harsher then he intended but it got his point across just fine. The question was rhetorical, Agiel had seen the horrors of chaos and every damn thing that these supposed warriors of the dark gods had done. “I’m not waiting to become a lunatic or some abomination twisted by the damned warp. We’re between hot flames and sinking tar. And I’m gonna take my chances with the flames. What about you? What are you going to choose, destroyer Ramian?”

Agiel paused at that, gritting his teeth for a moment as he glared back at Kazarin. The captain wasn’t normally a man he’d want to push any further than he already had. But he would, this one was not so easily persuaded by words alone. “Lion caused the destruction of Caliban.”

“If you want to take up that argument, take it up with Luther and Astelan,” Kazarin told him, firm and resolute. But behind the auspexs was frustration, they didn’t have time for this. Their window of opportunity was closing quite rapidly and he wasn’t going to burn precious time on this. “They’re the ones who ordered us to fire upon the Lion.”

“That can’t be right.” Though the tone of his voice betrayed the fact that he could have cared less who fired the first salvo. The result was the same, that Caliban was now in shattered pieces and long since dead.

“It’s the bloody cold hard fucking truth,” Kazarin told him, peering outside of his room once more before looking back at him. “I know you don’t like the Lion, I don’t either. I like him even less than you do, but we have one chance out of this lunatic’s circus. Are you coming or not?” Kazarin presented his question one final time, gauntleted hand wrapping around the hilt of his Terranic Greatsword. By force or word, he was getting everyone he could out of this place. It was twisting everyone, even if they didn’t know it. It was twisting them inside out, and he wasn’t going to stay here any longer then he had to.

Agiel didn’t spot the Terran’s clenched fist, but was considering his chances. Considering the man’s words, what they entailed and what they truly meant for them both. He made his decision just as quickly. “I’m coming with you.” Agiel insisted, rising himself to his full height as he maglocked both of his axes upon his back. As much as he disliked the Terran Astartes of Caliban, he owed Kazarin this much. He had kept his secrets, and it was only fair that he returned at least some of that respect. Pay back some of that metaphorical debt.

The Deathwing Companion sighed, knowing that he would have had no chance trying to persuade the neophyte otherwise. He simply gestured for the Astartes to follow him, stepping out into the hallway after he checked one last time. A private vox line connected with his, displaying the symbol of the 1st Legion. “Just don’t say anything that could sell us out, alright?”

The Destroyer simply nodded. “Roger that, Champion Ardas.”

The two Fallen moved through the near-empty halls, moving past the armoury where a small number of their fellow Fallen were exiting with their gear in both hands. One of them paused, looking at the two of them, before they darted back inside. They came out of the armoury moments later and then handed Agiel back his much favoured Volkite Culveran. Agiel simply gave a nod of thanks at that, with his fellow Fallen returning the favour before immediately turning heel and following his now quickly disappearing fellows.

“How many of…us,” He was still getting used to calling themselves some form of a unified front. “Are there?”

“Roughly two dozen, there’s not that many of us. Well, not those willing to admit that we may have fucked up royally,” Kazarin replied as he carefully looked around them both, watching the shadows as if afraid that something would lurch out of them.

“We’re gonna go get the rest of them?” Agiel asked, raising an eyebrow at that suggestion. Unusually humanitarian from the first captain, even before they supposedly fell, he was never this kind.

“No, we’re going to pick someone else up. I owe him,” Kazarin told him as they moved past a pair of serfs. A man and a girl (did she have a brand on her forehead?) seemingly rushed past the two of them, as if on a time limit or being chased by some unseen predator. Kazarin reached over and stopped them both, only for a moment as he pressed something into the man’s hand and gestured to him to keep on going. They simply nodded and kept moving past.

“Serfs too? You’ve grown soft, champion Ardas.” Agiel questioned, eyes squinting behind his auspexs. The tone of his voice was that neutrality, neither hostile but neither was it friendly in its tone. As if his voice did not know where to place its bottled emotions.

“Maybe I have, destroyer. I could give less of a shit.” Kazarin remarked as looked behind him and at Agiel. “Come on, let us get our last passenger. We don’t have much of a window left.” Kazarin insisted, rolling his shoulders back and beckoning the destroyer to follow him as he immediately strode into the Heart’s Medicae.

The Medicae was surprisingly quiet, as the Black Butcher wasn’t home and by proxy neither was his Tzeetchian Bodyguard. The cold stone room was filled with the buzzing of equipment and the occasional squishy wet noise of one of the biological samples moving about. Not that it bothered Mikael Abris, one of the oldest members of the Foretoken, as he quietly did his geneseed tests. He worked in silence, as he always did. And so he heard the door of the Medicae open and the hum of well maintained power armour join the noises he was so used to hearing. Mikael turned to look and was surprised at the sight that greeted his tired eyes. Kazarin Ardas, the 1st Unseen Captain, had entered the room and had similarly locked eyes with him. The Fallen gave a nod of acknowledgment before he stepped over to the Butcher. The Butcher gave a nod of respect to the ancient Astartes, turning to face him properly.
“Captain Ardas, what can I do for you?” Mikael asked, his eyebrow raised underneath his helmet. It was extremely unusual for Kazarin to be anywhere that wasn’t to do with his duties. Something was up.

“I’m here for you, Apothecary.” Kazarin told him, unusually blunt for a man of his stature. Another note of surprise was his reference to him as Apothecary, no one here used that term or at least not for very long.

“Is there something going on?” The Butcher asked, his right hand going to his chainsword. “Are we under attack?”

The first captain shook his head slightly, blood red auspexs staring through his helm and into his eyes. “No. Though that would have certainly covered us a lot better.”

“We’re leaving, butcher,” Agiel spoke up, butting in and stepping inside of the Medicae with his Volkite Culveran slung over his back. The appearance of a second Fallen took Mikael by surprise and Kazarin in annoyance.

“Leaving?” Mikael asked, semi alarmed at that (though he should have guessed the Fallen’s loyalty to the Foretoken would be tenuous at best) as he took a step back. The Butcher did not like the idea of being cornered. “Where the hell would you be going to? Who would even take you?”

“The Lion is back,” Kazarin told him, slightly boldly for a man known for his reserved nature. “And he’s calling the Fallen back to his side.”

“I am no son of the first,” Mikael retorted, hardened eyes like that of ancient Terran steel stared back into the crimson red (the colour of spilled blood that he has seen too many times) auspexs of the Fallen.

“It wouldn’t matter to the Lion. You fought on Terra against the traitors and declined chaos for this long, your deeds will speak louder then your geneseed.” Kazarin insisted, stepping forward to Mikael with his right hand extended in a symbol of friendship and peace making.

“I ***will not be*** abandoning my brothers,” Mikeal’s voice was firmer now, more defiant as his training began to kick in. That desperate need for brotherhood, he would not be trading one chain for another set of shackles.

“I am giving ***you*** an out, Mikael.” Kazarin’s voice was steeped in ancient command and older persuasion. “I promised you an exit, a way out of this place didn’t I? I am making good on it, I consider you a brother and a survivor. A man deserving so much better then this. I know this isn’t the best, but I offer you freedom from chaos. This I can be sure of.” Kazarin’s voice was calm, but insistent. And most importantly, entirely honest. No second talk or hidden agenda, simply the truth of a situation. It wasn’t as if they were desperate for an apothecary, one of the Fallen Angels could certainly cover that role.

Mikael froze, something akin to a deer in headlights, as he considered Kazarin’s words. He was risking a lot staying here, and judging from the fact he already had a fallen with him, more were probably already prepared to leave. Kazarin was not only offering him a way out of the Foretoken (if they succeeded, the key word being if here) but also a new brotherhood, certainly one that would be significantly more loyal and more open to brotherhood then any chaos worshipper. Internally, he ripped himself apart though in the end his heart won out, that true self he had long since buried under the blood of his brothers and sisters. He took Ardas’s hand and shook it, giving the ancient Astartes a nod. “I told you that maybe one day I would call you a brother. That day has come, Brother Ardas. You have yourself an apothecary, Captain.”

“No, I have myself a brother.” Ardas retorted, shaking his hand in return. He tapped the side of his helmet, indicating for him to use private vox. The Butcher followed suit and a symbol of the Fangs of the Emperor appeared in the vox channel of Kazarin’s helmet. “Take only what you need, we have a Stormbird waiting outside and we don’t have much time.”

“A Stormbird? Where the hell did you get a Stormbird?” Agiel asked, slightly surprised by what the ancient Astartes had seemingly brought to the table.

“I have a few old friends who were able to pull a couple of favours. Now, get moving. We don’t have much time.” Kazarin insisted as he pushed for the three of them to get moving. He looked up in the corner of the room for a moment, staring at an errant camera. It didn’t move, hell the light that would indicate that it was even recording wasn’t even on. “Follow me.”

And so they did. Quickly moving (but not quickly enough to sell out what they were doing) through the hallways of the Crimson Heart. Anyone who saw or interacted with them was none the wiser. The so-called “priest” was preaching and the Warpsmith was too busy with his mechanical beasts. None the wiser of what was occurring. The flight of the fallen host was occurring, and directly right underneath their noses.
But from a shadowy observatory, who’s monitors showed nothing out of the ordinary, a figure clad in midnight blue armour was in a trance. The warp had many powers that most would consider unnatural, and this was one such power. The power of Foresight, the same one that had plagued the Night Haunter and assisted the Angel, had clouded this one. Gifted itself to the Nameless with the gift of prophecy and the ability to see at least a little bit of future.

*The Sokar Stormbird thundered, it’s engines rumbling to life. It’s hold was filled with its precious cargo: roughly two dozen fallen, a lonely butcher, a regretful Warhound, a few other outcast Astartes, what looked like automata and a small group of serfs that seemed to huddle together. It took to the sky, arcing through the dark like a spear aimed true to find a new ship. Through the churning of the malicious warp and once more into real space, to find the firstborn and swear fealty once more. He could see it, see the people so repentant at what they had done, he could see **it**.*

The sight released him from its cold grasp, allowing him to breathe once more with his own lungs. His eyes were wide for a moment before he reached over and pulled on his helmet. He should have suspected that this would have happened at some point. The Fallen’s allegiance was always….tedious at best. He then paused, considering his actions, and considered what he was about to do. He could not blame them, he had seen their valour and honour on full display during the Great Crusade (he had been one of them, once.). But it would be so much easier to just turn them back, return and bring them to the Sovereign in chains. It would pull the heat off of him and probably get him into higher standing with him, closer to his mission’s end.
But then again, that pang of guilt pushed on his chest and swallowed up his throat. Was this what Astartes had been reduced to? To backstab one another and send innocents back into the clawed hands of monsters that would have no mercy but instead pleasure in the act? He has seen it, seen the depravity they had been reduced to and seen how at least a small number tried to hold onto their honour and humanity even as the depravity continued. Would this be what they would be all reduced to if they stayed long enough? Into slavering monsters, no better then the tyrannical emperor or the dark powers? Would it be fair to send this small warband of regretful veterans back into the hands of devils who would not care? His hand balled into a tight fist, ancient ceramite straining against well maintained servos. A hateful yet terrified line echoed in his head, screaming of betrayal and bleeding of pain. A memory that he had repeated hundreds of times in his head and yet he was no closer to solving it.
*You were like a father to us and then you betrayed everything you ever taught us! Everything! Was that care you gave us a lie also?!*
Askelitan grinded his teeth, but then he took a breath. Steadied himself in the present. It had taken them this long, and he would not squander their chances or their courage. He strode out, his cloak and symbol of his office swaying in the cold wind that now seemed to linger in the heart.

The trio made it outside, slipping past the few guards that were there (through hidden tunnels long since forgotten) and out upon the planet’s currently frozen surface. It was freezing, cold enough to freeze a mortal man to the bone, but being clad in insulated power armour meant that no one of the trio noticed it outside of the sudden condensation of their breath. Upon the very edge of the clearing that surrounded the Crimson Heart and obscured by the trees was the Sokar Pattern Stormbird. It was a magnificent ancient thing, in the sort of way that the skeletons of ancient dinosaurs are. It was painted midnight black and accented in maroon red with its fearsome yet well maintained weapons glinting in polished silver. Its windows were tinted black and the symbol of the 1st legion was painted upon both of its doors. Undoubtedly they would paint it again at some point, repaint it in order to represent their people better. But that would come later, if they actually escaped this wretched place first. That was the focus, the most immediate issue that they needed to solve. The right side door was open as a Fallen Pravien leaned out and beckoned them over.
“Brother Ardas, I thought you said you wanted to make this quick!” The Astartes said slightly alarmed the three of them rushed in.

“I know I did, Pravien. Now I am here, let us make this bloody quick.” Kazarin remarked, allowing the other two Astartes to get in before him. The Sokar had now had two dozen Fallen, a small handful of Foretoken marines who were obviously not chaos corrupted and a few escaped serfs; all nervously waiting for lift off it seemed. Kazarin nodded at such a sight, just enough that they could still fight but not enough to cause immediate concern should they be discovered. “Everyone, take a seat. We’re getting out of here-”

“Erm, Captain,” One of the pilots spoke up, turning their head back to look into the hold where everyone was now gathered in. “We have a problem.”

“Terra’s rocks, what now?” The Company Master asked, striding to the forward of the ship to look out of the windscreen. He paused when he saw who it was, a figure clad in midnight blue power armour and cloak that made it hard to focus on the figure. The man stood a few yards away from the vessel but he had clearly seen them. Dulled red auspexs yet as sharp as a knife glared at the vessel. Kazarin cursed under his breath. “Fuck, pilot, prepare to take off.” The Astartes ordered, immediately heading for the door.

“What about you?”

“I’ll talk to him. If he kills me, get everyone out of here.”

“Roger that, Company Master Ardas.” The pilot and his co-pilot immensely started the flight procedures. The others could only watch as Kazarin passed all of them, giving a nod of acknowledgement and respect. If this was to be his final action, so be it at least if these people went free.

Kazarin gave a final nod to them and jumped out of the side of the Stormbird, the door closing behind him. He landed with a crunch, the frosted over ground crunching under his weight like dead leaves. His own auspexs glaring back at the Astartes stood in front of them. He knew what Onyx could do if he wished to sell them all out, and it would not end pretty for anyone who ended up in his way.

“I should have guessed,” Onyx remarked, clearly impressed by the vessel he was seeing. An ancient vessel such as this was magnificent to behold. Even to a Nameless.

“What do you want, Onyx?” Kazarin questioned, his right hand reaching for his Terranic Greatsword, he wouldn’t be caught off guard if the other Astartes tried anything. “Are you here to stop us?”

“Stop you? No, I do not plan to stop you Ardas.” Onyx told him, his voice distorted underneath his vox so that no one could tell who was talking behind the helm. But it also obscured its tone and made it hard to tell the Astartes’s intentions. “But I wish to ask a simple question, old friend,” The Astartes paused, as if considering his next words. “Why?”

***“Why?”*** Kazarin seemed to scoff at such a question, as if the answer was obvious to anyone who considered it. “Look at us, Onyx, what have we become?” Kazarin gestured to the area around them, to the battling demons and crimson lightning and the obvious laughter of thirsting and uncaring gods. “We’ve become lesser, less then even the red butchers of Angron’s madness! We’ve become everything we have fought against! Slavers, tyrants, murderers and betrayers!” His voice rose in defiance, causing his vox grill to crackle with emotion. “These dark powers that they serve are like lambs to the slaughter! It has twisted everything it touches! Their minds! Their bodies! Their bloody souls! Frakking everything and they don’t even realise it!” He then gestured to the Crimson Heart behind them both which Askelitan looked back at. “I’m not waiting to join the fraking circus and have the same thing happen to me or anyone else.” Kazarin straightened himself, carrying himself with a purpose that Askelitan had not seen since the days of the early Great Crusade. “I have no quarrel with Da’Tha, I could care less that he’s the Sovereign. But we want out, we want to return to our purpose. And that purpose is bringing hope back to humanity, Askelitan, not fucking butcher it.” Kazarin took a step forwards, right hand tightened around the handle of his Terranic Greatsword. ***“Will you stand in the way of that?”***

The Astartes looked at Kazarin and immediately shook his head. “I have no plans to do so, Company Master Ardas. We don’t have conflict…” He replied back, honestly. It felt like an oxymoron, to say that an Alpha Legionary was truthful or even honest. Yet here was Kazarin, talking to Askelitan Dyas of the Alpha Legion, a Legion entirely built on lies and deception so deep that the Shadow Keeper Custodians would have surely struggled to find it, being truthful to him. Even if Kazarin himself was entirely unaware of that fact that he was from such a legion. There was an irony to that, that this supposedly ruthless spymaster of the Foretoken, was helping him and his men without need of payment. As much as Dyas could say that he was not his so called ‘sons’, that he held it together better then either of them; Kazarin could see their aspects in him even if he did not know them. To say he was not his sons would be correct, he was their aspects (both good and bad) combined. Askelitan’s eyes flickered to look over at the Chimera trophy that was still hanging from his pauldron. “But Da’tha will think otherwise.”

Kazarin noticed the look and immediately let out an indignant snort. He reached over and pulled the trophy and it’s leather string from his pauldron and dropped it on the frozen ground. He then stomped on it, once, twice and a third time before he grinded what remained under his power armoured boot. Askelitan could see a few similar trophies being thrown out the Stormbird’s door and immediately being destroyed. “I will serve under Da’tha’s banner no longer. Never again will I serve under chaos or it’s tendrils. I belong to the first, for now and for always.” Kazarin paused after the bold declaration before looking Askelitan in the eye. “You could join us. We could do with a spymaster. You haven’t fallen to Chaos, Lion would happily have one more of us by his side.”

The offer was tempting, so tempting to put things right. But he shook his head. Best he do that good under his own name then a lie that he had lived. “I’ll be of better use inside… help you from within,” Askelitan turned away, so that he would not have to ask Kazarin to stop. “Till we meet again, *cousin*.”

Kazarin was about to question his final statement, but then he saw the armour flicker. Saw the flash of twin Xs upon his kneepad and the three headed hydra upon his pauldron and with that, Kazarin was silenced. Askelitan was no son of the 1st, rather he was a son of the 20th. But that changed nothing, strangely enough, he was still bidding goodbye to a friend and a man he considered a brother. Other legion or not. “Till we meet again, cousin.” Kazarin said, one final time. He then turned back and once more entered the Stormbird.

As Askelitan walked back to the Crimson Heart, he turned around to see if the ship was still there. He instead watched as the dark Stormbird took flight, flew like a spear aimed true into the night. He watched as it did so, until it’s engines were as small as the stars around it and then disappeared entirely from the sky. Maybe one day they would meet again, he hoped it would not be one the battlefield. He then set his mind to the task at hand, only he would know the truth and the truth alone…*what a horrible irony to that.*