The sky lurched above Tekka; scarlet clouds bursting with rain like the tears of a mourning mother. The smell of blood made the air reek of iron as it poured from every stripped carcass and flayed vessel; crude crucifixions lined Tekka Prime's ramparts. Tekka would serve as another example of an Imperial-held world which had surrendered after a prolonged siege of terror, only to be massacred upon their surrender. This was the vengeance of the VIIIth, the Emperor's exiled butchers, the Night Lords.
"Larz," Krekit called through the grill of his vox, still wiping the viscera from a serrated fleecing blade, "has our little sister woken up from her nap?" Krekit was a tower of dark adamantium with spiderwebs of millennia-faded lightning bolts etched upon shadow-wreathed power armor. Ruby eye lens flickered in the hollow recesses of a leering death mask; metallic, crimson wings unfurled proudly upon its sides.
Larz was no different. Another midnight clad ripper, with a wide, blood-stained grin and a gleaming sword of blackened iron. "Yes, she still sleeps. Soundly. Sweetly. Or so the brothers told me; they kept the screaming down, for her."
Krekit nodded in approval, wiping his long knife along the flat of a plasteel gauntlet. He'd never been much for sentimentality – except when it came to Remilia. His mistress could make even a devil like himself shed tears over her wellbeing; much had changed since his brothers took her in, and in such short time, at that. Though most days there was little joy in finding an abandoned kitten or puppy wandering around the battlements before tossing them into one of the many pits filled with acid swill. The Long War against the Imperium was a futile one - he was no fool - but Remilia had sparked something within the warband; purpose, perhaps? Remilia was precious to the Night Lord's, and as their wanton savagery reignited the little vampirette's bloodlust, the warband sought to quench her sanguine apatite; all that remained were the ravens, waiting for their turn.
"I hope you're right about the sleep," Krekit replied grimly, "she's been homesick, I think." None of the warband knew the truth of Remilia's origins, only that they'd found her unconsciously drifting in the wake of a violent warp-storm along the violent shores of Kiliad Secundus. "She has barely eaten since we arrived to Tekka, and with so much fresh blood available... well...I worry for her, is all."
"She wakes!" A fellow Night lord cried with all the giddiness of a child, the monolith of an astartes reduced to an eager servant. Larz and Krekit collected their war gear before slinking into the desecrated citadel that was once this world's planetary administratum. There, guarded by a cadre of ghoulish traitor legionaries, roused the dimensionally displaced damsel. Even in her slumber, Remilia possessed a perfect beauty; short, blue-grey hair fell from her frilled bonnet in messy tufts.
Remilia's eyes flickered open, taking in gothic walls and stained glass windows, a strange sense of calm washing over her; a kind of peace. This felt like home, but then confusion passed across her face as if she were struggling to remember where she was. It was almost as if time itself was bent out of shape as Remilia took in what was happening to this alien world, the madness seething around the battlements with its thousands upon thousands of victims screaming and crying for mercy which would never be given. And yet she appeared at peace despite it all, smiling dreamily even though the world around her had become hell on earth.
"Good morning, little sister!" Larz serrated maw curled into an unnatural yet genuine smile, "did you sleep well?"
"Yes, thank you." Remilia blinked again as she rose rubbed the sleep away; much like her adoptive brothers, Remilia's eyes were scarlet pools.
"It's so nice that you all found me." These creatures, clad in sable armor and hidden behind winged skulls were not men; well, unlike any human that Remilia knew to inhabit Gensokyo, or any place she'd ever been for the matter. Wherever her battle with Reimu had sent her, the odds of returning home seemed bleaker and bleaker the more she learned of this...dimension. She missed her home, Flandre...but the Night Lords had only shown her reverence since their initial meeting. It felt good to be catered to by such ancient warriors. Remilia had headed her household for as long as memory served her, but some Night Lord veterans were magnitudes older than even she. Despite the horrible things they did, they couldn't have been too bad, right?
"Allow me to carry you, little one." Jaga offered, a hulking monster of ceramite and hatred, the terminator clad champion had waded through the small gathering of Night Lords and offered a lightning-clawed hand to Remilia to sit upon. Even the butcher of worlds had fallen in love with the warband's prized sister. It made for a strange sight; the tiny girl clinging to the tusked heretic. But despite the surreal nature of the scene, neither party seemed to mind.
As the duo took a nearby balcony, overlooking the ravenous host below, Remilia asked a timid question, "Is there anyway...anyway that I could return to my world? I can't quite remember how I arrived here but," She hesitated, a glint of sadness catching in those deceptively innocent eyes, "I wish to return home, to my mansion; to my sister."
Jaga nodded, "I do not know, little sister. I suppose that some foul manner of warp sorcery was employed against you." The truth was far more complicated, and the Night Lord could not possibly fathom that Remilia was from a reality entirely different than his own, so his presumptions were not entirely inaccurate, merely ignorant to the truth. "We adore you, little sister, but if returning to your home would bring you joy, we will bleed the stars dry if you require it." Jaga's voice was a modulated roar, cold steel whispering through space itself, but he did indeed sound as if he meant what he said.
Remilia smiled gently as she leaned her head upon Jaga's warp-scarred carapace; it felt good to have big brothers.