A slightly smaller Mess

"You're not hurt?" He whispers softly, concern etched into his tone.

"Not even a little bit"

"I hate this. I hate that you're in danger here."

"I've been almost perpetually in danger for the last ten thousand years big guy"

"I didn't realise i was in love with you, at the time."

"I know. But I can handle myself, Tyren."

"I'm sorry. I... " He loosens his embrace of her. "It's just... I couldn't imagine loosing you."

"I died once, Tyren. I don't plan on doing it again"

Arteras looks up the building as he follows, fairly unimpressed by its diminutive size when compared to the hangars. Over the howling wind the distinctive bark of a Commissar can be heard as he orders people to make way for the incoming transport ship, and those who look to the skies see a gargantuan craft gently gliding toward them. It’s ramming prow is pocked with innumerable holes and gashes whilst the rest of her hull is but a silhouette against the white clouds above.

"I know... It's just..." he hunches his shoulders, and lets go of her. "I don't know."

Viktor opens the door, steps through, and holds it open for them to come inside. They're met with a stifling warmth, and a room full of coats and boots. The walls to the left and right are taken up by a system of pipes, bent into loops, facing up at a 45 degree angle, so a man can leave his boots there, with the pipe inside, so the hot water flowing within will dry them. "Take your boots and coats off, gentlemen, you'll feel the benefit of it."

Lyanna gently puts a hand on his cheek "You big softie"

"Softie?.. thats a new one."

"Never known an astartes to get so torn up over some mortal" she grins and kisses him

"I don't suppose anyone could call you mortal."

"I suppose not" she stays close to him for a while, one hand gently against his face, the other still wrapped around him

He holds her, with one hand on her shoulder, and the other on her waist. He doesn't speak, but simply enjoys the moment while it lasts.

"Maybe later you come to my room for a bit? We haven't had much alone time"

"Of course. We've got a little time still."

"I'll be waiting *she gives him a seductive wink*"

Tyren takes a few seconds to catch on, a perplexed frown etched on his face, before his brow abruptly raises, and he blinks a few times in rapid succession. "Oh. Oh i see."

she smiles wider "You'll get the hang of this eventually"

"I somehow doubt that."

"I'll make sure of it. Besides, you're getting good at it."

"Am i indeed? Possibly the strangest compliment i have ever received."

"It's not that uncommon among us mere humans"

"Is that so? I didn't know you filled so much of your little minds with it."

"Oh don't think so lowly of us" *chuckles*

"I read in a book, that you think about it every seven seconds."

"don't beleive everything you read"

"Perhaps you mature with age... or perhaps not."

"Maybe" *she winks again*

The command staff enter and do so, placing their boots and greatcoats away from the rest of the clothes.
The younger members are clearly happy to be free of the cold, but their commander simply gives Viktor an appreciative nod, his face betraying nothing else.

"Now i understand why the emperor made us no sisters..." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth

Along the back wall, there is a few shelves, holding rows of plain, comfortable indoor shoes, which the members of Viktor's Entourage take, seemingly indiscriminately, and gesture for them to take also.
Viktor: "Take a pair, so you're not wandering about in stocking feet."

she leans in and kisses him again

He kisses back, and with that, we leave our lovely couple to have a nice afternoon in eachothers company because i'm running out of ideas.

Meanwhile, some shit is going down on charlie boys ship. Or something.

The cadians are somewhat taken aback by this but do as he requests donning the indoor shoes and having a little moment as they get used to the comfort.

days pass and the noose tightens. the outer trenches are built. then the inner trenches. then the rear lines. Soon a whole, nigh impenetrable network of defences is established all around the city. no way in or out, artillery and air strikes keeping any attempted counterattack from occurring. At this point the defensive air forces have been so worn down they mainly only have aerial recon craft left

Viktor: "Right, to business then! Karl, bring the maps up to my office. Gentlemen?" He gestures out of the room, then leads the way, into a well upholstered hallway, with a rather grand staircase leading up, lushly carpeted. At the top of the staircase, on the third floor, and straight through the largest door, into a suitably impressive office, with a large table, some 2 by 4 metres in size, and a desk facing into the room, with large windows behind it. Likely very impractical for the climate.

A few of the thunderbolts still fly, parts cannibalised from the fallen craft, and the men flying now worthy to be called aces in their own right. Not necessarily 'feared' but at least known, one aircraft in particular, painted with Aquila on her wings, crushing the iron skull in its beak, and hazard stripes on its tailplane, in mocking mimicry of the foe. The PDF call the aircraft, "Ironbreaker" She is credited with numerous kills.

meanwhile, several botched attacks against the line have occured, almost all unsanctioned. This has resulted in numerous disasters and many prisoners taken by the iron warriors. Now they are brought, chained and en masse, into one location

Among them, is a young man in an officers coat, with tank commander stripes. Promoted well beyond his years.

the young man notices he's getting particular looks from the guards

He keeps his chin high, and does not meet their eye.

one of them steps in his path, with a trench gun in hand, his face masked by the leering iron mask of the iron warriors. "Give me your coat."

He silently holds up his cuffed hands, his face blank. He was obviously clean shaven, but his short time in captivity has lent him a scruffy shadow, and his blonde hair, held up in a short queue, has come loose in a few strands, one hanging across his face.

the figure sighs "Did I stutter, slave?"

Arteras: “I get the impression that this little building isn’t native to this land”
His command staff fan out, taking positions around the table as they wait for the map to be brought in.

"I can't take my coat off, with these cuffs on. sir"

Viktor: "An idea from those posh lot up north, Thought it was daft meself, but by throne it makes you feel good out the cold."

one of the other guards speaks up
"Scum wants you to uncuff him"
"is that so?" *the guard approaches him, and hits him hard in the gut with the butt of his shotgun

He stumbles back, doubled over, but keeps his feet. Breathing hard, he straightens back up to his previous ramrod straight posture, with only the merest grimace of pain

before he can straighten up, the butt strikes his back, knocking him face first into the mud

He turns his shoulder, to avoid caking his face in mud, and smiles quietly to himself. ~I doubt you'll want the coat now. Idiot Heretic.~ Once again, he starts to rise after taking the hit.