Refugees of the Storm - Hersy Munda Campaign
It is the 31st millennium. After two centuries of galactic reconquest and a resurgence of mankind, Horus Lupercal the Warmaster of the Emperor, once hero now traitor of mankind, has shattered all dreams of a better tomorrow. Finally, after years of galactic civil war he reaches Terra. His host is without number and will bring death and horror to every settlement, city and hive.
When the enemy makes landfall, you are citizens or guests of Hive Berolina on the Europan Planes. Whatever is dear to you must not fall into their hands. You decide to escape from the city and seek refuge in the Imperial Palace in the Himalayans.
In secret you collect the things and people you have to rescue and prepare for a dangerous voyage that may be your last.
Chapter 1: Raid at the Fredrickan Market
The sky above Hive Berolina boils black with smoke and the distant rumble of orbital bombardment. Somewhere, far beyond the hive’s gutted walls, the Warmaster’s traitor legions spill onto Holy Terra, and the end of the world creeps ever closer. But here, in the corpse-lit ruins of the Fredrickan Market, the war is smaller. Dirtier. Petty.
Six warbands prowl the hollowed market halls that day, hunting for scraps of food, weapons, and salvaged armour—whatever can be carried on the desperate flight to the Himalayans before the fire reaches them all.
For The Pax Tyrannis, this is not a battle to win—it is a withdrawal to survive. Their leader, Marshal Otger von Vossfeld, barks quiet orders through cracked vox-beads as his squad ghosts through the wreckage of the market’s upper tiers. One crate—sealed, heavy, marked with old Imperial script—is wrestled from beneath a collapsed vendor stall. Inside, rations and crude armour—scarred but serviceable. Enough to keep a man alive for one more day. Enough to keep the Pax Tyrannis in control.
Below, chaos blooms.
The Den Seven, a band of mercenary Venators, clash violently with a desperate worker warband—former sump crews and hab-scrapers turned looters. Their ambush turns into a scrambling, bloody melee, neither side able to claim the market floor. Bodies twitch in the dust as the survivors drag themselves away, empty-handed.
At the market’s centre, brutality reigns.
A pack of Corpse Grinders, shrieking prayers to the Lord of Skin and Sinew, thunders into the square—only to meet the iron wall of a Goliath warband. No words are exchanged. Only roaring chain-axes and spinning cutters fill the air. In a storm of blood and steel, the Goliaths drive the butchers back, smashing their leader to the ground in a heap of ruin. Victory tastes like copper and ash. With two supply crates slung over broad shoulders, the Goliaths trudge away, leaving the square slick with gore.
Meanwhile, House Hawthorne—hive nobles turned scavengers—creep close to a cache of supplies. But their greed draws them too near to the hidden flanks of Pax Tyrannis. Without hesitation, Von Vossfeld’s men loose sharp, deliberate warning shots. The crack of las and autorifle fire sends the nobles diving for cover, pride forgotten. They hunker down, waiting in the dust for the market to clear—empty-handed and humiliated.
But such noise draws attention.
From the smog-choked vaults above comes the crackling bark of Auxilia command vox-units. Sirens wail. Imperial enforcers—loyal to what little authority remains—descend with rifles loaded with stun rounds, sweeping the market clean of looters and deserters. No warband stays to challenge them. Not today.
The Pax Tyrannis melts into the shadows, dragging their prize and their wounded back toward the convoy routes. They lose no blood, but their guns speak clearly enough. A quiet victory, measured not in glory—but in survival.
As the Fredrickan Market falls silent once more, only the dead remain to mark the cost.