A gentle sizzling sound filled the air, a rhythmic whisper that spoke of warmth and contained energy. It was accompanied by the deep, earthy smell of damp dirt and the distinct, crisp aroma of pine needles and damp leaves. a distant warmth radiating from somewhere nearby, the clean scent of the forest floor.
He could feel the gentle rise and fall of his own chest, a fragile rhythm of life.
Sight. Nothing, only darkness, his eyes refusing to open, something bright poking at his eyelids, but he was too tired to respond.
Sounds. Wind rustled through leaves, a cold breeze tempting him to slip back into sleep. Howling and hooting suggested nocturnal creatures roaming about ; it must be night.
The sizzling sound was very close, warm and bright against his eyelids, a steady companion.
The smell of uncorrupted air, so fresh and filling, then a metallic tang, blood perhaps.
Was he injured? His body was numb, his heart ached for an unknown reason, and a searing pain pulsed in his neck.
Please let me sleep some more, he thought.
Then a familiar voice, "you had slumbered long enough, Rogue."
It was a low growl, cutting through the calm night and tearing through the haze of Kochav's fatigue. It was firm, unwavering, demanding his attention.
Then,
with a jarring snap, the pervasive dullness lifted. The pain and the exhaustion intensified, no longer a distant throb but a searing, immediate reality that ripped him from the depths of his slumber.
Kochav's eyes snapped open instantly, but the sudden movement sent a jolt of raw agony through his neck, causing him to scream.
Kochav's eyes widened. He gripped his neck, but something felt profoundly wrong. He tried to use his left hand to reach the wound, but the sensation was alien, not his own. Confused, a tremor of unease running through him, he looked up at Bergelmir, desperate for clarity.
"Time to face reality, Rogue," Bergelmir stated, his voice a low rumble.
"What did yo—CaughCaugh—do?... Wh—Why the sudden pain?" His words were a garbled whisper, hoarse and unclear due to the raw agony in his throat and the persistent ache in his neck.
"You were unconscious since the fall," Bergelmir spoke, his voice deep and measured, devoid of sympathy but heavy with a grim truth.
"The pain would have killed you, so I dulled your pain. And now is the time you do it yourself."
The pain slightly subsided, enough for the world to stop spinning and the frantic edge to leave his mind. He calmed down, a shaky breath rattling in his chest.
Then,
he met Bergelmir's gaze again, the campfire between them, the Grey Knight's helmeted face unreadable, yet his silent presence commanded attention.
He took a deep breath, the forest air cool in his lungs despite the lingering warmth from the campfire. With a surge of renewed apprehension, he slowly raised what felt like his left arm, turning it to examine it in the dim, flickering light. His eyes widened, a fresh wave of confusion overriding the pain.
"What the fuck is wrong with my arm?" he demanded, his voice still hoarse but carrying a stronger edge of desperate disbelief.
"Did you find a dead mutant lying around somewhere and attach its arm to mine?"
His gaze fixed on his left arm, previously destroyed by a flak cannon aboard the Valkyrie.
Now,
it was replaced with a mutated, scaled limb from the lower forearm down to his hand. The scales were iridescent, shifting and changing hue with every subtle shift in the firelight or angle of his gaze.
His hand, still fixed with five fingers, was now tipped with sharp claws, and protruding spikes jutted disturbingly from the proximal joints.
—
Bergelmir sighed, a deep, weary sound that was almost imperceptible through his helmet's vox-grille. He offered what he saw with grim honesty.
"When you were unconscious, I was about to stop the bleeding on the arm, and suddenly that mutating scales regenerated from your bone."
He paused, his voice taking on a harder edge.
"I cut it immediately with my psychic blade, but no matter how many times I tried, it kept coming back." Bergelmir's gaze flickered to Kochav's eyes, then to the arm.
"I even cut above the wound, but it still persists."
—
Kochav gave him a deadeye stare, his voice filled with a cold, hollow accusation.
"So you mutilated me further?"
—
Bergelmir's posture remained unwavering, his vast, armored form radiating an unyielding resolve.
"I suggest we cut the whole arm off, from your shoulder, and cauterize the stump with holy fire. It is the only—"
—
"Enough!" Kochav cut him off, his voice suddenly sharp, a new, fierce determination overriding the pain. His mutated left hand, despite its alien nature, clenched.
"You will not touch my arm. I will do it myself."
Bergelmir paused, then simply nodded. This was Kochav's own choice, a decision made on the precipice of his grim new reality.
A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the campfire and the distant sounds of the forest night. After a long moment, Kochav took a deep breath, the intake of air loud in the quiet.
He exhaled slowly, then muttered to himself, a grim resolve in his voice,
"Let's go."
His right palm was opened, then a shimmering force began to cover it.
With intense focus, a psychic blade, sharp and incandescent, manifested above his hand, crackling with controlled power.
His pupils glowed a radiant blue, a fierce light burning in the dimness.
He locked gazes with Bergelmir for a quick second, a silent challenge or perhaps a plea for understanding in the face of his grim decision, then his gaze snapped back to his left arm.
It lay on his jacket next to the campfire, inert for the moment. His eyes meticulously scanned the grotesque limb, searching for a perfect spot.
He found it: right at the humeral trochlea, the joint of his elbow.
With another deep inhale, drawn in sharply as if steeling himself, he precisely brought the shimmering psychic blade down.
There was no resistance as it sliced through flesh, sinew, and bone, cleanly separating his mutated forearm from his upper arm.
From the raw, open wound, the humerus remained intact, gleaming starkly in the firelight, but blood immediately began to spew forth.
Still holding his breath, he quickly slammed the stump against the open flame before him, cauterizing the wound with a sickening sizzle.
He grunted, a guttural sound of pure, raw pain, before finally exhaling, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to empty his lungs.
Reeling himself from the pain, Kochav reached down with his right hand, picked up the severed, mutated forearm, and with a grunt of disgust and finality, threw it into the roaring campfire.
As the grotesque limb landed amidst the crackling logs, it slowly charred, a foul smoke coiling upwards before it audibly crackled and disintegrated into fine dust, vanishing without a trace, leaving no ash or bone behind.
Still utterly exhausted, Kochav breathed with a broken, ragged rhythm, the effort visible on his face.
"See?" he rasped, a slight, grim satisfaction playing across his features, though his eyes were shadowed with trauma.
"That is—how you do it."
—
Bergelmir crossed his massive, armored arms over his chest and gave a solemn nod, a gesture of stark appreciation, as if he had just witnessed a perfectly executed surgical operation performed by a master Apothecary.
The air remained tense, but a new, grudging respect permeated it. Kochav observed his bandaged, cauterized stump, a stark absence where his forearm had been, and felt a strange sense of victory.
The arm did not grow back. He took a few minutes to simply breathe, to let the shock and the pain recede into the manageable ache he had carved out with his will. When he felt his mind reassert itself, even through the haze of exhaustion, he finally looked up at Bergelmir, ready to converse.
"How long was I out?" Kochav asked, his gaze drifting from the now-empty sleeve of his jacket to the dark expanse of the surrounding night, seeking some external measure of time.
—
"Three hours," Bergelmir stated, his voice flat and factual, devoid of emotion.
He paused, then added, "Although you sometimes muttered 'Velardo' in your sleep."
—
Kochav's brow furrowed, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes.
"My birth name?" he asked, the words slow, almost a whisper of confusion.
Bergelmir gave him a grim nod.
"What happened to Mira and Helsin?" Kochav asked, his voice regaining a touch of its usual urgency, the question cutting through the unexpected personal revelation.
His gaze snapped back to Bergelmir, demanding an answer.
—
"If your force-shield held during the impact, they would surely survive," Bergelmir responded, his voice a low rumble, putting the onus of their fate squarely on Kochav's last actions.
"So... did it hold?"
—
Kochav's eyes clouded, his brow furrowing deeper as he tried to sift through the fragmented memories of the moments between the fall. The roar of the flak, the screeching of metal, it was all a blur of chaos and pain.
He shook his head slowly, the movement sending a fresh throb through his neck.
"I... don't know," he finally managed, his voice laced with genuine uncertainty and a fresh pang of dread.
The last thing he truly remembered was the impossible pressure and the darkness.
—
"Hmm," Bergelmir rumbled, his helmeted head tilting slightly.
"Then they survive. A mere fall would not kill an Inquisitor like Helsin, or a Knight-Centura like Mira." His tone held an unshakeable conviction, born of long experience with the Imperium's most resilient agents.
—
Kochav nodded, a faint wave of relief washing over him despite his pervasive pain and exhaustion.
He believed the Grey Knight Terminator's words. Bergelmir would not speak such certainty lightly. The immediate dread for his companions lessened, replaced by the persistent ache of his stump and the lingering questions about his own past.
He looked around the dimly lit clearing, the shadows dancing with the firelight.
"Between the two of us," Kochav began, his voice still a little hoarse, but with a newfound edge of challenge, a faint smirk touching his lips as he asked, accepting the expected outcome,
"who would assume command? A Rogue Psyker, or a Grey Knight?"
—
In response, Bergelmir simply raised his massive gauntlet, pointing a finger directly at Kochav.
For a split second, the campfire between them flared, its flames leaping higher, casting wild, dancing shadows that made Bergelmir's imposing figure seem even larger.
Kochav blinked, his smirk vanishing, and he looked around him in confusion before his gaze settled back on the Grey Knight's pointing finger.
Slowly, his remaining hand came up, pointing incredulously at his own face.
"Me???" he stammered, the single word laced with utter disbelief.
—
Bergelmir gave another firm nod.
—
Kochav's jaw tightened, confusion battling with a surge of indignation.
"Why?" he demanded, his voice stronger now, cutting through the surprise.
"You are a Grey Knight, an astartes. I am just a Psyker. Take command!"
—
Bergelmir paused, his armored form a monolith in the flickering light. His voice, when it
came, was a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to settle the very air around them.
"Then my first command is," he stated, his finger remaining pointed at Kochav,
"you take watch tonight." There was a brief, pregnant silence.
Then, Bergelmir lowered his hand, the gesture final.
"My last command is: I relinquish my command to you."
—
Kochav sighed in disbelief, the heavy weight of Bergelmir's decision settling upon him.
The sheer absurdity of a Grey Knight, a scion of the Emperor himself, deferring command to a one-handed Rogue psyker, made his head spin.
Kochav pushed himself to his feet, his stump throbbing, yet his mind demanded clarity. He cinched his coat tighter with his good arm, then began a methodical sweep of the perimeter.
His eyes, keen even in the dim light, cut through the dense, alien forest, searching for any telltale movement in the shifting shadows.
He then deepened his perception, closing his eyes to peer into the veil of psychic energy.
Here, the world pulsed with unseen life: the tiny, skittering sounds of rodent-like creatures, the soft preening of an avian beast, and a myriad of other natural rhythms.
Day or night, this wilderness teemed with raw, untamed life. Satisfied that no intelligent presence lurked in their immediate vicinity, he found a sturdy tree and sat down.
He leaned back against the tree, moved his knee up, and rested his good arm on it.
With a long exhale, he dismissed the dull pain. The physical ache sharpened throughout his body, especially his neck and stump.
Yet, the pain was familiar now, a constant companion rather than an incapacitating agony. This new clarity, painful as it was, settled his mind.
He looked at his cauterized arm, sighed, and gritted his teeth. He enhanced his senses again, and the pain intensified with the surge of power.
His breath hitched slightly, then he touched the charred wound, a faint smell of burnt flesh clinging to it. He gave it a deliberate squeeze.
The pain was immense, but the adrenaline rush was satisfying; it reminded him that he was still alive.
He let out another long sigh, pulled out his revolver, and examined it.
He checked the cylinder; it was unloaded, pulled the trigger to test if the gun was still operational; it was perfectly fine.
The trigger held firm, the hammer intact, and the barrel was straight as ever, cycling with ease.
He grinned in satisfaction, then put it down next to him.
He reached for his force-sword attached to the side of his belt, but his right hand met only air. The scabbard was empty.
He immediately sought its signature in the warp, finding it lying next to the only psychic bonfire in the area: Bergelmir the Grey Knight.
He looked over to the Astartes. Bergelmir was still sitting next to the campfire, though the usual blue psychic hue of his visor was not lit up. He was resting in unmoving stillness.
Kochav shook his head in disbelief. Then, focusing his gaze on the sword, the feeling was strange, incomplete.
He force-pulled it. The sword flew through the air, then warped through all the obstacles between them, its grip settling firmly into his hand. It felt reassuring.
He brought the pommel close to his face; it bore just a scratch. Renoir's sealed blood was still inside, and a small smile lit up on his face. He checked the Guard and the Psychic-channeller; both were fine.
But the blade was broken; one half was missing, possibly due to the impact from the fall. It looked more like a dagger now, a more suitable weapon for a Rogue like him.
He reangled the blade, and the moonlight hit the surface, reflecting his face.
Pale, exhausted, and most importantly, alive.
He looked up toward the sky, searching for the telltale, sickly glow of the Animositas, but it was gone. Their base of operations had vanished.
it was forced to escape because the heavens above were now filled with colossal, ominous silhouettes that blotted out sections of the two moons of Thrysa.
These were Xarcarion's battleships, there to prevent their escape.
A cold truth solidified in Kochav's mind: their chance to get off this rock was impossible until their ship returned.
They were stranded, hunted, and now blockaded.
He pressed the vox-beads on his jacket, a futile hope that flickered despite the grim reality.
—CLICK, SIZZZZ.....
All he heard was a deafening sizzling static. Of course, they would be jamming the comms. He let himself get comfortable, pulling out his ration—a processed food bar.
He took a bite, the bland taste a stark contrast to the urgency of their situation, and resumed his vigilant watch.
Hours passed,
but the two moons in the sky hadn't moved one bit. As the night stretched, Kochav used the quiet hours to review their grim situation.
Thrysa, a planet far larger than Artine, where night cycles seemed to dwarf the day, and where the shadows stirred with abhumans and Kroot.
Their primary objective, retrieving the gene-seed, now felt precarious. The intel, he grimly realized, might have been entirely fabricated, a lure to trap them here, meaning the gene-seed might not even exist on this world.
Their immediate priorities became starkly clear: they needed to regroup, find Mira and Helsin, and then somehow establish contact with their base to secure a way off this hostile planet safely.
"Whatever," he muttered to himself while scrolling through the dataslate, then put it back inside his jacket.
"A witch hunter like Mira will be able to track us down for sure." He paused, looking at Bergelmir, who remained unmoving, then down at the ground before him.
"A daemon hunter and a witch," he scoffed, the words laced with a dry, self-deprecating irony.
Kochav jumped down from the hill, walked back to the campfire, and stood right before Bergelmir.
Bergelmir's visor suddenly lit up with a faint blue glow as he spoke, his voice a deep, resonant hum.
"What is our plan?"
—
"The night is way too long," Kochav answered.
He looked up toward the sky, his gaze calculating the positions of the two moons.
"Daytime will come in 12 hours, so we will move until then."
He then crouched down, placing a small hololithic display on the ground between them.
"We are somewhere to the far east from our landing point, the others even further than us, in the north."
He pointed to a projected waypoint on the map.
"We will move 10 o'clock northwest." He finished, then injected another stimulant into his neck.
Bergelmir slowly stood up as Kochav cracked his joints, and nodded.
Bergelmir's hand slowly raised atop the bonfire, and with a sharp motion, he closed his palm into a fist.
The fire extinguished immediately by Psychic force, plunging the immediate area into deeper shadow.
Then the two of them proceeded with their plan, starting their silent trek northwestward.
In the deep, unknown forest, a primal darkness enveloped them, broken only by the eerie, faint blue glow emanating from Bergelmir's visor.
The light cast long, dancing shadows, illuminating the strange, flora and hinting at unseen fauna.
Kochav, vigilant, moved immediately behind the towering Grey Knight, his own senses enhanced to pierce the gloom. With his vision heightened by psychic power, the intricate details of the night-shrouded environment became unnervingly clear.
The animals of Thrysa, sensing the two powerful, alien presences, were struck by an instinctive fear, their forms rustling and scattering into deeper hiding places or fleeing in panicked silence.
Bergelmir broke the silence as they continued their march.
"What are we going to do about them?"
Kochav understood what he meant immediately, sensing the unseen presences.
"Twelve of them, around us," he replied, his voice low. "Armed. But they're afraid."
—
"Do we kill them?" Bergelmir asked, his deep voice unwavering as they continued their steady pace.
—
"No, let's play nice," Kochav answered, a dry smirk on his face that Bergelmir couldn't see.
"They're harmless, even if they try to kill us."
Suddenly, Kochav halted, stopping mid-stride.
"Change of plan. Let's stop here. We will surrender to them."
He slowly raised his good hand in the air, a gesture of peace and submission in the universal language of intelligent species.
Bergelmir, after a moment's pause, followed suit, his massive armored hand rising in silent agreement.
A few moments later, murmuring could be heard all around them—a discussion, perhaps, among their hidden pursuers.
Then,
six figures emerged from the dense darkness: Kroot, Beastmen and felinids armed with primitive, yet menacing, weapons.
One of them, a male felinid Beastman, his fur a mottled grey and his eyes wide and cautious, stepped forward, directly approaching Kochav.
His gaze darted nervously, carefully avoiding the imposing figure of Bergelmir.
"F-Follow us, outsiders," he commanded, his voice a guttural whisper laced with apprehension.
Kochav simply nodded, a slight inclination of his head that conveyed compliance without a word. With their hands still raised, he and Bergelmir began to follow their presumed captor, moving deeper into the shadows of the alien forest.
They arrived at the base of a huge tree, easily the size of a small Imperial Knight, its ancient bark gnarled and vast.
The felinid muttered something in a low, guttural language to the immense trunk.
A moment later, a deep groaning sound echoed from within the living wood, and slowly, incredibly, the tree began to open, forming a huge, dark pathway before them.
Their captors gestured for them to move inside, spears aimed pointedly at their backs.
Bergelmir glanced at Kochav, a silent question in the faint glow of his visor, asking for a command.
Kochav simply nodded.
With that, they all stepped into the darkness, consumed by the living doorway of the tree. Only a few minutes later, they emerged on the other side.
The air here was different, cooler, with a strange, sweet scent underlying the forest's earthiness. They found themselves not in an open clearing, but within a vast, organic chamber seemingly carved from the very heart of the enormous tree itself.
Bioluminescent fungi pulsed with soft, ethereal light along the chamber's curved walls, casting shifting shadows that played tricks on the eye. Root systems, thick as a man's torso, snaked across the floor and ceiling, sometimes forming natural benches or archways.
Their escorts had fanned out, their primitive weapons held loosely but ready.
Bergelmir's visor glowed brighter, reflecting the alien luminescence around them as he scanned the chamber.
Kochav's senses, already heightened, found a new psychic signature.
Then,
A new, unseen voice, sharp and resonant, cut through the quietness.
"They may not see your true nature, but i do. Mon'keigh."