Defiance Is a Virtue

The battle was in full swing, the Champions of Mortis dug in deep within their hastily assembled trench lines. Their ivory and purple armour was mud spattered, dented and chipped. Plumes of dirt and debris blossomed irregularly, the enemy artillery whistling.

Each shell detonated with a shower of shrapnel, clouds of green, yellow and brown gas spreading across the horizon as the ordinance escalated, the Great Enemy doing their utmost to soften the defences.

Were they mere mortals, the chemical bombardment would have left the line clear for the upcoming assault. Yet these were Adeptus Astartes of the most unusual caliber. They didn't waver at the warp spawned toxins and phages launched at their positions. Their armour sealed, the Champions of Mortis braved this latest attempt to break their lines, answering in kind.

Whirlwind stationed behind the lines lent their weight of fire, their missiles descending upon the walls of the fallen fortress. The hulking shapes of the mutated plague Marines sheltering within could be seen stalking the walls, awaiting the orders to advance or to hold off an attack, the warzone having long stagnated.

What should have been a simple victory for the Death Guard over an populace already weakened, had instead been met with the stubborn tenacity of the Champions of Mortis. The Champions of Mortis had, predictably, aimed to garrison the planet's largest fortress upon their arrival to the battlefield. But their doctrines were rarely known for their swiftness.

Upon arrival, the fort had already fallen, the gates opened from within, the enemy granted access to its walls and gun emplacements. This change of fortune would have advised a change in plan, according to the Codex Astartes, aiming to shift the field of battle to one that was more beneficial. The Champions of Mortis, scorned the concept of a tactical withdrawal.

They accepted the enemy challenge, drop fortresses of their own launched mere kilometres from the walls, teams of Astartes constructing Aegis lines and trenches between them. As word got out of this blatantly defiant choice of doctrine, the Chapter as a whole were intrigued. Slowly, as they cleared their own battle zones, reinforcements began to trickle in.

By the time the war had reached its 4th year, the 3rd Company had been reinforced by a full half of the Chapter. The Chapter Master himself watched from the closest bunker to the enemy walls, or what remained of them.

Tired beyond words, his held himself upright, eyes fixed on the mutated edifice before him. As fast as his Astartes tore the walls down, stone by damned stone, the organic growths that bound the rotten corpse of the once Imperial structure began to repair the damage. Bulbous tumours filled breaches, walls reduced to rubble replaced by thick rubbery membranes, and destroyed gun emplacements replaced by vents unleashing toxic smog with each false breath.

Seeing the organic nature of the new fortification, Mortis had personally acquiesced the use of a series of increasingly virulent and toxic chemical strikes from orbit, his battered fleet breaking away from the war in orbit to lend support, before returning to the fray, or pulling back for essential repairs.

The combination of the Death Guard and the Champions of Mortis' increased efforts at eradicating the other had caused a slow death for the planet the Imperials had apparently been defending. The atmosphere was turbulent, storms of acid, containing traces of powerful nerve agents fell from the war torn sky, bolts of green lightning tore through the sulfurous clouds. The ground itself was the black swamp of decayed organic matter, the millions of survivors of the Death Guard attacks forced to either flee their world, or die in its increasingly toxic environment.

Mortis refused to let himself regret the decision. He would still win this war. Whether it took 4 years, or 400. Unbidden, his attention turns to the Primaris members of his Chapter, their tall frames standing out even amongst the tall, gaunt Astartes of his Chapter. Perhaps they were the most difficult part of his return to real space.

*Heresy.* The word came unbidden to his mind, upon each sight of them. That a mere tech priest, thought he could improve upon the Emperor's work. Yet despite his misgivings, they had served admirably, breathing new life into a slowly dying Chapter.

Yet for all their resilience, legendary for even their enhanced breed, there was something… off putting about them. Immune to the Chapter gene flaw, but perhaps too close to the original, it was whispered amongst his most trusted companions. Excessively tall, excessively gaunt, they scarcely looked like the noble scions of Rogal Dorn, their pale drawn faces, dark narrowed eyes and greasy dark hair bringing back memories, he had wanted forgotten.

Mortis shakes off his maudlin thoughts, returning to the present as his vox begins to light up. Requests from the newly formed 5th Company, Primaris exclusive, for ammunition. He paused, the thought, the temptation in the back of his mind.

Yet he knew of betrayal, and more so of treachery than most. The very promise of freedom from his memories at the costs of their lives left a sour taste in his scarred mouth. Biting back his bike, he searches the vox channels with practised efficiency.

"Vanguard Squad Barovis. My apologies, old friend. The AA guns are still operable. We have a supply run." He rasps, the noncommittal grunt from his veteran Sergeant the only acknowledgement.  It stuck in Mortis' throat, that in this long range hellstorm, he was relying on his very few jump pack operable Astartes to ferry supplies across the trenches. It was a dangerous task, and a waste of valuable lives, when so few could operate the tools considered a staple in so many chapters.

And all this for what. His wrathful eyes glare at the insane amalgamation of flesh and stone, the fortress of Chaos that had defied the Imperium's justice for so long. This planet was dead. It was lost to the Imperium. But he would be damned if he let those traitors keep it. He would deny them this barren wasteland, he wouldn't let them keep a single blackened stone of it.

"Ready the 1st. It is time we reminded those bastards who we are." Mortis rasps into his vox, the words causing fresh blood to spill from the heavy scar tissue around his lips.

Fists clenched, the Lord Defiant makes for the heavy metal door to the bunker, his attitude sour. This blow wouldn't end the war, not today. But it would be a spiteful reminder that the Champions of Mortis hadn't given up yet.