First it was one body. Then the patrol witnessed another and then another. Before long they were flowing as quickly as the River Quentif could carry them. Ork bodies. Dead.
A pair of Astartes waded into the river and dragged a few Greenskin hulks out for further analysis.
Large wounds. Bolter shell shrapnel. None of the Crimson Fists had been ordered north. So who were killing the Orks? Local survivors?
It was the hour of dawn, when the Crimson Fists got their answer.
A sight to behold. They came stalking through the waters chasing their prey. A band of Orks had looted some kind of a watercraft, but their predator’s had struck their engine first. The Primaris Patrol aiming their weapons, watched on all but happy to enjoy the slaughter. Adrift, the Orks yelled their stupid tongue, swinging their blades hitting nothing. Then the Orks fell in their droves. One Ork was seized and had its head thrusted into the water, jerking erratically as it drowned. Pistol fire was heard and more Orks fell, splashing into the river. It took all but 17 seconds.
At the water’s edge, the Ork hunters finally strode from the River Quentif complete with severed Ork trophies, Adeptus Astartes. The Crimson Fists were not alone on Krillion. They had brothers.
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