Entry II – Planetfall

 

Entry II – Planetfall

The expedition departed Elune without ceremony, for the paths ahead did not favour spectacle. Safar Timura stood within the wraithbone confines of the transport as the craftworld’s light diminished behind them, its presence receding not merely from sight but from certainty. The skein between him and Elune was already thinning, stretched across a distance measured not in leagues but in intent. Such was the nature of this undertaking: once begun, it would not easily be recalled.

The planet revealed itself fully only upon close approach. From orbit it appeared unremarkable, its surface wrapped in familiar patterns of cloud and land, its gravity and stellar reflection conforming closely to expectation. Yet beneath this veneer of normality lay a pressure upon the mind, a subtle resistance that pushed back against psychic touch. Timura felt it at once — not the raw corruption of the warp, nor the cold absence left by the Necrons, but something guarded, layered, as though the world itself had learned how to avert the gaze of seers.

Descent was made along the planet’s twilight band, where light and shadow bled together and the skein lay thinnest. There, amid broken stone and mineral-rich ridges, the first signs of indigenous occupation were confirmed. Orks. Their encampments sprawled crudely across the land, their machines howling against both reason and subtlety. To Timura’s sight, their presence was a discordant roar in the warp — loud, violent, and wholly incapable of concealment. Whatever had hidden this world from Elune’s auguries, it was beyond greenskin cunning.

Aspect Warriors deployed in silence, their movements precise and ritualised. Striking Scorpions melted into the shadowed terrain, taking forward positions amidst the fractured rock, while Guardians established a defensive perimeter to anchor the landing zone. Warlocks raised wards of containment, stabilising the psychic field against intrusion, though even they felt the planet press back against their efforts, as though resenting the act of being observed.

Timura walked the first circles of divination upon the planet’s surface. Each attempt to cast his sight forward returned him, unbidden, to the moment of arrival. Fate here did not flow — it folded. The skeins looped and tightened, refusing clarity, demanding action in place of foresight. In this, Timura discerned intent. The planet had not merely been hidden; he felt it had been waiting.

Beyond the Ork encampments, half-buried beneath strata older than the greenskins by uncounted ages, sensors detected structures whose angles and composition matched no known Aeldari design. Nor were they cold enough to be Necron, nor warped enough to bear the mark of Chaos. They endured, patient and unremarked, as though content to let lesser beings fight and die above them.

As night fell across the landing zone, the Orks’ movements shifted. Patrols grew bolder, their crude instincts drawn toward the Eldar presence despite all efforts at concealment. Timura felt the skein tighten further. Contact was no longer a question of if, but when.

The first step had been taken. Elune’s fate now walked upon alien soil, and the path ahead — though still obscured — had begun to demand its price.