07-11-2016, 11:52 PM
“Praetor? We’ve arrived.”, the centurion spoke into his helmet’s vox-link a tired, sombre tone.
As they crept out of the ruins of a charred brass-coated hive spire in the edge of Chloral City, little stood before the group but a crater-filled wasteland of ash, mud and charred corpses. A realm of dead men. The squadron of legionnaires guardedly advanced across no-man’s-land, the targeters of their boltguns pointed in every direction. They had to be ever-vigilant, for death awaited around every corner.
“Over here! The west side!”, one of the marines hissed, his hoarse voice echoing throughout the loyalist vox network.
“Anything to report?”, the centurion replied.
There was a moment of silence before the marine spoke.
“The Death Guard garrison… they’re all g-”
“I understand. Over and out.”
The centurion grit his teeth before turning to the westward horizon, Nothing but seared, dry mud and rotting mounds of bone marrow for miles ahead. It was as if the formidable stronghold of an encampment set up by Mydaiel had simply vanished into the toxic smog-filled winds of the world. Nothing remained but ruined weapon batteries and spent bolt casings. Before the centurion could process the sight, the silence of the dead plains was broken by a ear-splitting crack. The unmistakable sound of nearby bolter fire.
Through the corner of his eye, a battle-brother could see that alleyways of the city a band of traitors crept, their violet-painted armour stained with the dark crimson of dried blood and the elaborate brass decoration of the Emperor’s Children marred by a layer of filth and verdigris. Their blades were already bloodied, and the barrels of the boltguns were smoking. They did not speak, but their intentions were more than clear.
“It’s a bloody ambush!”, the legionnaire yelled, a crackled and distorted echo of his voice sounding through the vox network.
“This won’t be easy…”, another replied.
The centurion interrupted the two. “Of course not. Now, watch and learn how wolves bring down the lion...”, the marine turned to his brothers in arms. “Squadron! Spread out and hunker down! Crescent formation! We aren’t to be defeated by these whoresons twice in the same bloody week!”
The two squads sprung into action immediately, the loyalists spreading themselves across what little cover there was in the wasteland as the traitor formation charged through the city alleyways towards their former brothers, their knives gleaming in the shadows. The loyalists were the first to fire, blasting away at the traitors. But even then they could only slow their charge. The scions of Chemos kept running, firing towards their brothers with bolt pistols and slashing towards them with combat blades, behaving more like the maddened berserkers of yore than the disciplined warriors the legion was famed as.
The centurion looked around as all hell broke loose. The sworn brothers, Lukas and Hakael, blown away by lascannon fire, their broken bodies lying face-down in the dirt. Kharak, a veteran officer of the War Hounds, brought to his death by a volkite shot. A century of service, ended by a single blast of heat. The centurion tallied each casualty in his mind, and muttered under his breath, promising he would repay threefold.
As their former battle-brothers sprinted forwards straight into bolter fire, the squadron had two options. Fall back, and get caught in the charge, or stand. To them, the decision was obvious. The centurion placed his still-smoking gun on the mag-lock on his belt, and motioned for the loyalists to charge.
The speartip of the traitor assault was met with a counter of equal fury by the loyalists. Both sides slogged through the mud, smog and charred corpses, through frag shells and gunfire, straight into their deaths. They had killed this world, they had killed their brothers, and for what? The centurion didn’t care for their justifications at this point. He strode alongside his brothers, chainglaive in one hand and pistol on the other, meeting the traitors in the middle of no-man’s-land in a storm of steel, blood and chaos.
He struck one legionnaire with his first strike, his chainblade tearing through their armour with an ear-piercing cry and cutting into the marine’s lungs. The marine fell on the spot, blood oozing from between his ribs. A second and third were set ablaze by his wrist-mounted flame projector, and a final mud-stained boot to the leg and two-handed overhead swing ended a fourth.
A sudden pain coursed through the centurion’s upper arm, followed by the shivering cold of iron. He turned to find a knife stuck deep into his right pauldron, the blade shattered the gouged ruby eye of the Warmaster that the marine once wore proudly. Behind the blade, a giant of mauve-tinted ceramite stood, his mud-stained face scowling at the centurion.
The traitor pulled the knife out of his target’s shoulder, and followed up the blow with a knee to the gut, cracking the centurion’s ash-coated chestplate. The centurion stumbled backward for a moment, before regaining his footing in the brawl. He responded with a snarl and a strike from his chainglaive, cutting a gash into the traitor’s forearm. Before he could continue the flurry of blows, the traitor jammed his blade into the teeth of the glaive. The weapon let out a horrific growl at it tried to tear through the rust-coated steel, but it was jammed.
It was then that a whistling cry came from far above the spires. Artillery.
“MORTARS!”, a marine cried.
Acting almost on instinct, the centurion tore his blade downward through the traitor’s knife, breaking its chain, and leaped for cover. He ignored the chaos behind him and powered through the injuries he had suffered, giving only a final parting shot to the brawl as the legionnaires ran for their lives. Some stood and continued to fight, the chivalrous fools that they were. They would soon be dead.
The shells began to fall upon the outskirts of the city, and not a single tear was shed was those lost.
As they crept out of the ruins of a charred brass-coated hive spire in the edge of Chloral City, little stood before the group but a crater-filled wasteland of ash, mud and charred corpses. A realm of dead men. The squadron of legionnaires guardedly advanced across no-man’s-land, the targeters of their boltguns pointed in every direction. They had to be ever-vigilant, for death awaited around every corner.
“Over here! The west side!”, one of the marines hissed, his hoarse voice echoing throughout the loyalist vox network.
“Anything to report?”, the centurion replied.
There was a moment of silence before the marine spoke.
“The Death Guard garrison… they’re all g-”
“I understand. Over and out.”
The centurion grit his teeth before turning to the westward horizon, Nothing but seared, dry mud and rotting mounds of bone marrow for miles ahead. It was as if the formidable stronghold of an encampment set up by Mydaiel had simply vanished into the toxic smog-filled winds of the world. Nothing remained but ruined weapon batteries and spent bolt casings. Before the centurion could process the sight, the silence of the dead plains was broken by a ear-splitting crack. The unmistakable sound of nearby bolter fire.
Through the corner of his eye, a battle-brother could see that alleyways of the city a band of traitors crept, their violet-painted armour stained with the dark crimson of dried blood and the elaborate brass decoration of the Emperor’s Children marred by a layer of filth and verdigris. Their blades were already bloodied, and the barrels of the boltguns were smoking. They did not speak, but their intentions were more than clear.
“It’s a bloody ambush!”, the legionnaire yelled, a crackled and distorted echo of his voice sounding through the vox network.
“This won’t be easy…”, another replied.
The centurion interrupted the two. “Of course not. Now, watch and learn how wolves bring down the lion...”, the marine turned to his brothers in arms. “Squadron! Spread out and hunker down! Crescent formation! We aren’t to be defeated by these whoresons twice in the same bloody week!”
The two squads sprung into action immediately, the loyalists spreading themselves across what little cover there was in the wasteland as the traitor formation charged through the city alleyways towards their former brothers, their knives gleaming in the shadows. The loyalists were the first to fire, blasting away at the traitors. But even then they could only slow their charge. The scions of Chemos kept running, firing towards their brothers with bolt pistols and slashing towards them with combat blades, behaving more like the maddened berserkers of yore than the disciplined warriors the legion was famed as.
The centurion looked around as all hell broke loose. The sworn brothers, Lukas and Hakael, blown away by lascannon fire, their broken bodies lying face-down in the dirt. Kharak, a veteran officer of the War Hounds, brought to his death by a volkite shot. A century of service, ended by a single blast of heat. The centurion tallied each casualty in his mind, and muttered under his breath, promising he would repay threefold.
As their former battle-brothers sprinted forwards straight into bolter fire, the squadron had two options. Fall back, and get caught in the charge, or stand. To them, the decision was obvious. The centurion placed his still-smoking gun on the mag-lock on his belt, and motioned for the loyalists to charge.
The speartip of the traitor assault was met with a counter of equal fury by the loyalists. Both sides slogged through the mud, smog and charred corpses, through frag shells and gunfire, straight into their deaths. They had killed this world, they had killed their brothers, and for what? The centurion didn’t care for their justifications at this point. He strode alongside his brothers, chainglaive in one hand and pistol on the other, meeting the traitors in the middle of no-man’s-land in a storm of steel, blood and chaos.
He struck one legionnaire with his first strike, his chainblade tearing through their armour with an ear-piercing cry and cutting into the marine’s lungs. The marine fell on the spot, blood oozing from between his ribs. A second and third were set ablaze by his wrist-mounted flame projector, and a final mud-stained boot to the leg and two-handed overhead swing ended a fourth.
A sudden pain coursed through the centurion’s upper arm, followed by the shivering cold of iron. He turned to find a knife stuck deep into his right pauldron, the blade shattered the gouged ruby eye of the Warmaster that the marine once wore proudly. Behind the blade, a giant of mauve-tinted ceramite stood, his mud-stained face scowling at the centurion.
The traitor pulled the knife out of his target’s shoulder, and followed up the blow with a knee to the gut, cracking the centurion’s ash-coated chestplate. The centurion stumbled backward for a moment, before regaining his footing in the brawl. He responded with a snarl and a strike from his chainglaive, cutting a gash into the traitor’s forearm. Before he could continue the flurry of blows, the traitor jammed his blade into the teeth of the glaive. The weapon let out a horrific growl at it tried to tear through the rust-coated steel, but it was jammed.
It was then that a whistling cry came from far above the spires. Artillery.
“MORTARS!”, a marine cried.
Acting almost on instinct, the centurion tore his blade downward through the traitor’s knife, breaking its chain, and leaped for cover. He ignored the chaos behind him and powered through the injuries he had suffered, giving only a final parting shot to the brawl as the legionnaires ran for their lives. Some stood and continued to fight, the chivalrous fools that they were. They would soon be dead.
The shells began to fall upon the outskirts of the city, and not a single tear was shed was those lost.
Quote:"Glory in death is life eternal." - Thought for the Day
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