The Pyre of Vengeance sailed through the void, its engines humming with a steady rhythm that reverberated through the strike cruiser’s metal bones. Daedren sat in his quarters, the faint vibrations from the ship’s movement grounding him in the present. Yet, his mind was elsewhere, wrestling with questions he couldn’t articulate and doubts he didn’t dare voice. The aftermath of the campaign on Gherash lingered like a shadow, the odd predictability of the Tyranids’ actions gnawing at him.
He leaned over a spread of parchment, his gauntleted hands carefully moving a stylus over the paper. The Salamanders were warriors, artisans, and craftsmen, and Daedren found solace in creation, even in the quiet moments between battles. His shields, his blades, his armor, all bore the mark of his hands. Now, in the stillness of the return journey, he turned to another craft: drawing.
At first, his lines were simple, almost therapeutic. He began sketching the xenos forms they had encountered on Gherash: the chitinous plates of the Carnifex, the grotesque appendages of the Tyranid Prime, and the eerie, almost insectile symmetry of the Genestealers. Each stroke was deliberate, capturing not just their shapes but the feeling of confronting them. The overwhelming tides of biomass, the relentless chittering, and the alien nature of their existence all flowed onto the parchment.
Yet, as the drawings took shape, his thoughts began to drift.
His mind wandered back to the chaos anomaly he had experienced three years ago, the event that had shaken his very perception of reality. That mission, the false alarms, the warp rift, the vision of Vulkan, had never left him. No one else had spoken of it since, as though it had never happened. But Daedren knew better. He could still feel the lingering sensation of the warp’s presence, a residue clinging to his soul like ash from a forge.
He hesitated, his stylus hovering over the paper. The Tyranids had been odd. Predictable. Easier than expected, despite their overwhelming numbers. He should have been relieved, but instead, it felt wrong. The hive mind was known for its adaptability and cunning, yet on Gherash, they had fought like disconnected beasts. Was it the result of some disruption in the Tyranid synapse web? Or had something else been at work?
The thought sent a chill through him.
What if the two events, the chaos anomaly and the odd Tyranid behavior, were connected? The warp was infinite in its machinations, and its influence could reach anywhere. Could it have touched the Tyranids, twisting their nature into something even more alien?
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Daedren’s hand moved almost without thought, guided by the unease that had settled deep in his chest. The Tyranid sketches began to transform, their sharp, insect-like lines giving way to flowing, organic forms. The distinct separation between the xenos and the warp began to blur as he added shadows and patterns that mirrored the tendrils of chaos he had seen in his visions.
He started to draw connections, literally and figuratively. The Tyranids on Gherash hadn’t fought like a cohesive swarm, but they hadn’t been mindless either. They had been... distracted. The synapse bioforms, normally the lynchpins of Tyranid cohesion, had seemed almost hesitant at times, their leadership fragmented. It reminded him of the chaos anomaly, how the whispers of the warp had pulled at his mind, seeking to fracture his will.
On the parchment, his drawings became more complex. He added layers of meaning to his lines, the sharp edges of Tyranid bioforms melting into the warped, shifting tendrils of chaos. In the background, he sketched towering figures of impossible scale, representing the hidden forces that might have influenced both events. Were these metaphors, or were they truths he had glimpsed but didn’t yet understand?
He paused, sitting back to examine his work. The drawing was unlike anything he had ever created. It was chaotic yet structured, a melding of xenos and warp imagery that seemed to capture the uncertainty of his thoughts. At the center, he had unconsciously drawn a figure, himself. A Salamander holding twin shields, standing between the twisting forces of chaos and the chitinous tide of Tyranids.
The image unsettled him.
When the Pyre of Vengeance finally entered the orbit of Nocturne, Daedren felt both relief and apprehension. The planet’s fiery surface and its constant state of volcanic upheaval were a comfort, a reminder of his roots. But the drawing still lay on his desk, its lines etched deeply into his mind.
He rolled up the parchment carefully, securing it in his personal effects. There was no need to share it with his brothers, not yet. They would not dismiss his concerns, but they had no answers for him either. The questions swirling in his mind were not ones that could be solved with bolters and chainswords.
The Salamanders disembarked in orderly fashion, their armor scorched but their spirits unbroken. The Forge Masters greeted them with solemn nods, and the Promethean Creed was recited in unison as the warriors returned to their Chapter’s fortress-monastery. Daedren joined his brothers in the rituals of cleansing and remembrance, but his thoughts remained elsewhere.
That night, as he lay in his spartan quarters, he unrolled the drawing once more. By the flickering light of a lumen globe, he studied its intricate patterns. The image seemed to pulse with life, as though it were trying to tell him something he couldn’t yet understand.
“Help me. Find me.”
The words of Vulkan’s vision echoed in his mind, intertwining with the strange events of Gherash. Were these the fragmented whispers of truth, or had the warp planted seeds of doubt within him?