Day One - Part 2

[Okor]

Okor released a primal roar at the retreating figures, the sound shaking the ground. "Run, mortals! Break your blades against Astartes Flesh, and... Despair!" Laughing raucously, he turned to his brother. Tartaros laid upon the ground, bleeding from a variety of wounds. His hand had been blown off, his leg had been shattered beneath the ceramite, and a bloody hole in his armour indicated a stab wound. The larraman's cells struggling to keep pace with his mortal wounds. Sighing, Okor slipped his arms underneath his brother, smearing his own clear blood against his armour. Did he suffer a wound in the battle? He hardly noticed it. But of more consequence was Tartaros. Lifting the Luna Wolf from his position, he carried him through the battered doors and past the fortifications, bringing him into a poor excuse for a triage, a sparse array of surgical tools decorating the room. Dropping the marine on one of the few tables not pressed into service as a defensive position, eliciting a groan from the ancient warrior. "Quiet now... Brother. You know well enough, the Long War never ends." He chuckled sadly, grabbing a fistful of clotting agents and painkillers from his bag. Anything less than a mortal overdose would hardly make an impact on a marine. Raising the bundle of syringes, he drove them into the stump of his hand, filling his bloodstream with drugs. The systems of his armour and his augmented biology could only do so much, after all...

As his brother recovered, a bandage wrapped around his wounds, and a splint tied around his battered leg, Okor paced. Where in the warp was that damned sorcerer? The codes had been clear. Had they abandoned their pact? Had they betrayed him? Scowling beneath his helm, he grabbed a piece of broken steel. A makeshift spear was better than his fists. He paused, leaning against a desk. It was the damned Black Crusade all over again. Thousands of warriors, every single one marching under a unique banner, held together by tenuous loyalty to the Despoiler. And how did that end? Just like the lasted damnable eleven. Failure, betrayal, and suspicion. He cast his gaze through the boarded window, looking for movement amongst the woods. He was unsure if the mortals would stop their attempts. They were Astartes, yes, but such dogged persistence was starting to yield results. He brushed his hand against his tabard. He still had his weapon. They would not take this ground while he lived. He touched a hand to his helm, feeling the scars of battles-long past beneath the verdigris, feeling the hole that had long since been grown over.. Technically, a part of him never left the siege of Terra. He grinned, enjoying a joke only he could comprehend, the malformed bone of his skull still aching from what should have been a killing blow.