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| − | Conchobar Mac Nessa stared across the blasted, pockmarked killzone that surrounded the massive hive and idly stroked the neck of the large peryton beside him. The strange creature shook it’s antlers to loose the dirty rainwater that had pooled there, stretched it’s massive wings a loosed a long, mournful bellow. “Yes Cadeyrn, the big man spat, soothing the beast with a rough hand, “I too despise the air here”. Conchobar ran his hand through his thick, rain-soaked beard and adjusted the blue tartan fly plaid of his heavy kilt so it rested over his thick spiked hair. Leaping into the saddle, he turned Cadeyrn to face down the House Tuatha battle line. The men of his Sidhe Guard stood resolute despite the dark, sheeting rain. In the middle of the line a quartet of god-suits stood facing the hive. The regiment immediately to the front of High King Nuada Silverhand had prostrated themselves before the massive knight suit in supplication. The Castigator waved a massive, glowing warblade in blessing over the troops who offered up shouts of praise to the god. Similar rituals were taking place before the other god-suits as the Sidhe Guard sought the protection from their deities in the upcoming battle.
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| − | The crack of a power-whip drew Conchobar’s attention to the hulking forms of the enslaved fomorian brutes that the clans had conscripted before leaving Eire-Nua. Two large feral-looking clansmen were herding the grey-skinned cyclopean brutes into the battle line with flaming brands and faintly glowing whips. The creatures hissed and snapped at each other as they were goaded into place, their mace-like tails thrashing backwards and forwards in wary alertness. The creatures were unpredictable but Conchobar knew their worth in battle. They felt almost no pain and were exceptionally difficult to kill. The big man’s hand unconsciously moved to stroke one of the many scars that crossed his heavy frame as he remembered the first time he’d encountered one of the fierce creatures deep in the heart of the Darkwarren Moors on Eire-Nua. If his father hadn’t been there to….
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| − | Conchobar growled at the unbidden memory and loosed a savage cry that carried down the House Tuatha line. “Guardians of Eire-Nua! Clansmen! Brothers!” he cried. “Soon the dishonourable traitors that have betrayed the sky-brother’s father will be upon us. This is good. The Eaters of Worlds they call themselves. But they will not feast on the is world! Trugoy has been placed under the protection of the Tuatha and their servants will see their will done”.
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| − | The massive head of Nuada Silverhand turned away from the militia before the knight towards the sound of engines in the distance. The sound of the blue and white heavy tanks screaming across the ruined streets threatened to drown out the thunder and drenching rain as Conchobar concluded with an emphatic, “For Tuatha and Eire-Nua!” The cry was taken up along the battle line as the god-suits advanced ahead of the Sidhe Guard. Behind Conchobar the massive mountain guns and mortars had started up the bombardment.
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| − | “Fear not Clansmen! The Gods are with us!”……..
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| − | The rain had ceased and a dim twilight had descended. Smoke drifted lazily from the ruined forms of blue and white Spartan battle-tanks. In a crater to the North-East of Conchobar’s command position, the men of the Sidhe Guard were forming an honour guard about the fallen Lugh Lamhfada. About the prostrate Knight Lancer were the remains of a score of World Eaters and the burning ruin of their Spartan transport. A short distance away the towering Knight Paladin, Prince Matunos, scanned the horizon. In the distance, the broken astartes force was retreating from the field.
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| − | Conchobar had borne witness to the duel between knight and primarch and had loosed an exultant cry as Angron’s guard had dragged the unconscious primarch from the field. It was to be short-lived however as the astartes commander that accompanied the feral primarch had then cut down the god with rage-filled strokes from his massive chain-axe.
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| − | A low keening had begun as more of the Sidhe Guard became aware of the god-suits’ fall. “Victory always comes at a cost Highlord,” a deep voice from behind Conchobar stated sadly. Conchobar turned to face Conn Fomorkin, his second in Command. Rumoured to have the blood of the fomorii in his line, Conn stood eye to eye with the Highlord even as Conchobar sat in the saddle of Cadeyrn. Conn’s broad chest was splattered with blood and a deep gash across his shoulder was slowly dripping blood onto the broken plascrete at the feet of the pair.
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| − | “Yes Chieftain,” Conchobar grated, “but Lugh Lamhfada will rise again as do all the gods”.
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| − | “Hmmph,” Conn grunted in reply. “The herbalists report losses of one in ten Highlord, with two more in ten requiring treatment.”
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| − | “Noted,” Conchobar replied matter-of-factly. “You should get that arm looked at my friend. The battle for this world is far from won”.
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| − | “Just a scratch,” Conn smirked as he turned from his Highlord.
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| − | The landers were arriving to retrieve Lugh Lamhfada. Conchobar watched the huge craft descend with a heavy heart. From somewhere amidst the throng of Sidhe Guard below his position he heard Conn’s deep voice ring out. “Dammit Seamus, who’s got the bloody ale kegs”…….
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