Teeth.

A sickening cascade of bone made to razors.

Snapping, drooling, squealing and spitting it's protest forth at whatever was keeping it from its next meal, no matter if be space, time or the iron grip of an Astarte.

A metallic shriek tor through the air joined alongside a chorus of ravenous growls, the angry roar of a death-machines' belly.

A metallic length assaulted the mass of teeth, smashing tooth and jaw upon its abrupt entrance. The mouth that had seemingly burst straight from hell went on oblivious of its sorely wounds jaw, snapping hard down on the shaft of steel.

The shrieking of the machine climbed in pitch until its became all but deafening, it's own hunger bursting from its discipline in a shower of bone and blood. Bright blue gore and giblets spattered in all directions as the machine bit through the ravenous mouth with sickening ease, the monstrosities teeth clenching hard down upon the furious machine in a helpless reaction of its own body. The machine finally tor through the beasts empty mind and dispelled the hunger that it had been gripped by. The jaw fell open, limp, as the machine withdrew from its intrusion. An armored hand gripping the side of the monsters head forced it and its lifeless body off his own metallic mass.  

Wasting no time nor thought the Astarte drew out his sidearm, an instrument of a thousand fires fiercer than the belly of the brightest star. Leveling his weapon the Astartes began his swift advance, heavy boots smashing relentlessly against the cold, metal floor. His next target had closed its distance well, but not well enough as its hideous visage came to the touch with his pistols barrel. A blaze of brilliant white turning blue escaped the weapons maw as instantly as it escaped the back of its targets' head. The alien skull was carved out into a charred, hollow bowl, its chitinous body smashing into the Astartes shoulder pauldron before spinning off to land in a messy heap on the floor.

Flashes of angry fire rang about the marine, his beloved brothers in arms coughing death at the chattering teeth of invaders. Their comparatively feeble bodies came apart in a shower of broken bone and mangled meats, organs turned to slurry as brain spattered the deck of their vessels bridge. The blast doors were bent out and torn at the edges, thick ceramite shattered and broken in ungraceful ways as masses of alien beasts clambered through the ships wound. Bolter rounds and plasma fire saw the tide stemmed for a while, but opportunity was running thinner with every heartbeat.

"Henatrex, move your flamer up! Belston, ready yourself behind your brother! Push them back!" Captain Viktur roared, not with the means to intimidate, but to reach his voice over the hurricane that was shrieking, screaming and scratching around them.

The marines took their advance one step at a time, shuffling forwards with greatest of cautions. A blade of iron-hard bone shot right for Brother Jevlos' face, the auto-reactive pauldron being all that saved his from its murderous intent. Jevlo shook off the blow as it cut inches deep into his armour, leaving a jagged gash in the ceramic plate. Caravek took a harsh blow to the lower leg, bringing him to one knee and leaving him face to face with the next alien to pass him. The hound-sized creature threw itself at him in a tackle, taking him to the floor to pin him down with its several sets of clawed limbs. Jericho broke formation and threw his bolters fire at the alien, seeing it burst apart in an instant. The Captain could relate to his brothers need to aid his fellow marine, but such diligence would have to be reported to the company chaplain as soon as this mess had been sorted out. Caravek gave his hearty thanks to his brother as they continued their push forward.

Henatrex reached effective firing range, his armour torn but whole. He raised his heavy flamer and washed the breach with its sacred fire. White hot flame fed by thick fluid compounds fell over the squealing creatures, who popped apart or merely disintegrated at the fires' touch. The fire danced and leaped through the stale air of the ships interior as an ethereal display, a ballet of hot colors throwing themselves about in excited and exaggerated ways with each belch the flamer made.

"Squad Eutinar, we have them pushed back to the corridor, make your advance back to the breach." Viktur barked over his suits radio.

"Acknowledged. Once we get to the breach point, I estimate no more than 5 minutes of  before resistance becomes to fierce repel." Sergeant Eutinar growled in response, his voice bearing a small static distortion.

"Hellmaw, tell me you're close!" Viktur called in desperation to his ally ship.

"ETA to payload impact, two minutes, sire!" Sergeant Pinichos called back.

"Captain, the substructure is already beginning to buckle. We cut that Hull Leech free and it could take half the ships skeleton with it." Sergeant Ivanhar added, his voice somber.

"We have run out of choices. Let these beasts chew away at us from the inside of risk a dire wound from the boarding crafts death-throws." Viktur replied, the weight of his decision putting pressure on his expression.

"I understand, sir. What of the relic?"

"It remains our priority. At what strength are we?"

"We remain as yourself, ten sternguard included myself, five novice initiates and twenty battle brothers. I fear a number of our fallen may well have been taken into the belly of that behemoth."

"And pay penance for our weakness in not seeing them home will be payed for. Yet the relic remains, and we shall guard it unto the last of us draws his final breath," The captain took a deep breath in and closed his eyes a moment, clearing his thoughts of the need to save his brethren, to see them safe, "Hear ye, all brethren! All forces make haste to the cargo hold and fortify vault fourteen. Guard the relic from all and any harm, for the chapters honour."

The carnage of battle swam from the captains mind, taking a back-seat to all he took in around himself. He dropped his hand away from his throat mic and wandered over to the observation window of his frigates bridge. The void of space had never before been such a dazzling display of violence and chaos to his eyes, and his eyes had seen much over his three and a half centuries of life. The Denti, a race of monstrous horrors that slumbered beneath the crust of oblivious worlds, swarmed through space like a tidal wave of alien flesh, bone, claw and teeth. Imperial ships had lost all formation, even the number of Astarte ships that remained faced odd angles and flew in desperate patterns in the inky darkness. Auxiliary ships of the Imperial Army were like lambs to the slaughter, the relatively small craft being tackled and gnawed apart by the hundreds of Denti predator-craft, the living ships hitting them at frightening speed before burrowing into their hulls like maggots to a corpse. Long range vox was a choir of agonized screams and desperate cries for aid to a backing of alien shrieks. The planet below, once a vastly populated trade world of Terivakas VII burst apart. Whole continents ruptured and split to release a tide of hundreds of thousands, a tide of terrors gripped of an impossible hunger and unfathomable violence. Magma followed them out, appearing as the blood and innards of the world itself were being torn free as a dozen parasites chewed their way free of its life-bearing flesh.

"Ships crew....initiate emergency warp transit. Get us out of here, we cannot save this world." Viktur ordered, but his voice lacked its usual authority, lacked all solidity and confidence. In truth, he was on the edge of tears.

"At once, Captain. May he preserve us." The serf replied.

He is not meant to preserve us. He is meant to preserve them...through us.

The Sacrificors, successors of the Word Bearers chapter, had failed their task at seeing Terivakas VII settled of its sudden turmoil and returned to a stable state. The world had been a hub for species and empires far and wide, almost all the way back to the Sol sector of the galaxy. the planet had been unexpectedly gripped by a disturbing series of dire acts, acts of such deep and perplexing fear that one would think all forty billion of the population were foreseeing a future of terrible doom and despair. At first it would seem that such an attitude could be due to Imperial negligence, not a single ship of mankind having touched upon its surface in over four hundred years. Yet this trade world had never shown any escalation of disturbance, nor any past problems on any note. The truth had first burst from the earth not three days ago.

The dread that had gripped the planet had not been of meer coincidence, but of a terrible design, a 'white noise' being flooded into the Warp and into the minds of the mortals living upon this infected world. The five hundred, half-company of Sacrificors sent to the planet had been no match for the billions of Denti crawling out from right beneath them, and certainly not the six hundred thousand army troops. The Denti where beatable, sometimes even easily so but upon their birthing-world they were simply far to many, far too ravenous and so much of a surprise that defenses nearly always were pushed back into orbit at the very least.

"Gellar field have made their emergency charge, Captain. We initiate final jump sequence on your mark." The engine serf announced.

"Brothers, it sees me weep to turn my back on your hour of need. My heart is rent at seeing my vessel deny honour in battle. And so, we seek a different honour in safeguarding our prize. I swear upon Terras' own soil, I will return to you with repayment for my sins this day!" The captains words went out through the vox channel to his fellow craft soaked in his own hot tears, his disgrace too much for his feeble body to bare.

"Go forth, Brother! Bring us glory in another time!"

"His light preserve you efforts, Captain."

"Do not disappoint us, Viktur. From his table we shall watch you."

The replies, both warm and sour did nothing to sway the captains soul, nothing to ease his agony as the bright gleam of his frigate savior sped towards him. From the Firestorms' nose came a bright light of brilliant white that faded to blue for a fraction of a second before dying out completely, the beam passing to the left of Vikturs own Gladius frigate. The alien parasite craft tensed a moment as the lance cut through its massive body before it simply fell off the outer hull, floating away into the cold of space. The Firestorm frigate passed the Gladius, taking a fair time to do so as it was easily twice the size of Vikturs' escort ship.

"Mark." Viktur ordered weakly.

The frigate shook as its broken form failed to be carried into unreality with ease as its unblemished design would have it do. A whirlwind of crimson, violet and dark light opened up before the Imperial craft like a hungry maw, a sight Viktur had grown tired of seeing this day. The captain turned, his head hung in humble regret as he marched to the cargo bay, followed by his sternguard brethren as the storm of color engulfed his ship.

-------------------------------------------------

The cargo bay remained silent for the most part, yet a silence viciously broken by the violent squeal of tortured metal and choked machinery as the Gladius frigate was slapped about by turbulent warp-tides. Each rippling wave of unreal energy sheering away at the hull of the already wounded ship. Astarte, both novice and veteran where hold up in tight defensive positions about the prized cargo bay vault, before a colossal armored blast door of lifeless grey metal. Within was an unassuming item, nothing more than a worthless, rotten trinket to all but the well learned in Imperial history. A shred of thick, tough yet gentle fabric that composed most Astarte war banners. The fabric was filthy, ridden with spoil and age, a piece no larger than a table cloth. It was the lower right corner of a Word Bearers banner, one as old as the founding chapter itself, and upon it was written the word 'Redempta'.

The relic keepers of the Sacrificors had studied the piece for no longer than a minute before falling to their knees in their sudden revelation. The piece was the final found piece of the Word bearers fifth company banner, the banner that had marched through the same warp storm their primarch, Lorgar, had strode to begin his 'pilgrimage' into the unkown. The fifth had sought to recall their primarch after a series of Orc and Dracta assaults had closed deep into Imperial territory, straight towards their home world of Colchis. But the desperate act had been in vain, for dark powers had called the primarch into the fires of hell itself, and they did not wish him to be followed. The Emperor of mankind was next to intervene, choosing not to lead the defenders of Colchis himself, but instead seek out his lost son. The Emperor lead the struggling fifth company of Word Bearers into the diminishing and heavily defended warp storm, but eventually made it through the hellish portal just in time. What events transpired within have been given many various tales and songs, but what is known is that father and son returned once more as bonded pair after their recent feudal misunderstanding, an event leading to the start of the Days of Defiance. Yet what had not returned from that dreaded realm was the cloth of the fifths' banner, a minor disgrace considering the events of those dire days, but a disgrace all the same.

Since then, two thousand, three hundred and forty eight years later, many pieces of the lost banner had been returned to the founding chapter, all say for one. One that sat within a stasis cell, locked safe within the thick adamantium walls of the frigates' vault. To the eyes of the ignorant mortal such a thing was worthless, but to every marine within this broken crafts belly it was worth more than their entire chapter.

"Foolery, I say. The relic is no safer tumbling through this damned reality than it is in real-space. The founders would damn our rotten souls for ten thousand lifetimes should the banner perish with us upon this wreck." A marine growled, the haunting yellow of his helmet lenses fixed downrange of his bolters iron-sights.

"T'would be as if we'd torn it up in their faces and pissed on what was left. Yet I have a feeling I'd prefer to take personal responsibility for the loss of the relic rather than see it disappear down the throat of one of those blasted abominations." Added another.

"Not as if we can hit the brakes and turn around. May the more heavenly fates see us to a haven sooner than a hell." Another called out from the upper ramparts of the cargo bay walls.

"Here here! If not us, then at least the legacy we guard!"

A chorus of approvals and relevant scripture were given in reply, the warriors of deep red and stony pale paying their devotion vocal emission.

"What of you, initiates? What would you pray for in this uncertain hour?" Called the battle-ready brother marine.

Below the scouts had been scattered about the hangar, atop cargo crates, loading cranes and perched within observation decks. They remained of a more steely composure, wound tighter than their superiors.

"Well lads, to what do you have to say to your better?" The scout veteran sergeant called out to his trainees.

"I would pray for a clear heading, sir. To have us and our package see reality once again." Yerick replied, a lad of fierce, short, bright blonde so much like sunlight trapped in the fabric of his flesh, his skin a deeper tan and dark freckles.

"I would pray for the destiny of the relic be set, to have fate deliver it to the hands of the beloved Lorgar, bless his divine name." Kendrix said after, the words of the dark haired boy, bearing also a healthy tone of flesh, ringing low with humbleness.

"Such a time does not need the folly of a simple minded, unlearned initiate. I give way to better minds to pay such an event fairer words." Jeorge said with a solid sense of reality solidifying his voice, his paler face of a simple expression.

"Very good scout, such thoughts would see you already tread the path of wisdom." The marine replied, thoroughly impressed.

"I would not pray, my lord. I trust in our mighty captain to manipulate the fates so we accomplish our task. Lord Viktur shall see us all safe, along with the relic." Deanor said in a humble tone, the scout of darker blonde and fair skin solid in his trust of captain.

"Ah, we have a man of men! You relinquish yourself of the sacred text, boy?" The marine called out once more, his question more a way of humoring himself rather than a demand of rectification.

"I say my prayers as we all do, my lord, and my heart holds the wait of each word I think or speak. Yet now I choose to place but a portion of my heart upon the shoulders of our commander."

"Such words ring as if I grip our rudder with my very hands." Viktur huffed as he entered the hangar, the blast doors still sliding open even his tenth step from them.

"I appreciate the trust you offer me, initiate. But our fate lies far beyond my control, and at this time I'd fully support a good, heart-felt prayer." The captain said as he passed the scout by, his armored fingers tapping upon the pommel of the chainsword fixed to his belt.

"Our situation is truly so dire?" A marine chimed in.

"More so. Our heading is unknown and maximum travel time is another three hours. The ships hull will only hold another thirteen minutes. We could well be dead before journeys end." Viktur replied somberly.

"And the relic lost, or destroyed." Ivanhar added.

"Pyrus Inferna has served us well thus far, she will see us return in her final hours." Another marine cast his lot in.

"We can ho-" Viktur was cut of by a titanic quake that nearly shook the legs from under him.

"Real-space re-entry successful captain, if somewhat abrupt." The systems serf called from the radio.

"Let him be praised!" Was one of the many enriched praises given by the Astartes.

"Truly....Something isn't right." Viktur murmured to himself.

"My lord?" Ivanhar asked.

"I've never been one to boast the notion of luck. What reason could there be for us to live when the chances say we would perish?"

"The Emperor keeps us in his gaze." The sergeant replied, as if the answer was utterly obvious.

"Of course...of course. Analysor, what of the ship?"

"I declared the Pyrus Inferna deceased fourteen seconds ago in my local data bank, sire. All ship systems are offline, seventy four point eight-three percent will remain irreparable. Including your suits system, you will run out of air in three days." The chief serf droned in reply.

"Are their any Denti left on board?"

"Negative, Captain. The last of the invaders where destroyed after warp riptides annihilated decks A-13 through A-26."

"No way to find out where we are? No way to send any form of communication from the ship?"

"I'm afraid not, Captain. In all technicality, the vessel is now a wreck, my lord."

The captain clenched his jaw at the correction of the lesser creature. The Pyrus hadn't been the largest, nor the most powerful vessel of the Sacrificors by a far, but it had been a true craft that served its purpose far beyond what was expected.

"No one sing praise just yet, brothers. Yolrin, I'll need your squad to salvage what plasma cores we have in the drop-deck and find every length of conductor this craft has. Ivanhar, you ready yourself at the comms deck and see what we have to work with in getting a transmission sent....."Viktur would have continued but was caught in a web of confusion and frustration which had gradually been ensnaring him.

His brethren had lost focus on him, as if he had drifted from reality and become a ghost. Their eyes, or at least their lenses looked partially through him, but mostly just inclined above him. Those whose faces could be seen were gripped in disbelief, a unique breed of confusion that expressed witnessing the utterly impossible. Viktur began to turn, fearing the possibility that they had actually jumped a circle and where once again floating above the dying world they had just meant to leave far behind them. The captain readied himself for his eyes to be assaulted by the worst sight he could see, turning his heel and taking one final swivel to bring his eyes to the row of observation windows. A wave of relief was immediately followed by the same wonder that had enthralled his fellows.

A world of bright greens, soft yellows and ethereal blues peered through the bridge at the marines like a curious child. It's lush and healthy surface was as inviting and comforting as the warmest of smiles, as if the world itself beckoned the Astartes onward to tread upon its soil. Never before had Viktur seen a world in such good health, its clouds so gently dispersed and fluid in pattern along with the earth below clearly divided into the various colors depending on terrain. The deserts looked sandy and warm, the mountains solid and strong, the forests deep and full and the plains vast and clear. The planet idly spun slowly across the armour-glass of the bridge, wheeling into a divine dance to further invite the wayward craft.

"Analysor....ready crew for departure. Ivanhar, take lead on readying a Thunderhawk. Brothers.....we are not to let our emotions get the better of our minds. Such events are best left un-damned, so let us simply act upon them. Sergeant, gather demolition gear to blow the hangar door when we are ready to leave. Keep your prayers silent, but pray nonetheless, and pray our fortune holds out just a while longer."