The ice and snow blasted across the wastes of Nytt Hopp. The Killteam strode out of the Land Raider as the sounds of violence echoed away. Even as the ice and snow recovered the landscape from the recent bloodshed the bodies, gore, casings, and craters cast a nightmarish picture. Victory is often shown as beautiful and glorious, in this place, that was simply not reality.
Claudius paused on a snow drift as auspex information from Brother Paullian, the Land Raider, air assets, and The Ebon Zealot were presented before him. Green wire frames, red icons, and blue readouts danced across his vision. Not reality, but told truths about reality.
Paullian slowly walked the scene with his auspex in hand and his helmet’s augmented auto-sense array lasing the remains, devices, and arms he passed along the way. Each item was more twisted than the last. The Samech forging mixed the great crafts with foul heretek methods. Reality cast from the unreal.
Gadreel jogged out to the edge of the Killteam’s perimeter, his blood pounded. Auto-senses and rebreather were choking him. He pulled off his helmet to the vicious elements of the ice world. Whites, greys, and breaking blacks of Nytt Hopp became salmons, crimsons, and bricks in both thick and moist versions of the red spectrum. Reality seen in red, in the varieties of blood, his or theirs no longer mattered, he preferred reality this way.
Yarika scanned the daemonhost’s remains as it smoldered, its hold on reality slipping. He continued by examining the Dark Eldar as it melted away, its hold on reality gone. The Apothecary came across the Samech ‘techmarine’ and noticed rust, tarnish, and fracture appear, its unreal technology failed in the press of reality. The Space Marine approached the corrupt Ultramarine it simply smoked, he was real with his treacheries and betrayal real too. Reality seemed overrated.
Beav’Star counted and recounted. He measured the distance he could see clearly and noted what was obscured. He memorized the size, weapons, armour, and movements of each enemy he had faced in the last ten minutes. He checked his ammunition supply, his energy charge, his armour’s status, his damage and injuries, and then did the same for his squad mates. Reality was here. Knowing what he had. Knowing what they had. Knowing what he was capable of. Knowing what they had. Reality was like metal; strong, heavy, and constant.
Ymir stretched out across the cold, both the real and unreal versions. The blood god’s fury stifled both the real and unreal. Khorne desires the death and abhors the psychic. In a place like this nothing is safe, nothing is permanent. Nytt Hopp, the ‘new hope’ of the ancients, is in reality the edge of oblivion.
The ice and snow continued to blast across the wastes of Nytt Hopp. The Killteam stood around the fading carnage as the sound of silence thundered. The ice and snow recovered the landscape from the bloodshed, the bodies, gore, casings, and craters were gone. Victory is often shown as beautiful and glorious, in this place, that was simply not reality.