A Spear From Heaven (Warhammer/Warcraft crossover)

[Kuja]

90:00:02

Ten men file into the Bellator's forward assembly hall. The high-ceilinged chamber, meant for briefings of an entire company of marines, feels desperately empty as the footsteps of a lone squad echo back and forth across the stone walls.

Their armor freshly cleaned and repaired from the minor damage taken planetside, the men of eighth squad are parade ready. They step in perfect time with one another, Ultramarine precision, a surety unrivaled throughout the Legiones Astartes.

As they reach the front of the chamber, they line up shoulder to shoulder, with Sergeant Alexios at the extreme right of the formation. With a clash of heels against the deck, they square themselves and present arms in a perfect salute.

A trio of figures look them over. The unmistakable skull-helm of Chaplain Tiburtius is clipped to his belt so that his hard-set features, perpetual frown, and the monkish ring of hair that clings to his balding head are visible. Captain Lucien Valtis likewise stands unhelmed, his scarred face twisted slightly in the faintest hint of a smile. Between the two men, the primarch stands with hands folded, his features entirely unreadable.

"It is time to determine your fate," Guilliman says. "For the past one hundred and fifty days, you men have worn helms painted red in censure." He lets that hang in the air for a long moment. "Do you think you have been treated fairly, Sergeant Alexios?"

The sergeant is thrown by the unexpected question. "Absolutely, my lord," he replies smartly. "We erred. We were punished. It is correct."

"And if I put the question to you, Sergeant," Guilliman says, "do you think your squad have served a fair sentence?"

Alexios pauses before answering. "My squad, yes," he says. "Myself...I think not, my lord."

Guilliman and Valtis exchange a look, the latter's brow raised in surprise. "Explain," the captain says.

"It was my error that led to our mistaken attack upon the XVII Legion," Alexios answers. "My men have served with all the diligence, skill, and loyalty a man could ask for. Every order I have given them, they have given me their all in return. I believe that they have more than earned the right to have the mark of censure erased."

"But not yourself, Sergeant Alexios?" Tiburtius questions sharply. "By any measure, eighth squad's accomplishments planetside are laudable. You eliminated not one but two targets, despite making what had to be a grueling test of your endurance to do so."

There is another pause. "With all respect, my lord?"

"Speak your mind," Guilliman charges.

"The mark of censure is not a subtle thing. The crimson helm is meant to be seen, as an example. 'I have erred, and so I am marked.' This action has taken place so far from the eyes of the Imperium-"

"But it has taken place under my eyes, sergeant," Guilliman interrupts in a mild tone. "I believe I am fit to judge the measure of my own Legion. Wouldn't you agree?"

There is a subtle coughing sound. "Yes, my lord," Alexios replies.

"It is my determination, sergeant, that although you erred, you and your squad have risen to the occasion. You have pushed yourselves to prove your mettle as Astartes, as Ultramarines, and you are better for it. As such, I declare the mark of censure to be lifted from you and your squad." He pauses briefly, his lips turning upwards in a slight smile. "You may now cheer."

Eighth squad erupts in a brief surge of jubilation. Alexios sags in relief as Valerian pounds his shoulder.

"Go repaint your helms," the XIII Primarch says with a wave. The men retain their decorum just enough that they remember to salute before departing.

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112:27:43

The scene at Tarren Mill is repeated time and again as cautious incursions from the Alliance and the Argent Crusade investigate the one-time lands of the Forsaken.

The 7th Legion encounter minimal resistance - mostly disorganized, much of it ad-hoc - as they press north from Gilneas through Silverpine Forest. Rumors of a rebellious movement are treated as little more than hearsay at first, until the Alliance forces make the push into Tirisfal Glades and see firsthand the sudden and violent civil war that has followed the death of the Dark Lady.

Deathknell has burned to the ground. Brill is in similar shambles. Bodies are piled, stacked like cordwood at the feet of the statue of the Banshee Queen.

The capitol city is gone. The lands will need a great deal of healing.

But for now, the work can begin.

[Kuja]

216:07:29

The one-time warchief, Thrall, attempts to rally what elements of his people remain.

He has a difficult task ahead of him. It is hard to estimate numbers in the wake of the sudden and brutal attack, but initial guesses put the orcs at less than one-twentieth their former numbers. Most of the lucky ones are the skeleton crews of Thrallmar and the people of Garadar on the other side of the Dark Portal. A few orcs that happened to be in such cities as Ratchet or Dalaran have likewise escaped the scouring, as have those fortunate enough to be far from the population centers when the skies fell.

Most of those who remain shelter beneath the protection of their friends amongst the tauren and the Darkspear Tribe. A very few make the choice to remain apart - most of them being remnants of the Blackrock or Dragonmaw Clans who hold little love for those they see as outsiders. There is briefly talk of migration to Outland, however this proves ironic as soon enough the opposite takes place. With great care and deliberation to ensure safe passage from the Alliance, Overseer Nazgrel dismantles the Horde's operations in the remnants of Draenor and returns his remaining forces - trolls and tauren along with orcs - home to Azeroth. Only the mag'har remain in Outland.

Still, it is a grim time for the once and former Horde. Less than two thousand orcs still live - a fraction of the population that once dwelt in Orgrimmar alone. Still, many of those still of fighting age rally to rebuild Sen'jin Village and aid in the protection of Darkspear Isle. Ariok, the son of Eitrigg quickly becomes a rising star amongst the refugees as he proves instrumental in convincing the Argent Crusade and the nation of Theramore to extend relief efforts to his people.

"When our people first came to Kalimdor," Eitrigg is heard to say to the world-shaman at one point. "We were not strong. The tauren and the trolls, their friendships gave us strength, but somewhere along the way, as we regained our strength, our people forgot that. We forgot what it means to be weak. We derided our friends for their supposed weaknesses. 'Oh,' we said, 'you cannot even retake an island.' 'And you,' we said, 'why talk of speaking to the elements when we can bend them to our will?'"

"But now," Nazgrel's voice is heard, "we have been reminded of how weak we truly are. This time, we have to hold on to that understanding. We have to remember that strength is not only found in arms. We won't survive another lesson like this. We may not even survive this one."

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349:32:47

Freed from conflict in the Khaz Modan Highlands, General Kurdran Wildhammer leads an array of forces northwards into Arathi. He is joined by a handful of elite troops under his longtime friend Danath Trollbane. Their army is further bolstered by the League of Arathor, the hard-bitten troops that have fought against the Defilers and their Horde allies for more than five years.

Together, they confront the forces that stand between them and the liberation of their homelands. A great battle is fought against the ragtag tribes of ogres that squat amongst the ruins of the fabled city of Stromgarde. After watching the wholesale slaughter of the savage clans, the criminal elements that yet dwell within the city surrender without a fight.

Stromgarde is liberated, though it is a bittersweet day as the Stormpike forces deliver the ancestral weapon Trol'kalar and the note with which it was found in Tarren Mill. Danath weeps for his fallen cousin, but at the same time refuses the crown himself, citing his advancing age.

Instead a frantic search is undertaken to find a suitable heir to the monarchy. As workers tirelessly labor to reconstruct the great bastion of humanity, one is discovered - a captain in the armed forces of Stromgarde, a veteran of the Third War and the conflicts that have enveloped the Arathi people.

Nials Trollbane is the first woman to be crowned Queen of Stromgarde in over two hundred years.

[Kuja]

395:53:18

Tentative attempts to investigate the mountainous kingdom of Alterac are stonewalled. Literally.

The guard tower that once watched over the southern pass has been torn down and used as the foundation for a large wall of rubble, frozen solid and blocking off any sort of passage short of flying over it. In similar fashion, the township of Strahnbrad is discovered to have been entirely dismantled and used to construct a massive bulwark that now spans the eastern roadway into the rugged highlands. The walls are topped by a gruesome set of decorations - ogre skulls, shorn of flesh and frozen to the framework. The scouts beat a hasty retreat at the sight.

Not long afterwards, a portal opens at the landing on the edge of Dalaran. Stepping through is a figure, hunched and heavily robed, accompanied by a pair of armored guards. Despite the clothing covering them, it is not difficult for the mages to discern their race - Forsaken.

The interlopers request a meeting with Archmage Rhonin of the Kirin Tor and then fall silent. Intrigued despite his initial wariness, as the red-haired man steps forth he is shocked to see the emaciated face beneath the hooded robe. "Ataeric?" he stage-whispers.

"Close enough," the undead man grunts in reply. A pair of hands tipped by calcified talons hold out a missive to the archmage. "We'd hoped you would be distracted by everything else on your plate a little longer," he says. "But people are already starting to come poking at the walls, so we have to do this now."

As Rhonin reaches out to take the missive, his one-time colleague boldly declares- "we lay claim to the highlands of Alterac, and the ruins there. The kingdom's been dead for a generation, Rhonin. Nobody wants it anymore. The only person that could have laid any kind of ancestral claim is with us. This is our declaration. Take it to King Varian, Highlord Fordring, King Genn and whoever else needs to see it. We're not quite ready to go join the Dark Lady, curse her name."

"And just who are 'we?'" Rhonin questions, taking hold of the missive.

"Good question. Call us...the Forsworn."

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517:42:26

The 7th Legion fleet sails southwards from Gilneas.

There is no longer any need for the divison to remain now that the worgen have retaken their embattled homeland. As such, the better part of the Legion and their support fleet now makes their own way home. There is talk that the division, ad-hoc since the days of the Third War, will be disbanded, the various arms sent back to their respective homes.

It is as he is up at the forecastle of his ship contemplating such things that Highlord Leoric Von Zeldig catches sight of something that makes him rub his eyes, blink, and then rub once more. "August?" he calls out. "August, come here!"

Duke August Foehammer turns at the sound of his friend's voice and makes his way up to the forecastle, one bushy eyebrow raised high. "Aye?" he questions.

"I think I may have had too much of that rum," the paladin says, dropping his voice slightly. "Would you look out there and tell me if you see what I see?"

The dwarf turns to look out across the waves. He squints. "Jes' an island, Leoric," he pronounces after a moment.

"Wait for it," Von Zeldig says.

August Foehammer waits.

Then his jaw drops.

"Issat a bloody turtle?!"

[Kuja]

626:51:34

For the first time in over a year, Jaina Proudmoore and Baine Bloodhoof meet face to face.

The two leaders have a grave matter to discuss. Despite the horrific losses inflicted upon them by the Horde, the quillboar have taken advantage of the destruction leveled upon the fortifications closest to their homelands - Desolation Hold and Bael Modan - to make an attempt to press northwards. If they go unchecked, they may be capable of pressing all the way north to the Great Divide, the canyone that separates the two halves of the Barrens. If they do so, the tauren may well become trapped in their homelands of Mulgore, while the nation of Theramore is left surrounded and isolated at the coast of Kalimdor.

The result of the meeting is a historic joint action between the tauren people and the forces of Theramore. A battle-line is formed that stretches across the Barrens, fortifications quickly raised by dwarven engineers and reinforced by the elemental powers of tauren shaman. Despite this, one unfortunate product of the great barricade's placement is the effective loss of all the lands to the south...including the ruins of Bael Modan.

Having long held out hope that one day he might reclaim his fortress, General Twinbraid is at first apoplectic, and heard to rant and rave about 'bloody humans and bloody tauren and bloody pig-men.' He is mollified when Baine Bloodhoof presents him with an apologetic gift - the hammer Fearbreaker, heirloom of the Bronzebeard Clan. With the ancient weapon in hand, General Twinbraid takes command of the forces at the bulwark, now bearing the nickname 'the Pig Pen.'

Despite initial fears, the fighting at the battle-line proves to be sporadic. For now, at least, the quillboars' losses mean that the lands to the south are more than enough for their current population to digest.

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683:29:59

"Open vox, all frequencies," the primarch commands.

The Bellator's communications man taps at a few controls and then nods in Guilliman's direction.

The primarch does not read from his dataslate - the information he needs is not there. Instead he recites from memory the words told to him by his father:

"Command Code, Authorization Aman'Thul. Denotation: Gamma Eta Seven Delta Seven. Override Code: Epsilon One Kappa Three Phi Alpha Gamma Alpha Kappa Sigma Sigma Six Kappa Lambda Theta Five."

For the next several hours beacons all across the system light up in response to the primarch's transmission: three on the planet closest to the sun, a pair on the second, another pair on the third, one each upon the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth worlds, four on the tenth planet, five on various asteroids throuought the system. The largest concentration by far, however, is on the fourth world - nine installations, with a tenth situated on the primary moon.

One of them responds to Guilliman's announcement with a tightbeam transmission: REPLY CODE? ALPHA/OMEGA. The transmission uses the classic symbols to represent the ancient letters.

Guilliman chuckles softly to see the archaic letters upon the screen. "Confirm reply code Alpha," he says into the vox. The symbol flashes and the words vanish from the screen, replaced with REPLY CODE CONFIRMED. Guilliman waves a hand and the words vanish as the vox channel closes.

"That was..." an emotionless voice trails off, and Roboute Guilliman turns to look at Magos Elbing. The Mechanicus representative has taken two steps from his lectern, hands lifted like a man unsure of a gift being held out to him. "Those installations...those were not Imperial codes," he says, turning to spear Guilliman upon his mechanoid gaze. The primarch has the distinct impression that despite the flat tone of his machinised voice, the magos is trying very hard to sound accusatory.

"No, good magos," he confirms. "They predate the arrival of the Imperium by thousands of years."

"The Mechanicus has the right to claim all STC artifacts found under the banner of the Great Crusade," the Mages says immediately. Guilliman is not surprised - he has anticipated this reaction since the moment he learned he would be making that transmission. "Technology from the Dark Ages-"

"I cannot permit anyone to interfere in their work, Magos," he says firmly, turning to face the techpriest full-on so that Elbing is subject to every iota of the superhuman's force of personality. "I can sympathize with your frustration, but you must understand-" he lifts one hand and beckons the magos closer. Elbing moves to the primarch's side almost like a man in a trance, his polished glass lenses fixated on Guilliman's face. "You have long ago recognized that our presence here is in violation of Imperial law," he says softly.

"A logical deduction," the techpriest replies, his voice modulated low enough that it will not carry.

"Consider the following, then," Guilliman says. "If there was a serious enough threat to humanity..."

"All other priorities must be rescinded. Hence the interdiction," Magos Elbing replies with a slight nod of his hooded head.

"Suffice to say, Magos, the interdiction does not simply keep our people out," Guilliman says, "the work of those installations also keeps something else in."

"I comprehend your meaning, Lord Primarch," the techpriest replies. "Consider the matter deleted."

[king of hybrids]

so the emperor was aman'thul?

(which really wouldn't suprise me considering the master handling of sargeras' initial doubts)

or did he just steal the codes and had guilliman destroy the titans means of re originating the planet

[Highlord Laan]

The Titans were the makers of machine life. I think those beacons -and whatever else they represent- may be keeping AI STC's, or something along those lines, in shutdown mode and "contained." The Fracas in Narthrend and Ulduar may have shaken something loose that was best left asleep.

[king of hybrids]

The Titans were the makers of machine life. I think those beacons -and whatever else they represent- may be keeping AI STC's, or something along those lines, in shutdown mode and "contained." The Fracas in Narthrend and Ulduar may have shaken something loose that was best left asleep.

well, destroying the planet (or all life on it) would loose the 5 old gods from their bindings... so quarantine is one way of ensuring they can't manipulate events to escape again

to say noting of azeroth serving as an effective bottleneck on both sargeras and the naaru's plans

[Highlord Laan]

I'm still wondering if there's any connection between the Burning Legion and Chaos.

[Kuja]

735:01:14

"There was a time, not so long ago," the man says before pausing and smiling slightly, "I'm almost old enough to remember it, myself..."

There are dutiful chuckles.

"...that the peoples of this world - all of them - espoused the attitude that our business was our own, and everyone else could mind theirs, in turn. Some of us were content with our state of affairs, while others lacked the means to change it. But by and large, each of us was content to keep to our own little corner of the world, managing our affairs far away from everyone else. We liked it that way. Many of us in our ignorance harbored the belief that as long as we all remained content with our little pieces of the planet, nothing would ever disrupt our way of life."

The man pauses once more and looks out over the crowd. Stormwind Harbor is full to bursting. The speaker is very glad indeed that they changed the location from Cathedral Square. There was simply no way that the smaller venue could have held the people gathered here today.

Amongst the crowd, the august personage in attendance is without rival anywhere in the city's history - the prophet Velen stands beside Tyrande Whisperwind, who stands beside Genn Greymane. All three members of the Council of Three Hammers has come from Ironforge, accompanied by High Tinker Mekkatorque of Gnomeregan. Aponi Brightmane of the Sunwalkers stands in representation of Thunder Bluff, alongside Bwemba of the Darkspear Tribe and Ariok - a lone orc amongst a sea of faces. Trade Prince Donais is present along with the elite Gob Squad serving as his bodyguard.

Two figures in crimson catch the eye. One is hunched and skeletal beneath his plate, his head covered by a visored helm. General Danath Dungalion stands beside his distant cousin as if in defiance of the Forsworn's own wishes, but Galen makes no move to back away. There is similar tension between Vereesa Windrunner and Aethas Sunreaver, standing to either side of Archmage Rhonin of the Kirin Tor. It is eased, if only slightly, by the presence of Ranger General Halduron Brightwing of Quel'thalas. Not far from the group is Lady Jaina Proudmoore, her hands folded before her.

Standing shoulder to shoulder in what is almost a paradoxical manner are Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker and Lord Maxwell Tyrosus, knights of the Silver Hand and Argent Crusade, respectively. Between them, as if he needs protection, is Highlord Darion Mograine of the Ebon Blade. A mighty pair of tauren, Muln Earthfury and Hamuul Runetotem, stand as representatives of the Earthen Ring and Cenarion Circle.

And there are many more visitors than these, even other races. It is an assembly without rival in history. The speaker takes a moment to find one particular face amongst the crowd - his son, standing alongside his guards and staying out of trouble. For once. He resists a smile and continues.

"But now, we gather here today in acknowledgement of the fact that those times - the good and ill of them alike - are past us now. We have all learned the hard way that we cannot keep to our own business and expect the rest of the world to comply with our wishes. Over the past thirty years, those of us that were once ignorant to the mechanisms of the world beyond our lands have had our eyes opened to it, whether we liked it or not. In many ways, they have been frightening times. All that we once knew, or thought we knew, is so much smaller than we believed.

"At first," King Varian says, spreading his hands, "we reacted with fear. We went to war in the hopes that we could simply fight to preserve our old ways of life, that we could take up our weapons for awhile and one day, put them down again. Some of us became desperate to do anything, no matter the cost to others, to ensure our peoples' safety. 'Why negotiate for what we can take by strength?'" he says, making a pair of fists. His gaze happens past that of Ariok as he quotes the one-time warchief of the Horde. Ariok lifts his chin, but says nothing.

"The Alliance was first founded on that selfsame fear," he continues. "But it was more than that. It was an admission that our self-imposted isolationism had to end. That what had gone before wasn't working. And the greater universe peeled back the veil and we looked upon such foes as many of us had never even imagined. The Legion, and the Old Gods, and even the Titans and their creations, raining fire from the sky and reaching up from the bowels of the earth to claim us."

He pauses for a long moment. "But," he says, holding up a cautionary hand. "In showing us their faces, our foes have also shown their hand. At great cost, we pushed them back, but we have pushed them back. We - ad-hoc nations of farmers and hunters, we managed to stand shoulder to shoulder and say we reject you from this world. And though it has indeed been at great cost, we have learned the truth of it. They wanted us weak. They wanted us ioslated. They wanted us to war amongst ourselves so that our actions would threaten the very planet upon which we live." Varian lifts a hand to gesture to the dignified figure of the Prophet of the Naaru, and Velen bows in response.

"We have been reminded, in the most dire fashion, of the precariousness of our existence. We have been bluntly told that we must stand together, or we shall not stand at all." The dark-haired man pauses once more, lacing his fingers for a moment as if in consideration. "It was once said that the Alliance could not exist without the Horde," he says in a contemplative tone. "After all, without the Horde, for what reason would the Alliance exist?" He lifts his hands and shrugs before lowering them. "But we know now that we cannot let the bonds that tie our races together be fragmented so easily. Too much is at stake. For ourselves, our sons and our daughters, and their sons and daughters in turn. No longer shall our foes find an Azeroth weak and divided amongst itself, but one that stands strong enough to repudiate those who would seek to bring us down!"

The King of Stormwind raises a single fist. "For Azeroth!" he proclaims.

The harbor shakes with the response.

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756:43:29

In the outer edges of an interdicted star system, a strike cruiser of the XIII Legiones Astartes closes its outer seals and prepares for its departure.

The ship's engines flare brightly in the void of space, and as it accelerates forward it seems as though the forward curve of its shields distorts the very fabric of its surroundings, as if pressing against a tangible force.

The essence of the universe seems to bend and twist, and with the pressure of the strike cruiser's engines begins to tear. A hole opens in the backdrop of stars, shimmering with a roiling, shifting light.

The Bellator disappears into it like a man stepping behind the curtain of a stage.

It is silent in the void of space, but if one were close enough and possessed of sufficient imagination, before the jagged tear closes one could almost hear the keening of a distant scream.

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Mark Unknown - Sometime in the 34th Millennium

The Space Marines have a job to do.

They descend upon the target world, a full chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. Drop pods leave contrails across the sky. The engines of thunderhawks scream as they fly in formation with their larger stormbird cousins. A mighty battle barge hangs in low orbit, accompanied by a handful of sleek strike cruisers.

They hit the ground and storm from their conveyances with weapons in hand, fully armed and ready for battle. They wear black ceramite armor, with helms colored a glinting silver.

Nonplussed, one member of the native species makes the mistake of approaching the Astartes. Staying low to the ground, the velociraptor cocks its head to look at the foremost figure with one slitted eye. "Greetings" says a mechanical voice emanating from the mechanical headdress the creature wears.

The Silver Skulls respond with bolter fire.

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"They're certainly one of the odder species we've ever fought, don't you think?" comments the chapter master, following one particularly hard-fought battle. In one hand he holds a reptilian skull, shorn of most flesh. In a way, the elongated structure of it reminds him of his own Mark VI helm. "Dinosaurs, straight out of Terran mythology, talking and crafting weapons." He turns to regard his companion. "I'd wager that's something as strange as anything you've seen before, venerated brother."

"You'd lose," the dreadnought grunts in reply. "I once met an ork that spoke proper Low Gothic."

The revelation makes the chapter master rear in surprise. "No," he says immediately. "Where was this?"

"Sorry," brother Mathis says, turning away and beginning to lumber off to rejoin his company. "Primarch's orders. I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

The chapter master watches the dreadnought stamp away. As is so often the case, he's not sure whether to take Mathis at his word or assume the ancient is simply toying with him. Eventually he simply shakes his head and hooks the prize to his belt. "Move out," he orders over the command channel. "We've another target sixty kilometers northwest."

Racking his bolter, Chapter Master Ignatius Valtis grins beneath his helmet. "Silver Skulls, you are Primus Inter Pares. Demonstrate why."

[Tandrax218]

im confused a bit..
is this story over or what???

[Borgholio]

Ummm...yes?

[Kuja]

Yessiree. I left the Warcraft part of the story open-ended in case I wanted to follow up on the setting post-intervention with more stories, which I may do at some point, but this was just the story of the Ultramarines' intervention in the Azerothian timeline and the what-if of a space marine company suddenly dropped out of orbit into the Warcraft setting.