Angar stood braced in the Zephuros' entry bay, the ship's hull groaning as it chewed through Abyssalhome's upper atmosphere.

The deck shuddered underfoot, vibrations rattling up through his armor, but he barely noticed. His mind was already out there, in the fray, laying waste to the unholy.

Saint Garioch stood silent beside him, axe mag-locked to his back, a bag of munitions slung over one shoulder.

Simo mirrored the loadout, his lancer cradled in the crook of his arm, a bag in his fist, another strapped across his back, his visor bobbing as he checked his gear one last time.

One of Angar's gauntlets gripped the haft of his maul, the other hauling a reinforced leather sack bulging with mostly ammo and spare cells for Simo.

Excitement burned in his chest, mingled with a bone-deep relief. The endless voyage had ended, and with it, all the coveting.

Now came righteous slaughter, bathing in the ichor of Hell's spawn until the stink of sin washed clean.

He just wished Spirit would pay him a quick visit, exchange a few words or so. He wasn't asking much from her. Her absence stung.

He'd have loved to stare out a viewport during descent, just to gauge the lay of the land. Pleiadean colonies favored worlds like their cradle, with low gravity, around 0.7 Terra-normal, thin air and low pressure, mild and lush climes with stable seasons under misty skies and vast oceans.

Like all the major species, they'd used a dome, imposing their standards, or terraform to match if needed, sculpting the closest facsimile of their homeworld.

But this was a Hellworld now, conquered a millennium back after a Cataclysmic-rated event ripped through the world, opening far too many gateways, spewing far too powerful entities from the Underworld at once to handle, culminating with the arrival of the Demon Lady Oneskelis.

What had a thousand years of infernal taint wrought? He'd soon know, but what had it looked like before, to compare? The basics might linger, a ghost of the old grace, but corrupted, fouled, begging to be purged.

Finally, the deck lurched as the Zephuros kissed dirt, thrusters howling to a sputter.

Farewells were already traded, and Deli had passed word that Hidetada was itching to depart after the three men debarked, some pressing business calling him.

Angar checked the readout, and it didn't warrant a shielding field to maintain the ship's atmosphere, so he slapped the hatch controls.

Seals hissed as the inner and outer doors ground open together, sending the ramp extending with a whine.

His suit autotuned as gravity and pressure shifted, but before he could even spy the outside, two figures crowded the threshold.

Easily recognizable figures.

First was Grand Marshal Hulmnir, the Iron Father himself, ancient founder of the Thorned Chalice Knightly Chapter.

His armor looked more birthed from the abyss than forged, the night-black galvornium plates swollen with spikes that jutted like sinful accusations, etched with sigils that twisted the eye, with runes mingling with craters and scars from innumerable battles.

Bulky as a dreadnought, with pauldrons heavy and angular, one etched with his chapter's sigil of a chalice pierced by twisting thorns, blood pooling at its base. The other bore a scorched Trey blazing defiantly.

His breastplate, usually adorned with those icons, was slabbed over with a warped alloy shroud, dark and veined like bio-metal.

Upon his head rested a night-black helm mimicking a snarling, skeletal face, with horn-like protrusions sweeping back from the temples, and two small, crimson visor-slits.

In one fist and arm, he cradled the famous Betty, a truly massive railgun that looked as if it was torn from a fighter craft, and the scarred and etched barrel seemed hungry. The other arm sported a retracted power-sword blade and three whips that looked similar to Nerve-renders.

Along with cables and wires, an ammo feed linked to the railgun snaked from his backpack generator, feeding the suit's joints that creaked like breaking bones with every shift.

Hulmnir's aura hit like a tangible force, almost palpable, radiating power and violence, the living avatar of every battlefield that had ever drunk blood.

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Behind him stood High Templar Chiyu of the Shattered Aegis, known as the Windwalker.

Where Hulmnir moved like a siege engine, Chiyu moved like smoke in the breeze, all deft grace in armor made for lithe precision.

His suit was lighter, the midnight-blue plates form-fitting and sleek, with joints and servos that seemed supernaturally silent, the contours flowing elegantly.

Centered on the breastplate shone a Trey as normal, while the upper right bore his chapter's fractured shield, split by an ember-lit sword, and a drone graced each pauldron, with another on his back.

His helm matched the armor's slim and angular design, crested with a stubby ridge, the visor a narrow band of sapphire glow.

He hauled a lancer near as tall as himself, a beast with a barrel like a cannon, a strange type of scope mounted atop, and a bipod folded neatly against the stock.

He had no excess bulk at all, just honed lethality. If the armor had sacred runes etched into it, they were impossible to spot.

Hulmnir had to see Angar right there, standing right in front of him, but it was like the ancient warrior didn't register Angar as a thing worthy of notice, and walked forward with creaking steps, expecting the minor obstacle to move or be crushed underfoot.

Angar scurried aside, pressing against the bulkhead as the two famed Seraphs walked past.

Then the whole ship shook with the force of Hulmnir's bellow. "Thryna!"

His steps creaked like grinding bones as he stalked deeper into the Zephuros' entry bay, and High Templar Chiyu trailed him in silence, while Angar, Garioch, and Simo hugged the bulkhead, skirting the pair like wary dogs.

The ship trembled again as Hulmnir's bellow ripped through the bay, rattling machinery and sending dust sifting down from the overhead conduits. "Thryna!"

Angar exchanged a glance with Garioch through their visors.

Debarking now felt wrong, like a retreat from whatever brewed here. If Hulmnir sought violence against Thryna, Angar wouldn't flee like a coward.

He considered ordering Simo out, but hesitated. Private helm comms were sealed tight, inaudible and undetectable. But these were Seraphs, ascended to the peak. If they somehow overheard, it could doom Simo, rather than spare him.

Better to stand unmoving and not draw notice. That course would sate his grim curiosity too.

A minute crawled past, the bay's habitual clatter the sole filler, until the heavy clank of metal on metal reverberated from the inner passageway, and Thryna's mechanical form emerged from the shadows.

Instead of a clash or fury, Thryna hurled herself into Hulmnir's embrace, the impact clanging like a forge hammer striking an anvil. Metal scraped as she pulled back, clasping Chiyu's outstretched gauntlet in her grip.

"It's good to see you, Hulmnir," Thryna stated, the dry scrape of her mechanical voice like rusted gears. "It's been too long. Good to see you as well, Chiyu."

The two visiting Seraphs removed their helmets with hydraulic hisses.

Chiyu's face was slab-like and unscarred, his straw-colored hair shorn close, his jaw scraped clean of stubble.

A metal line bisected his skull from the side of his neck over the crown, like a seam in forged steel, his eyes pits of black alloy specked with crimson pupils.

Hulmnir's visage was pure nightmare, even eclipsing the skeletal snarl of his helm.

His head looked flayed raw, exposed muscle twisted in grotesque burns and scars, patches of scalp sprouting erratic clumps of wiry hair.

A cybernetic visor banded his eyes, and his jaw hung reinforced by metal struts and synthetic tendons intermixed with flesh, his neck tethered to his body by the same brutal framework.

"Forgotten your courtesies?" Hulmnir rumbled out, his voice as deep and almost as resonant as when helmed. "You don't show your face when greeting allies, even your old master?"

Thryna's metal frame tensed. "I don't remove my helm. It's bad under there."

"Good," Hulmnir grunted, satisfaction creasing his ruined features. "I've learned to distrust beauty, and I doubt your face is half as disfigured as my own."

Thryna exhaled a mechanical sigh, followed by her engine venting. She hesitated, then seals popped with a reluctant hiss. She lifted the Crusader helm free, revealing the horror beneath.

Her head was a crisped, hairless skull, glossy with a mucus sheen. Mechanical eyes glowed balefully in sunken sockets, with no nose or lips to soften the ruin, only exposed teeth leering through shredded jaw muscles.

Her unfiltered voice cracked forth, extremely raspy and strained, as if her vocal cords were as mangled as her flesh. "Happy now, you brute?"

"Never," Hulmnir replied. "And less so by the century. My chapter is diminished. We garner fewer and fewer recruits every year, only the dregs of what remains. Abyssalhome must be a successful Crusade. Pack your kit. You're staying, fighting by my side again."

Thryna's skeletal limbs stiffened, the blade-fingers flexing with a swish. "I can't, Hulmnir. You know that. I'm not half the warrior I once was."

"I'll be the judge of that," he stated, his tone brooking no dissent, like a Divine decree. "Besides the Pleiadeans, only the Shattered Aegis sent someone of note. Well, Salvador's here too, but only at Ash's behest, babysitting children, so I don't trust any of that. Stay. A favor for the man who wrenched you from slavery's chains, whose chapter made you so powerful."

A chuckle rattled from her ravaged throat, like gravel churning in a grinder. "Liar! You weren't even there."

"My chapter freed you," Hulmnir barked out, his scarred face twisting in a grisly approximation of a smile. "Your gratitude is ultimately owed to me. And you never apologized for leaving us for Ash after Doomhaven."

Before Thryna could reply, Chiyu donned his helm in one fluid motion, the seals clicking and hissing shut, the sapphire visor igniting. "I must pay respects to Ash. I pray you stay, Thryna. It was good seeing you."

Thryna nodded her horrific head. "You as well, Chiyu."

As the Windwalker silently strode toward the inner stairwell, Hulmnir turned back to Thryna, his bulk shifting with loud creaks. "I can't accept no as an answer. Grab your kit."

Thryna exhaled another sigh, and steam curled from her engine pack like exasperated breath.

Her gaze swept to the three men lurking against the bulkhead, hovering like forgotten shadows. "Why haven't you three debarked?"

"Apologies," Angar spat out, pivoting toward the ramp. "Sorry, Saints," Garioch echoed, falling in step with Angar, Simo trailing them toward the hatch.

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