Mask of Fealty

Ghar's ex-Legion. Ex-Cabal, really, if you're getting technical about it.

But he still recognizes the tension that permeates the cargo hold: a mix of restlessness and nerves, like that of soldiers on their first real patrol.

His new Lightbearer friends aren't green recruits. They're veterans of the end-times, same as him. But he's had much longer to come to terms with his new independence.

They're still braced for the Vanguard to come crashing in here. Waiting for some eleventh-hour betrayal on his part.

But it's a brand-new world out here.

The Lightbearers brought the goods: Weapons. Artifacts. Enough to sell, and enough to see them through whatever comes next.

Ghar's got the salvaged Harvester. And Ghar's got the plans.

"All right, you dogs." Their grasp of Ulurant is abysmal, so he speaks their tongue. "You've done your service to your Vanguard. Leave war to the Hive gods, and those that feed them."

He looks down at them, his new crew. Three Human, eager faces, three metal drones. They want to see the stars. They want a little taste of the better life.

"We've got ourselves a crew of seven seasoned killers and a great big universe out there." Ghar grunts. "Let's go get rich."