# Eater of World's



## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

I started work on this last night; After realising the World Eater's have hardly any fiction around them, I thought I would tackle some. This is set Pre-Heresy, and will hopefully run to the end of the Heresy depending on the characters that come and go. So here it is- 


Lord-Lieutenant Faustin cupped one hand over his mouth and yawned deeply. Tiredness had overcome him, the Terran having not been able to rest in several days. He flicked strands of black hair from his puffy, red tinted eyes. His quarters was Spartan and closing on empty, with only his polished white and blue armour being displayed for viewing purposes. He stood, his crimson robes flapping wildly as he pushed away from his throne and moved towards the door. Perhaps somewhere, someone would have something he could occupy himself with. 

The _Gladiator _was remarkably silent. For the ten thousand or so crew and passengers, and the five hundred World Eaters that called it home, only several hundred moved through its darkened decks. Like a planet it had a day and night cycle, in which the lights would dim and brighten accordingly. The Astartes present aboard usually spent the night cycle resting and tending wounds, or gaining the latter in the training pits deep within the super structure of the mighty vessel. Several crew men paused and bowed as he passed, casting away their thoughts at the sight of such a esteemed member of the Legion. 

His bulk was immense. His torso was covered in bunches of oiled muscle, and his arms could be said by one to be akin to fledging tree trunks. His jaw line was square and protruding, so much that he had a large under-bite. His eyes were orange like the dusk sky, and his mane of unkempt hair fell down to the right of his shoulder, dangling at his chest. Each step ended in a resounding clang as he pushed his bare feet into the cold deck, causing them to tingle joyfully at the icy embrace. 

The labyrinthine decks of the Capital Ship spread off in all directions, jutting through its oily gut and overlooking the main vehicle maintenance decks, were the rows of Thunderhawks and Stormbirds rested in their tight moorings. But he was not going there, for that was a place he tried to avoid whenever he could, hating the cramped hallways and the cavernous abysses which penetrated deep into the ships core. That was where the slave-crews and their brutish handlers made their home, where they could run freely away from the ever watching gaze of the XII Legionnaires. 

He continued his journey up wide set stairs, across gantries that dangled hundreds of metres above flooring, through armouries and feasting halls. Soon he found himself upon the command deck. Unlike the cramped lower levels, the command deck was artistic and well spaced with a navy blue carpet that lined the floor and large statues of long dead heroes and paintings of far flung war zones. Faustin wriggled his toes in the warm carpet for several moments, relishing it and smiling before continuing onwards. 

The mighty blast doors that led onto the bridge, each one carved from the finest metal that could be found within the known Imperium, loomed ahead as he drew nearer. Both had splashes of blue and white paint across them, and in the centre the latch was shaped into that of a jaw, a world between them to represent the World Eaters Legion. As he neared a Servitor clambered from a dark alcove nearby on three legs and approached him, the dried skin of its torso sprinkling white flakes across the carpet. 

It outstretched one three pronged hand and placed it on his shoulder saying in a gruff, metallic voice “Identify yourself”. Faustin flicked it away with one gnarled hand and growled “Infidel, I am Lord-Lieutenant Faustin! Who else would I be? Bloody Angron himself?” the Servitor, taken aghast by this stepped away and a light flashed from one of its shoulders, and slowly the doors rolled apart to reveal a red lit interior. He walked forwards, ignoring the Servitor and letting out a low grumble. 

The bridge was a immense thing. Planned out over four levels, with the lower three below that of which Faustin was on and occupied by Servitors and Legion-Thralls each consisted of three hundred stations with cable lined paths between them. The top was occupied by the World Eaters. Eight in total stood as a ever vigilant guard with Bolters pulled tightly across their chests, their faces hid beneath smooth helms. At the centre, standing behind a semi-circle of consoles was his advisor and closest Brother. 

As he approached, the cold metal of the floor once again sending tingles up his enhanced form, the Astartes turned. Adorned in full battle plate, he utterly dwarfed Faustin in both aura and stature. A topknot of blonde hair was held upon his wire traced head, dangling at the top gently. A pair of crystal blue eyes sat in the centre of his face, a long nose that had evidently been broken several times, due to the misshapen centre pointed downwards from those. His lips were pulled tightly against his flesh, so much that the glint of white teeth could be made out from beneath. A patchwork like scar covered his right cheek, something that had been earned when he was a mere youth. 

Faustin stopped and smiled saying “Varren, I trust all is well aboard?” the Brother-Captain before him returned “It is Lord-Lieutenant, Angron and the Legion are pushing through the Elra System as we speak, a Scout-Frigate arrived no more than a hour ago and relayed a message from our Lord. The Elran have opened peace negotiations with Angron, I think it is fair to say that will not get far”. His accent was laced with Terran origin, something that both Faustin and Varren shared. 

Both let out a loud chuckle when the Brother-Captain finished speaking, and Faustin smiled replying “Yes Orak, we both know how it will end. I almost feel apologetic for the Xeno-Worshipping whores. Angron will deploy entire Companies against them Orak, thousands of our brethren will fall upon the worlds of the Elran.” He gripped the shoulders of Orak Varren, staring blindly into the giant view-dome that formed the forwards section of the bridge and muttered “Brother, order the Companies ready. We make for Elra!”. 

++++++++

Faustin smiled once again as his armour was fitted, the gleaming surface shining in the lights of his quarters and twisted his wrist, servos whining loudly. He proceeded to flex his fingers twice, pulling them into the black, soft palm of his armour. Two of his Thralls held his Chain-Axe between them, their faces red with effort. Another held a purple velvet pillow, on which his helm, which was topped in a horse plume rested gently. His Bolt Pistol lay upon another such pillow nearby, its flank glistening with lubricants and incense. 

He took the Bolt Pistol first, pushing it into the empty leather holster that rested emptily at his hip. His Chain-Axe followed, however that was lifted above his head and slipped into the thick black straps that were adjoined to his backpack like a octopus’s suckers would to the ocean floor. The weapon fell down into its locks gracefully and he finally reached for his helm. The eyes were tinted red to give it a more malicious appearance, and a single black stripe moved down the centre of the forehead to mark his rank and in remembrance of a long dead Brother. 

It lifted in his tight grip, and he brought it too his face and placed his lips upon the stripe before lowering it to his side, pushing it into the mag-locks there. With a click it was pulled from his hands, and sucked onto his armour tightly. Finally he was done and he bid his Thralls farewell, heading towards the primary Embarkation Deck. The travel through the _Gladiator _was short, as the decks had been cleared for the use of the Astartes alone and thus it was easy for Faustin to make short time of the descent from his quarters along the main spine. 

When he did reach the Embarkation Deck he was met with rows upon rows of blue and white armoured Astartes. Each stood at attention, with their arms held so that they pointed downwards into the weathered decking. Brother-Captain Tikhon, his features as stern as ever, stood at the head of his Veteran’s each of which had served with Faustin for decades. Brother-Captain Varren, stood with the Assault-Brother’s of his Company with a fur thrilled cloak pulled over his armour tightly, his helm in place upon his head. 

Brother-Captain Anzo leaned heavily into the deck upon the hilt of his Chain-Axe, staring at the nearby row of Stormbirds that would carry them into war. Finally stood the two hundred Neophytes of Brother-Captain Raban Varius’s, freshly transported from Terra to reinforce the Eighty Seventh Expedition Fleet stood loosely to the left, their armour unadorned compared to that of the more Veteran Marines. Each Company slammed heels into the deck when he entered, the Brother-Captain’s advancing forwards with Tikhon at the lead. 

Tikhon was effectively the second in command of the Eighty Seventh and it showed perfectly. Unlike his fellow Captain’s and Faustin himself he dwarfed each one in a mighty set of Tactical Dreadnaught Armour, newly forged upon some far flung Forge World. A black beard covered his lower face, twirled tightly at the tips, his augmented left eye whirred loudly as he zoomed in on Faustin and smiled, revealing a row of metal edged teeth that could rip a mans head from his shoulders. His forehead was a land of scars and bulging veins that pumped ecstatically with Combat-Simms and blood. He had no hair, but rather a tangle of thick black wires that hummed gently in the background.

Unlike the calm temperament of Varren, Tikhon was a volcano ready to unleash a tide of magma upon some unsuspecting world or person. He stopped a metre or so away, staring down upon Faustin and said “Ah finally Faustin, we have been waiting”. The moment between the two was tense, and Faustin took notice of the giant Power Fists that were pulled tightly into the armour of Tikhon clenched and unclenched, a electrical surge dancing along the fingers. 

He grinned and returned calmly “Your just getting old Tikhon, what your in the eight digits now? Or is it the nines? I really cannot remember” he gripped his arm and both burst into a joyous laughter, until Tikhon pulled his arm free and watched as the remaining Officers took up a position around Faustin. Varius, the newest member of the Council went with his helm on, a pair of rectangular ornaments sprouting upwards from the smoothed surface. Anzo, his gladiatorial like armour covered in bloody trophies with a brown leather cape flowing from his shoulders, hooked on via a pair of spikes stood next to Varren who nodded intently. 

The Lord-Lieutenant spoke to all within the Embarkation Deck and not just at his Captain’s, silence suddenly casting a veil upon those bunched within. He stepped forwards, moving along the line “Brothers of the Eighty Seventh, the Elra system has cast down our rightful ownership of their worlds, our sire has made planet fall and is embattled with their treacherous warriors. We are to follow within the hour, give or take the time that it takes us to gain access through the blockade. Brothers of the World, we land and we slaughter! In the name of Angron, tear the Elran limb from damned limb!”. 

A ferocious cheer was thrown into the air, throats growling wildly and Faustin smiled as his Captain’s dispersed and headed for their Stormbirds, their Companies in tow. Tikhon moved away to the twenty Terminator’s that formed the heavy arm of the Eighty Seventh, each of which stood with weapons held at the ready mostly in the forms of giant two handed Chain-Axes. The remainder of the Company was made up of close combat specialists, each of which fell under the command of Faustin himself. 

The Elra system shook in sheer fear as the mighty ship was spat violently from the Empyrean, ethereal energies twirling around the plated form as the lights fluttered on and off, the Navigator screaming violently. Moments passed, before the Stormbirds flew outwards from the Embarkation Deck, their wide winged forms spinning into the atmosphere of the nearest planet. Far below, the World Eaters angled their helms upwards, flames licking their armour as they rested amongst great pyres formed from the bodies of Elran’s and watched as the first Stormbird kicked up a wave of dust and landed heavily. 

++++++++

Faustin was the first out, a pair of Terminator armoured brethren flanking him, and making him look obsolete as he pressed his boot down hard into the soil which had now turned a light pink from the blood which had befallen it. Hundreds of World Eaters crowded around, their armour stained in gore. Many wore belts of heads and strips of meat that in their minds formed trophies, but to the newly arrived Terran Astartes simply made them look like some form of Daemon from the Chronicles of Ursh. 

High above, the pair of Stormbirds assigned to the Neophytes of Varius circled, their rear hatches opened. The Lord-Lieutenant noticed Marines standing in the opened hatches, staring downwards at their Brothers with helms locked in place. A pair of Astartes, one tall and gaunt, the other short and stout approached Faustin and stopped several metres away, both almost identical in appearance, their faces only differing due to the fatness of the rearmost. 

They stared at each other, the newly arrived Astartes standing with straightened backs and high chins while those who had fought for weeks were stooped tiredly, their blue and white armour bathed in crimson. The tallest stepped forwards and said “I am Brother-Captain Grakin of the Fifteenth Company, what brings you here Lord-Lieutenant? Shouldn’t you be running some errand for our liege?”. Faustin began to chuckle loudly and turned on his heel, winking at Tikhon who was standing at the top of the ramp. He spun back around and leapt forwards, gripping Grakin by the throat tightly. His head came in, and Grakin yelped as his nose cracked and broke spraying blood over the chest of the Lord-Lieutenant. 

A second butt sent nausea through Grakin who stumbled backwards, before Faustin twisted his leg around the back of his fellow and pushed with one palm causing him to topple to the floor, wiping away blood from his nose with one finger. He snorted and spat a pink coloured mixture of blood and phlegm to the floor, the second Marine stepped forwards with a Bolt Pistol drawn. Tikhon launched forwards at this, and knocked away the weapon with one hand hissing “Don’t be a fool like your Captain”. 

A booming voiced caused all to cower as the word “Enough!” was cast across the landing zone. A copper haired giant, a pair of angled cheekbones nearly obscuring his pale eyes approached, causing World Eater's to split and let him through. His armour was covered in bolts that held it together, high shoulder pads adorned with the symbol of the World Eaters. A furred cloak fell from it, flowing down to his knees and twisting tightly in the wind. His forearms and legs were covered in brown leather that was edged with the fur of some strange animal that shorn brightly. Faustin fell to his knees and muttered “Angron”. 

++++++++

All comments are needed please ladies and gentlemen, so that way if I know people like it I will work on the rest


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## Flerden (Aug 17, 2008)

Damn that was good. Write more, fast!!!

And a nice entry for a Primarch :wink:


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## cain the betrayer (Oct 12, 2009)

looks good as always da in the name of khorne make some more (or els ill have to call some bloodletters just to be sure:biggrin


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## Zondarian (Nov 17, 2007)

As always DA great work, and as always I have to spread the love before repping you for it , keep up the good work DA, speak to you soon.


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## Broken (Dec 7, 2008)

Nice work. Was quite a lot to read, but I didn't particularly want to stop.

Just a couple of little things I noticed though. First, you don't need to use an apostrophe unless the subject owns the object. Such as: "Ben's car", not "his Captain's dispersed", because they don't own the dispersing.

Also, if the following word begins with a vowel, you need to use 'an' rather than 'a'. Feel free to ignore me, I'm simply pointing out small errors in your grammar because it's serious fiction.

Finally, you include a lot of complex sentences, but sometimes it'd be better to make them short by using a period instead of a comma. But there are other times when you need to add some punctuation to make the writing more coherent. Try using semi-colons or colons for longer pauses than a comma, but shorter than a period.

Keep us updated regularly.


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## Lord Ramo (Apr 12, 2009)

Great work yet again dark angel. I have to spread some rep around but when i next get the chance you can be sure i shall be +repping you


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## Zondarian (Nov 17, 2007)

Hello Lord Ramo, spread the love? That sounds familar, you stole my rep based saying. I have half a mind to neg rep you right now, I feel all abused and nasty


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## Chaosrider (Feb 3, 2010)

This is really good DA. +rep.

Just a word of advice, watch yours tenses. You only did it a couple of times but sometimes a word didn't quite make sense. I have the same problem... and i got a test on writing in a week :/. Other than that, keep it up!!

Edit, i spotted some typos, but we all make them...


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Cheers for the posts and rep guys! I do appreciate it Broken, just the way I have been taught to write. The next part is in works, and will involve Angron and his Axes....Not a fond sight :laugh: Anymore comments will be great!


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Heres the next part all, comments are once again welcome!-

Grakin quivered like a wet dog as the terrible form of Angron moved above him, his lips upturned in rage. The Captain of the Fifteenth pulled himself up onto his knees and looked up at the Primarch stammering “Lo….Lord….I…I…This bastard attack…..He attacked me!”. A powerful backhand sent him onto his back, sliding across the ground. The Primarch laughed loudly and replied “Do not try and fool me Grakin! I watched you insult my Lord-Lieutenant, if I did not need you alive I would have cut your head from your shoulders”. 

His voice was remarkably calm as he addressed Grakin; Never ceasing to waver in tone. Grakin whimpered behind him quietly, ever fearful of the famed rage of his Primarch. Faustin couldn’t stop the grin which forced itself across his face or the erratic laughter that overtook him when Angron scooped him up in a mighty bear hug saying “Faustin! I thought I ordered you to keep away? I should have known such a loyal dog as you wouldn’t have been able to stay far away from my glorious self, in that case I welcome your forces to Elra!”. 

Angron gently placed him back to his feet and struck him on the shoulder pauldron with one, armoured palm saying “Come little brother, we prepare for war”. 

++++++++

The room was large and circular, with dozens of blast marks streaked across the walls and ceiling, along with the brown patches of dried blood. A untold number of World Eaters occupied the space, their forms clad in a almost ornamental armour that made them gleam in the red strip lights that dangled above. Several carried dark trophy belts adorned with half shattered skulls, some of which still dripped foul smelling liquids and chunks of meat upon the tiled ground. As the Primarch and Faustin entered, heads snapped towards them wearily before continuing on with their duties. 

He noticed Sgoran Mith, the leader of the Devourer’s, the elite of Angron. He nodded at Faustin and smiled, showing his golden teeth too the Lord-Lieutenant. Leaning against a wall weakly, his form was hidden beneath a blue robe but Faustin knew that beneath rested his Bolt Pistol and Chain-Axe, Sgoran being a fond believer that the Astartes should never walk freely without being armed. His face was a mesh of scar tissue, so much that no feature bar his sparkling green eyes and golden teeth was able to be defined. 

They pushed towards the centre, where a long wooden table lay. Its surface was covered in stacks of papers and dozens of detailed maps and blueprints, some of which were rolled together and held in place by thick elastics. Several dozen Legion Thralls and Imperial Army Officers stood around it, moving large wooden markers forwards as a nearby Vox kept them updated on the various battles that were ongoing throughout the system. Each cleared a space when Angron grew nearer, sliding away their logistical supplies so that he could stand comfortably. 

He clicked his fingers and those within filed out of the room in a quick pace, leaving only Angron, Sgoran and Faustin in the room. It seemed remarkably large without the armoured bulks of Astartes and the colourful Imperial Army officials and Thralls. At that, Sgoran outstretched his hand and Faustin shook it from over the table smiling warmly. He pulled away and Sgoran nodded, straightening his form further. 

The Primarch spoke “Now, my sons lets get on with the briefing. As you should know Faustin, the Eight Hundredth Expedition Fleet arrived here nine months ago, and at first were welcomed with open arms. Initial contact went well, and Brother-Captain Kavarr established a headquarters on one of the outer worlds, which we are not sure. On the fiftieth day Kavarr unearthed a small group of Elran who called themselves the Pegasus Cult. On the seventy-first day, Kavarr reported the Pegasus Cult had ensnared the inner worlds and he was deploying his Imperial Army contingent too deal with it.” 

He sighed and tapped the table with the fingers of his right hand continuing “Contact was lost with them soon after, and it became apparent the Pegasus Cult had grown in numbers. Kavarr deployed his Company in a effort too keep the peace but lost contact with many Brother’s during this. Kavarr himself is now missing, as is his entire Fleet including a pair of Mechanicus vessels. We arrived a week later, and since then the bastards have held us firmly in place. Xeno have been sighted amongst the Elran, they are our primary targets”. 

Faustin nodded grimly and cleared the bile from his mouth asking intently “This Pegasus Cult, they are Xeno collaborators? Also, how many Brother’s have we lost too the bastards? Not including the Eighteenth of Kavarr that is”. The Primarch nodded too him, clasping his hands together in a tight embrace and said “The Pegasus Cult are indeed working with the Xeno, we believe that they had some kind of influence over the Elran. As for casualties, eight hundred World Eaters lay dead upon these damned worlds, and that number will only grow as we continue”. 

Sgoran interrupted at this “The Pegasus Cult are nothing more than a armed rabble Faustin, I am sure you can handle them. They have however, managed to infiltrate several of the Imperial Army Regiments, which we do not know but they are using those within as assassins and suicide attackers. It is a rather efficient way of sending fear into our troops, trust is virtually no more amongst them. Luckily, they have not been able to reach the Navy as of yet due too the Astartes we have aboard the vessels. Yet is a key word in there Brother, we can only hold them off for so long”. 

The Devourer was a giant even without his armour. He nearly stood at the height of Faustin, his monstrous form bounded in thick muscle that had been worked on till perfection. He had once been a handsome Marine, but over the years the toll of war had given him the appearance of some nightmare brewed in the minds of over active children. Yet he was a popular member of the Legion too those who managed to penetrate his dark outer shell. 

Angron snorted and returned “Sgoran exaggerates, he listens too old wives tales far to often. Rumours, nothing more Faustin. Do not worry, we have the finest of the Imperial Army serving with us and I assure you that nothing that my Devourer Lord has said will befall your forces. Tomorrow my sons, we are too take this world from the grip of the Elra once and for all. I shall lead us into glory. Prepare your forces, the Legion marches too war!”. 

With that Faustin nodded and turned away, marching briskly too the door which he pushed open without a word, only the creaking of hinges sounding within. He closed it behind him and outstretched his arms, taking in deep breaths of cold air that burned his throat. He smiled, Angron was actually happy too see him, and moved back towards his forces, ignoring his fellow Legionnaires which milled around him. 

++++++++

The assault was fronted by a mighty armoured spearhead. A single Fellblade with the name _Headhunter _inscribed up its left flank in curled, black writing led the way, the giant engine housed within purring loudly. Stood atop the turret, with a Chain-Axe in either hand was Angron. His bare face was split by several jutting lines of red war paint, each of which darted towards the centre. He bared his teeth, and raised Gorefather high, the extremely sharp teeth there howling for blood and pointed it towards a city in the distance.

Behind him, four thousand World Eaters roared their approval, raising weapons into the air. Some fired off weapons, but those were quickly shot warning glances from nearby high ranking Space Marines. With that, the Fellblade churned up the ground beneath it, splattering nearby Devourer’s in mud and clumps of grass and charged forwards like a beast of legend. The Tactical Dreadnaught Armoured World Eaters that stood around it followed close behind, leaping into their idling Land Raiders and letting out shrill roars. 

Hundreds of Rhino Transports followed, laden with Squads of Astartes who eagerly awaited the oncoming bloodshed. Artillery fired from the city, thumping down around the World Eaters violently. Fountains of earth and rock were sent upwards with great sparks of flame, crashing down upon nearby transports or in the worst of cases causing them to lift from the ground ponderously. The first casualty in the charge was a Rhino, sheered open as a shell ripped through the roof and incinerated those who awaited within. 

Waves of shrapnel were sent tumbling in all directions, slicing through the hulls of the closest Rhino’s and injuring more Astartes. Yet those continued onwards, biting lips and tongues as their wounds sealed over. Angron took a round too his shoulder from a enemy sniper, but shrugged it off as the Fellblade turned its cannon and fired, obliterating the position in a shower of debris and flames, the sniper, ceased too be in a matter of seconds. 

The city was a marbled paradise. The outer walls were covered in stark, purple banners which depicted the winged heart that was the symbol of the Pegasus Cult. Red roofed buildings formed the curling streets of the city, the polished walls reflecting the sun with a almost blinding capacity. A pair of giant iron gates each of which were studded with long metal spikes. A single pyramid sat within the centre of the city, surrounded by pools of glittering water and parks, in which rested colourful fish that swam in circles, oblivious too the destruction which approached their city. 

The parks were dotted with ornamental structures and shrines, brown cobble stoned paths moved towards the pyramid from each of these, moving across arched wooden bridges which hung above the pools. High, thick branched trees sprung upwards rustling in the wind gently. Colourful leaves, struck by autumn, or the Elran equivalent at least fell from them slowly, twisting downwards before resting in the grass below. 

The pyramid itself was obsidian, a strange thing for the white and red buildings which surrounded it. Atop of it lay a giant burning brazier, bound within to crosses were dozens of ritual sacrifices who screamed as their flesh sloughed away and their bones blackened. Standing before them, one a section of stone which jutted outwards was a single priest, his face hidden beneath a white curled beard and a face mask which obscured his upper eyes. 

A purple robe was pulled over him tightly, in one hand he held a curled black pole which was tipped in a shining blue emerald. The other clutched a brown skinned book, which he read loudly as he watched those in the brazier slowly burn away. The smell of burnt skin filtered into his nostrils and he smiled, muttering dark oaths too himself. 

As the Fellblade approached, its cannon kicked back and fired a single round into the gate. It shattered inwards, spinning end over end before coming to a rest as it crushed a building overlooking the courtyard that formed the forward centre of the city. It slid too a halt, and Angron leapt too the ground below, his form half hidden in the steam that billowed out from the growling engine. He marched inwards, dozens of Devourer’s led by Sgoran closely following. And the slaughter started.


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## Chaosrider (Feb 3, 2010)

i don't think i've read something that makes me want to read on as much as this in awhile..


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Wow! Cheers dude! Appreciate it, the next part shall be up either tonight or tomorow hopefully, after I sort out some other things. Has anyone else got any comments?


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## Broken (Dec 7, 2008)

dark angel said:


> Has anyone else got any comments?


No! Stop asking!

Mm'kayz, this is just to remind me to read it later. Also, don't let the lack of comments get you down; just keep posting updates. Look at the views and get encouraged by that instead, considering so many people obivously read the fiction we post up they just don't have anything worth saying.


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## Holmstrom (Dec 3, 2008)

Impressive, *Dark Angel*. I'm interested to see where this goes. Can't really point out anything wrong. Keep it coming.


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Cheers guys! Well, heres the next part, as always comments are welcome- 

The Devourer’s marched into the city formed into a arrowhead. At the point stood Angron, his twin Chain-Axes baying for blood. Directly to his left stood Sgoran, his giant double handed Chain-Glaive held out before him, pointed towards the nearby buildings and narrow cobble stoned streets. To his left stood a Devourer-Lieutenant, Kontos, his twin Lightning Claws crackling with vigorous blue energy which bounced away in all directions. Over fifty more of the Devourer’s followed, their weapons pointed towards the buildings around them, each with a cloak of fur or even one of multicoloured scales, dangling from their giant shoulders. 

Kontos was a monstrous being. His face was forever formed into a snarl, his lips curled upwards out of devastating scarring, his teeth were as black as a starless sky probably out of burning. His bald head was laced with a artificial mane of wires that fell into his armour, and penetrated his back where they wrapped tightly around his spine. His eyes were bloodshot, stimulators that were being pumped through his bloodstream causing them to bulge and swell, and burn violently within his sockets too the degree he wanted to pull them away. 

Angron stopped, and his escort stopped with him. His nostrils widened as he took a deep sniff. There was silence in the entire courtyard for a full ten seconds before a wall of enemy rounds, so thick it nearly completely hid the buildings they had ripped out of, struck the Devourer’s and their beloved Primarch. Angron laughed loudly as rounds were deflected by his armour and said in a voice that was almost cheerful, trying to hide his laughter “Come my sons we take first blood!”. Even as he charged, the walking tanks that were the Devourer’s let out a glory ridden war cry and trudged in all directions, their faces turned into snarls. 

Pegasus Cultists, in purple robes that were edged with orange charged forwards in some futile attempt to destroy them. The first was sent too the ground, Gorefather ripping down through his shoulder and out of his side. The marble crunched under the mighty Chain-Axe, hot arterial blood spraying across the white and black speckled ground. Another pair fell soon after, both their heads cut away by one swipe from Gorechild. His armour was already sprayed red, dripping in the life force of the foolish Pegasus Cultists that dared charged him. 

Sgoran howled wildly as his swung his Chain-Glaive in a deadly arc, cutting a shrieking woman in half at the chest. The heart, torn in half slipped out as the body struck the ground with a wet thump, rolling away from the open chest cavity. He impaled another, lifting the man into the air as his body jerked on the rotating teeth of the blade. He yanked twice, and the body split up the centre, dropping from the blade and landing in a crumpled heap of steaming intestines, lungs and clumps of meat. He pushed further into the tide, like a spear through flesh, leaving a trail of torn bodies in his wake. 

For every Cultist felled, a dozen more seemed to take his or her place. Weapons came down on bodies, ripping flesh from bone and tearing arteries. Angron stood atop a pile of such corpses, howling like some primordial beast as he chopped and shredded violently. Gorefather was busy lifting a screaming man with a mane of scraggly hair upwards, blood sprinkling over Angron while Gorechild swept away the legs of another, destroying the knees. It was a glorious sight that Remembrancers would write about for years too come. 

Even as the enemies fell around them, Angron did not stop. He slaughtered without mercy, his face twisted into a wolfish grin. His face was a mask of red, only his shining white teeth and circular eyes showed from beneath. His copper hair was slicked to his skin now, clumps of meat knotted within it. For several seconds he stopped fighting, and a dozen or so Pegasus Cultists swarmed over him, pounding his armour with makeshift weapons. Why he did so, no one would ever find out but he soon continued to cut down any who strayed too near with delicate swings from his weapons. 

Kontos stood upon a mound of dead, each corpse smoldering from the crackling Claws he wielded. He calmly swiped away the head of a woman with one mighty backhand. Blood spewed forth from the broken, twisted neck pooling down over her sleek body and collapsing at his feet. He roared loudly; spittle flying forth from his mouth. More bodies swarmed over him, and for a moment the Devourer-Lieutenant slipped beneath the tide of Pegasus Cultists. Gasps came from the mouths of nearby Astartes, who looked on with shocked expressions upon their faces.

As sudden as he went down, Kontos ripped upwards. A pair of men were skinned from the chest down by his Claws as he rose up, their organs spilling between bones. A woman clung too his right shoulder with one hand, in the other she held a long barbed blade that cut her fingers as she tried to keep it from slipping out of them. The Astartes brought his left arm up, and gripped her skull tightly with his fingers. With one yank the spine parted and she came flying forwards, striking the ground below Kontos with the crunch of her skull as it lolled on her neck, impacting the surface had and begun to immediately leak fluids. 

The rivets in the marble overflowed with the blood which ran through it, bubbling upwards and flowing across the surface. Sgoran stood as the battle came to a end, his head scanning the few small knots of fighting which remained. Only a dozen or so World Eaters were still engaged towards the north end of the plaza, their Chain-Axes slicing down Pegasus Cultists. Sgoran gulped at the carnage which had overtaken the once peaceful city, and watched as a panting Angron moved towards him, newly taken heads dangling at his belt. 

He had holstered Gorechild upon his back, having let it slip into the metal holdings there. He laid his bloody gauntlet upon the shoulder of Sgoran, panting loudly and said “Good fighting my son, the Pegasus Cult have numbers but we have honour and pride. With the Chain-Axe we cleave them, take their heads Sgoran Mith. They are your prizes, enjoy it while you can. Order Faustin forwards, he takes the residential sector.” With that, he spun and walked away as he did so the blood around his feet splattered upwards across the chest of Sgoran. 

++++++++

Faustin felt his jump pack vibrate before he and two hundred other Astartes were vaulted up onto the marble walls, weapons at the ready. His Bolt Pistol crackled in his hands, sending a lone Pegasus Cultist tumbling over the other side of the wall, his torso exploding outwards like a ripe fruit as he did so. Faustin was accompanying the newer recruits under Raban Varius, most of which had not even fought a living enemy other than their training opponents in the pits before. The sound of barking Bolt Pistols sounded as the few Pegasus Cultists which were atop the walls were sent tumbling below, their bodies rent open. 

Raban himself landed nearby in a crouched position, one hand dug into the marble ground while the other held a smoking Bolt Pistol. His helm was angled towards the ground, reflecting in the pool of blood which had once been a man. The body lay in one of the alleys below, its chest gone but that did not matter now. The Captain was tall and thin, with high cheekbones and a pair of silver eyes, a mane of copper hair pulled into a topknot rested out of the rear of his helm, tall and held in place by black rope. He angled his plain helm towards Faustin and nodded slowly, the thrusters of his jump pack still whining loudly. 

The fur covered figures of Varren’s Company landed several dozen metres away, the gruff voices of his experienced Sergeants bellowing orders too the Astartes. Anzo and his Company landed on the opposite side, Anzo cutting down a Pegasus Cult member without mercy, his Chain-Axe swinging upwards with both hands and destroying the lower face of the man. The elite of Tikhon moved in through the main gates, the assault veterans and Tactical Dreadnaught Armoured brethren forming a mighty phalanx. 

Word had been received from Sgoran that the Eighty Seventh Expeditionary Astartes was to lead the way into the residential sector, and Faustin had immediately ordered his Companies deployed. The residential sector was a mile to the right of the main gates, but that would be cleared in a matter of minutes by the jump pack equipped Astartes. He lifted his Chain-Axe into the air for all to see and twisted it twice, before angling it towards the residential sector. With a glorious roar, the Astartes begun to bound across the roofs of houses and other buildings. Blood would be theirs. 

The Lord-Lieutenant felt tiles creak beneath his weight and slide off into the streets below as he touched down on one house, his form barely landed before he vaulted off again onto another roof. Marines fell down around him like a armoured rain, crushing stone gargoyles beneath them as they tried too overtake one another in a attempt to draw first blood. However the first blood went to the enemy. As one of the recruits of Varius’s Company turned a corner on a balcony, a great barbed spike was shot forwards. It ripped through his armour as if paper, breaking it inwards and sending the impaled Astartes flying backwards into a wall, his twitching form leaking blood. Outraged, Faustin threw himself onto the street below and was followed by eighteen other Brothers who sought revenge. They found it.


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## ryan355 (Jan 5, 2010)

WOW exellent writting cant wait to read more, keep up the good work and well done :grin: +rep


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## screenedwings (Mar 5, 2010)

nice work! :grin:


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Cheers guys! Heres the next part, got a suprise coming in in the next two or three parts, hopefully you will enjoy- 

The nineteen World Eaters which landed immediately disappeared by the crushing tide of Cultists. Faustin felt a pair of blades slash across the front of his armour, and laughed as he beheaded both of his assailants with one swing of his Chain-Axe. Great fountains of blood sprouted upwards from their ripped throats, he spun one his heel and punched outwards, his outstretched fingers spearing a woman in the skull. He lifted her upwards, the convulsing body was heavy on his arm yet he still lifted until it stared down at him with lifeless, white eyes. 

His Chain-Axe swung in from the side, ripping through the ribs and organs with a sputter and sending the foul smelling lower half too the cobbled ground. He pushed away the upper half with the head of his weapon, leaving thick pink strings of meat upon his fingers. He rubbed it away against his armour quickly, and drew his Bolt Pistol. A star of flame shorn at the muzzle as he fired, blinding his target who never saw the round which ripped away the mans head. Bones shattered as it continued on and exploded in the thigh of another Pegasus Cultist. 

The man screamed as he lost his leg, and collapsed to the ground. Faustin stepped past him, leaving the traitor too suffer. His face turned red when he saw one of his World Eaters go down, a long blade punctured though his chest. Yet he did not falter and continued too strike back and forth with his Chain-Axe, each time he did so a man or woman would fall in a great hiss of blood. A second blade went down into his knee, pinning him to the ground as a pick axe was thrust through his throat, warm blood bubbling over the blade and splattering against the ground loudly. 

He fell face first into the ground, Pegasus Cultists struggling to pull his Chain-Axe free of fingers that were tightly wrapped around the metal haft. Faustin charged into them like a raging bull, his Chain-Axe swung far and wide each time it struck home, meat was torn and transformed into a pulsing mangled mess. His Bolt Pistol roared seven more times, each one driving Pegasus Cultists into the ground, their insides spilling out from ragged wounds. When it clicked dry, the hammer not having anything else too push forwards; It became a deadly club. 

The screams of Pegasus Cultists filled the sky as the eighteen World Eaters fought like cornered dogs, their weapons clogging with chunks of meat and rivers of blood. More of the sons of Angron joined soon after, and soon the narrow street became nothing more than a orgy of blood, death and screams. Faustin smiled as he watched the murderous act of violence and nodded calmly too himself saying “An eye for an eye” before forcing himself back into the fray, his crimson form spinning as he dug deep. 

++++++++

The furred veterans of Varren burned their way through the narrow streets and alleys. Some forty of the Marines, out of a hundred were equipped with Flamers, ranging from one handed pistol like weapons too ones that had to be hefted with both hands. Buildings became blackened piles of rubble, and in some cases the scorched skull of a unfortunate human could be seen amongst crisped timber and crumbled rock. The Captain went with his Chain-Axe grumbling, the weapon was master crafted and the pommel was formed into a hooked blade that itself formed a second weapon. 

Orak Varren moved calmly past great mountains of flame, his bulky armour was tinted orange, like a setting sun as he moved past these, his helm followed the whispering flames carefully, its grim expression never ceasing to impress. Marines from his Company moved around him, bustling like busy insects to find the enemy. Yet the Pegasus Cultists were in small numbers, with barely fifty having been found by the Seventh Company. The skies above had become clogged with thick black smoke, so much that the flaming sun above could barely be made out. 

He stopped at a burned out house, something catching his eye within and slowly pulled himself into the darkness. His Chain-Axe shook in his hands as he scanned the darkness. It enveloped him nearly completely as he moved towards the centre of the room and used his weapon too steady him, going down onto his knees. The bleached bones of a baby lay in burned rags on the charcoaled ground, and Varren felt a pang of regret as he scooped up the tiny skull in his free hand, lifting it up to his face. He stared into the empty eye sockets for several seconds before crushing the bone with his hand, letting the fragments fall to the ground. 

He stood too his full height and left the building, turning his back on the crushed remains of the skull. Smoke now wrapped around his ankles as he came into the street, crawling up his legs. Directly too his left, a untouched building had its large wooden door kicked in by a flamer trotting Astartes with a bright purple Mohawk, as he did so a loud, resounding bang sounded from within and a high velocity round was shot forwards. His chest armour crumpled inwards, slicing his flesh and gushing warm blood. Yet it did not stop. 

The round punctured his promethium tanks that were strapped too his shoulders, falling down onto his jump pack. There was a hissing for several seconds, a small pillar of flame pushing into the air as the World Eater stepped backwards, dropping the Flamer and gripping his broken armour with both hands. He pulled his hands away, the fingers of which were now rich with crimson liquid. He looked around idly, staring at Varren for a split second. The Captain ran too aid him, as he did so his Marine disappeared in a ball of glorious flame. 

It struck Varren with enough force to flake away the paint of his front, and sent him tumbling through the air, his armour alight. He landed hard on the cobbled stone road, bouncing twice before he skidded too a halt. His head thumped violently as he pulled it up too look around, his vision was dazed but he managed too pick up the several hundred Pegasus Cultists which swarmed over his Company. What shocked him the most, was a Halftrack, with a mounted Heavy Bolter, in the colours of the Fifth Golsbur Light Regiment, one which had served within the Eight Hundredth Expedition Fleet moving amongst the Pegasus Cultists. 

The former vehicle commander was nailed to the steep front via thick nails through the hands, elbows, knees and feet. His head had been cut away, and now the insignia of the Pegasus Cult took the place of the skull and neck, made from the blood of sacrifices. His skin over the chest was pulled open, pinned to the khaki coloured metal. The chest bone was inscribed with Xeno language, what it meant he did not know but the effect on his eyes was dizzying. One of his Marines tumbled, loosing his left arm to the weapon of the Halftrack in a sparkling jet of blood which crystallized and landed on the ground. 

He cursed as a hand gripped his shoulder pad and he was dragged backwards. He saw a Bolt Pistol come over his head, the muzzle flashing as its trigger was pulled powerfully. The mounted weapon spun on its pintle mount, the man that was leering behind it ducking as a round ricocheted off a nearby wall and nearly took his helmed head away. He yanked his Plasma Pistol free, rigorous blue energy pulsing through it. Taking aim, he stared down the length and moved it so that the weapon was on par with the Halftrack. He squeezed the trigger.


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## Holmstrom (Dec 3, 2008)

Such vivid violence. It's an interesting battle, *Dark Angel*. Keep it coming. I want to see what happens. I'd give you rep but It appears I've given you too much recently.


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Why thank you Holmstrom, heres the next part for you all-

The Halftrack screeched to a halt, the narrow vision slit in the centre of its sloped front showed the driver screaming behind the red tinged, armoured glass. The stream of fluorescent blue-white plasma was spat forth from the charred muzzle of the weapon, strands of the superheated gas sparked off, entwining with one another in a powerful embrace before dragging themselves back into the main strand. The driver managed too open the side door to escape when the Halftrack was struck. The defiled corpse upon the angled front was incinerated instantly. A suitable purgatory for a Imperial Officer. 

The driver scream as the flesh on the left side of his body was burned away, dripping onto the hot metal decking beneath his feet. He fell outwards, landing hard on the cobbled street. His organs slipped from beneath bones, turning the ground wet with blood. The gunner met a similar threat. His lower half, in the cupola was covered in glowing, thick metal. He screamed in agony as his legs collapsed and he slipped downwards. The last thing those around him, and the Astartes saw was his two hands desperately clutching the shoulder braces of his half eaten Heavy Bolter. 

The Pegasus Cultists that crowded around screamed as the engine clanked loudly before it exploded outwards in a maelstrom of flames and shards of metal. Many were cut down, the shards which ripped through flesh and burst it like a balloon, leaving them glinting in the blood of the enemy. Many ducked behind one another, their cowardice showing as they pushed friends into the path too save their own hides. Many died anyway, their fronts burned to a crisp by the fireball. Varren grinned from behind his smoking weapon before proceeding to holster it, his upper lip leaking blood into his mouth from where he had landed. 

He felt the wound heal, the torn edges pulling together and sealing into scar tissue. He unscrewed his helm and spat away the blood in his mouth, wiping away the pink froth which was lying in the corner between his lips with the back of his gauntlet. For a moment there was peace in the street, and he left his head fall against the cold, ash covered ground. And then the fighting begun again. A pair of his Astartes were shot down, their bodies jerking violently and spraying jets of gore across the ground. He immediately scooped up his helm, twisting it into place upon his neck joints he stood and whirred his Chain-Axe. 

The Pegasus Cultists which fell on them were different. Many wore blue greatcoats over a plate of silver armour, golden lining covered most of the front uniform, including the wide shoulders. This was the uniform of the Golsburan’s. But surely, they could not have joined them? Golsbur had long been under the protection of the Imperium, and provided excellent warriors too the many Expedition Fleets. Varren cursed loudly and marched forwards clutching the haft of his weapon with both hands, his fur cloak flipping in the wind behind him as a rain of ash and sparks of flame dropped around him. 

The first of the enemy fell to Varren. He brought his Chain-Axe down on the mans plumed, stolen helm and crushed it along with the fragile skull beneath. A second was keeled over as the pommel blade punctured his gut, exiting from his back with a pool of blood and islets of bone. The man grabbed the haft just before the blade was yanked free, and dead nerved legs gave way. He gasped for air on the ground as his intestines slipped out of the grievous wound, his last thoughts having fallen upon a long lost lover. 

His Chain-Axe and the steel edged blade at the pommel reaped a bloody toll as he used them in unison, each time it ended in the devastation of a enemy body. A Squad of World Eaters launched themselves overhead, their jump packs roaring loudly and landed deep within the enemy. One went down almost instantly, his faceplate caved inwards by a point blank shotgun round. Another stumbled, his gut impaled by a long curved blade but regained his balance quickly after, beating down the man who had stabbed him with both fists after loosing his Flamer. 

A third was brought down by the sustained fire of five shotgun trotting Cultists, the side of his head a mangled mess. His shoulder was blown open as he fell, and itself would have caused the loss of his right limb. He had lost far too many World Eaters in the few short minutes and was now cutting down the Pegasus Cultists in great droves, like a scythe through wheat he felled a dozen without breaking his stride. But he stopped in his tracks after that, a point blank pistol round striking his helm. It snapped back, and he growled as his vision faded and dimmed before coming back, his Vox crackling loudly as it jumped through channels wildly. 

One swift movement sliced the forward half of his throat away, his pommel blade cutting deep. The woman who had shot him felt her warm blood soak her chest as she was drowned, her lungs filling with blood. He showed no emotion in his armour, his face calm and tempered beneath his helm. Blood splattered across his bare armour, giving it a new coat of crimson. He raised the Chain-Axe above his head and roared in defiance. Behind, and around him his Company followed suit. 

++++++++

Angron and his Devourer’s, along with some two hundred other Terminator Armoured Astartes from a variety of Companies continued their push towards the pyramid. They advanced like a tide of metal behemoths, slaughtering as they dug further into the city. As they passed giant pavilions, decorations and statues it soon became apparent of the amount of grandeur that the Elran had forged the city with. Many such statues, of humans and strange Xeno Bio-Forms now lay spread across the marbled procession way, shattered in several pieces. Each made even the Primarch look like a mere bug. They passed one of a human, the eyes formed from giant crystals that must have weighed more than a Rhino. 

The pyramid was truly a outstanding sight. Even from half a mile away, it punctured the sky, the four obsidian sides were steep and if it was not for the rows of steps that moved up the centre of each would have been completely unable too reach the apex of the vast structure. The parks around it were rich with green, blades of grass which sparkled with globules of dew. Some of the thick branched trees had collapsed into the deep pools, forming bridges across the silvery surface. As the Primarch and his elite got closer, they found themselves fighting for all they knew was true.


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## Holmstrom (Dec 3, 2008)

Nice work. More!


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## Flerden (Aug 17, 2008)

Good work DA, please post more fast I need something good to read. :laugh:

Have some well earned rep. :victory:


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## Chaosrider (Feb 3, 2010)

This is really good. I can't rep u anymore


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Thanks guys! Heres the next part, Chaosrider, don't worry about rep, just keep posting and ill keep writting  -

Amplifiers, large black things with thumping speakers built into their sides blared obscenities across the city, declaring the Emperor was nothing more than a barbaric tyrant who had damned the Elran into a eternal misery. The World Eaters continued their push towards the centre, ignoring the blasphemous speeches the best they could, but some could not help too listen. Angron stopped in his tracks at the giant black gates that led into the central district, raising one hand to order his walking tanks too halt. They did so, bustling and looking around nervously and Angron walked towards the gates. 

Both gates were made up of eight circular, black glossed poles that ended in golden points that could rip flesh. A thick lock held it together, barring entry for those without a key. High walls, each topped with razor wire surrounded the area, leaving the long road towards the park the only way in. a perfect killing ground. Angron hefted Gorechild high above his head, pressing down on the stud that sent the blades into a deadly rotation and brought it down. There was a series of sparks and howls from the metal as it was split down the middle, lock mechanisms shattered into a hundred bits before Gorechild pulled from beneath. 

Angron grinned, showing his teeth, and kicked the gates apart. They screamed on their hinges as they swung inwards, striking the hedge row with enough force too crack the branches, the hinges creaked one more time before collapsing. The two gates ripped into the hedge drunkenly, wooden prongs snapped like limbs, splintering violently and ripping the skin of leaves that rested gently atop of the smooth surface beneath. The Primarch stepped onto the brown, chipped road and looked over his shoulder too the Astartes, nodding grimly. 

The World Eaters followed Angron in his march, stimulants begun too pump in their veins, causing them too bulge beneath their skin. The gravel underneath crunched loudly with each adrenaline filled step they took. As they got roughly half way along the road, the Pegasus Cultists played their trap. The hedges either side of him sparkled with muzzle flashes, and hard rounds struck the Tactical Dreadnaught Astartes, who quickly returned the gesture with Reaper Auto-Cannons that spun erratically, spitting forth deadly rounds.

The foliage was shredded with dazzling efficiency. The leaves transformed into nothing more than a world wind of small, juicy green parts blowing back at the Astartes. Others fired with wrist mounted Storm Bolters which barked like a pack of baying dogs. Each time a wet thump followed, sometimes it would be accompanied with a anguished cry. Those were the true unlucky ones, the ones who were left too bleed out on the grass. Kontos smashed through the section of hedge rows closest too him like a stampeding Grox, his Lightning Claws flashing. 

His armour dented and pinged as rounds struck home, yet he did not falter and swung his arms wild like a gorilla, beheading and skinning with each blow. After several minutes, none was left alive. Four Terminators had been downed via sustained fire, their armour pealed open and leaking burnt organs which were crumpled awkwardly. Angron knew they could not be brought with them, and ordered the corpses incinerated. A Marine, his Terminator armour covered in thick tubes that shorn a bright orange with flames, both fists covered in a ball of flame moved towards them, muttering a prayer. He outstretched his fire wreathed fingers and flames leapt forth, dancing towards his comrades. Each went up gloriously, their armour blackened and ruptured, allowing the fire inwards. Skin and bone became one, disfigured piece before melting. Ashes blew upwards in the wing, and Angron shook his bloody frame. 

They continued in silence, no more resistant forces showed their cowardly faces too the Astartes until they reached the outermost section of park…..

++++++++

Brother Thurik was down. His head had been popped like a watermelon by a sniper, his Terminator armour providing little resistance. Sgoran growled in rage as the member of his Command Squad stood still, blood pouring from his shattered skull. The last nerves within the body shuddered, and the form fell forwards into the ground. Brother Andrik tried too move towards his brethren but was forced behind a wide tree, the base of which was larger than a Rhino was wide as a hail of heavy weapons fire, accompanied by the autonomous whump opened up from a nearby underpass. Devourer-Champion Thoros led a charge, his long Chain-Spear angled towards the hidden enemy. 

Thoros thrust his weapon forwards as he drew nearer, blood leaking from wounds stitched across his front. A man was pulled from the dark underpass, impaled on the pole arm. Blood covered his chin and dripped to the ground below, even as Thoros fired his Storm Bolter into the enemy, sending his bloody rag of a body tumbling away. Andrik almost screamed as the tree he was taking cover behind exploded in a storm of splinters and fell forwards, quickly regaining his balance and moving towards Sgoran. A sleek tank had pulled itself onto a nearby rise, the engines shaking the layered metal plates loudly. A wither of smoke danced upwards from the red hot cannon which protruded forwards from a circular bulge in the armour. 

A commander, his face hidden behind a checkered cloth and a pair of oil smeared goggles pointed one grubby finger towards the World Eaters slaughtering through a wave of Pegasus Cultists nearby, led by the wild Kontos. A clank sounded as a shell was slotted into place and Sgoran cursed, shouting orders too his Reaper Auto-Cannon operators. They nodded and took aim, but as they did so a nearby sand bag covered emplacement swung a Heavy Bolter towards them and opened fire. One stumbled, his weapon arm dangling from rags of meat and fell away behind a wall, landing with enough force to send a cloud of dirt upwards. 

There was a tremendous crackle of approval as Angron came around a high hedge, fresh blood sprayed across his form at high angles. His lips peeled back and revealed white teeth in a grin that could make the bravest of men brake down in tears. He spotted the Tank upon the bushed rise and charged. The commander heard his ground tearing steps and spun towards Angron, his finger outstretched. He cried out in fear and attempted too pull himself within, but it was to late. Angron leapt onto the Tank with a loud clang, his twin Chain-Axes outstretched in both hands. He brought them in, and the man was ripped in half at the forearms, his body convulsing as it was pushed inwards. 

The skin bulged for a moment, filling with blood before bursting and covering the Primarch in strands of meat. Warm arterial spray struck the Primarch who licked it away from his face as the body tumbled into the dark depths below. There was a sudden scream and the turret spun, striking Angron in the side and sending him onto the deck. He felt it fire, sending a round wild so that it struck a nearby marble awning, sending the masonry onto those Pegasus Cultists who hid below. They were crushed painfully and slowly, bones pulled out from beneath skin with devastating consequences. 

He pulled himself back up, and struggled to gain his balance as the Tank reversed. He shook the crimson tinted, copper hair from his face and brought Gorefather down onto the cannons long barrel. It sparked for a minute before the weapon jerked in the hands of his Primarch and it fell away, clanging against the surface. He immediately begun to move around the turret, swinging his weapons high and low, sheering away the metal to gain a opening. After he had danced around twice, it collapsed inwards. 

Something went wrong, and a cheaply built shell was preemptively exploded by the weight that landed on it, igniting those that were stacked around it. The crew screamed as they were incinerated, their gory afterimages remaining in the blast radius for several seconds. The ball of sharp, slithers of metal tipped with flames like tracer rounds and flames eat away at the oxygen, howling. The World Eaters stared at the sight, yet still continued too fight the tide that swelled around them, swinging weapons into ripe bodies that burst gloriously. 

Angron, his form dipped in flames marched from the searing ball. His face was blackened and dotted with shards of metal and scars. A spear of metal had punctured through his giant shoulder pad, the forward half of which was dripping blood. He raised both his weapons into the air and roared “My sons! We take this world! Now, we kill!” and leapt out of view, dropping down the other side of the embankment. The screams of Pegasus Cultists echoed throughout the day as the Primarch and his elite guard pushed forwards towards the obsidian pyramid.


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## Chaosrider (Feb 3, 2010)

i suppose you can guess what this post is for then... haha... but now i must go learn about communities... read about boring animals or uber killing machines?? i know what id choose


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## Holmstrom (Dec 3, 2008)

Pretty cool stuff. Keep it coming. I'd rep, but I still can't give you any yet.


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Cheers for the posts once again Holmstrom and Chaosrider, been a bit of a delay on this, but im finally happy to post it now-

Squad Kharkov advanced forwards with Bolters or Bolt Pistols held at the ready. Varren watched them from several metres back, with the remnants of the orphaned, veterans of Squad Jarrn who he was now using as a proxy command squad. Three of Squad Jarrn, including the much loved Sergeant had been killed during one of the many ambushes that the Company had endured since first coming across the enemy. Some thirty Brothers lay dead, their bodies forced to be left behind but not before their weapons were harvested by their surviving Brothers. 

Sergeant Kharkov, his wide shouldered form draped in a red cloak was moving along a balcony above, having cleared the house without any resistance bar a oversized mutt that had latched onto him. His face bore the appearance of a leathered chair, wrinkled and scarred in dozens of places. His brown hair was shorn short too his scalp, beneath of which large circular vials could be seen pumping liquids into his brain. The left side of his face was covered with tribal like tattoos, more than likely as remembrance for his people before he was inducted. 

Unlike many of the World Eaters, he outfitted most of his Squad with longer ranged weaponry such as Bolters. There had been a pair of heavier weapon trotting Marines present, but both had been killed during the same ambush which had took the life of Jarrn. A sad happening, yet Kharkov could do little as both had been incinerated along with their stockpiles of extra ammunition and their weapons. For now, his Squad who advanced below, their jump packs making their movements ponderously drunk would have to do with what they had. He himself held his Bolter at the ready, scanning the wooden window frames across the street carefully. 

Brother’s Haj, Malvik and Niom formed a tip, with Niom standing at the centre his barrel fed Bolter held at the hip. He was a tall figure of Terran origin, born in the Nordafric Conclaves to a un-wealthy family he was sold as a slave as a young child but escaped soon after, and joined the cause of the Emperor. Due to him being such a young age, he had been able to get inducted into the World Eaters and had served with distinction with the Bolter ever since, often being among spearheads of the Company. They came to a overhead bridge, and fell into the shadows beneath expertly. 

Something let itself dangle from a overhead bar. Long and serpentine, with eight limbs that each ended in three pronged claws, a green liquid dripped from these, probably some form of toxin. The tail was split into three sharp edged claws that appeared that they could cut a head from someone’s shoulders. A pair of black eyes, each the size of a dining plate sat within the centre of its head. Scale like skin covered most of the creature, but a small glowing orange sac sat within a armoured spine on its back. 

It made a horrible hissing noise, and revealed a forked tongue surrounded by rows of forearm length fangs, each curved inwards to form perfect rendering weapons. Malvik didn’t even had a chance to fire as the creature punched one of its clawed arms through his chest in a spray of vital organs and liquids. He pulled free and walked forwards, before the open mouth came down around his helm. Sparks flashed as it was ripped upwards, dangling flesh and wires. With one final jerk it came free and the broken form of Malvik fell too the ground, leaking blood from its wounds. Niom and Haj had already spun and started to fire, their forms flashing orange with each pull of the trigger. The creature screamed as chunks were blown from its body yet it still leapt forwards, claws pointed outwards. 

Haj and Niom parted as it grew near, both firing into its flank like a mighty broadside fired from a ship. Flesh was rent deeply, bones were shattered and arteries torn. It fell face first into the ground, breaking the foremost teeth with a loud crunch. Varren was watching the remainder of Squad Kharkov charge forwards, followed closely by those of Jarrn while Kharkov himself brought up the rear. Varren barely managed too cry a warning, when eight or so more of the creatures ripped from side streets and alleys. 

Each was similar to the original, which itself was now writhing in agony on the ground, but were all different coloured, with splotches of red and dark brown along with blue covering most of them. Yellows were rarer, but some had streaks the colour of Sol along them which seemed to change form as the sun bounced away from their smooth surfaces. One slithered towards Varren, and he stepped forwards to meet it, his Chain-Axe howling violently. It opened its mouth far too wide than something should be able to, and used its tail as a accelerator, sending itself flying forwards.

Astartes met monster in a clash of weapons that echoed along the street. Varren and the thing spun in a deadly embrace, armour was rent and flesh was rent as both aimed for the first to down a enemy. The Captain felt cold fangs slip through his flesh at the hip, his face distorted into a pain ridden snarl and he brought down the pommel blade onto its skull. It was thick and strong, but cracked easily beneath the muscle of a Astartes weapon. Brain splattered outwards, and the black eyes rolled back into its head as if trying to have a view of its own death. It slipped away from his blade, revealing long pieces of flesh. He followed soon after, landing face first he managed to send a warning “World Eaters…Xeno presence confirmed….Hostile” before slipping into a cold darkness, his body unmoving. 

++++++++

Angron bounded up the side of the pyramid, his armour shaking violently. Behind him came the Devourer’s, their armour equally as bloody as the form of the Primarch. The other Marines present moved around the high base like a tide around a island, searching for ways inwards as they did so. Thoros was struck by a tumbling body as it bounced from above, braking violently in a rag doll fashion. He slipped but managed to get a grip with one hand, his weapon rolled away and he growled, gripping the body pushing against his chest by the chest with his free hand he threw it into the air behind him, for a moment it closed off the sun to his form before he continued upwards. 

He drew a short sword from a purple leather scabbard, gifted to him by a Emperor’s Children Marine, and pushed himself harder. The word of a Xeno threat caused the Devourer’s too stop in their tracks. Sgoran looked around frantically, searching for the form of his Primarch and roared “Kontos! Take Andrik and Wynrick! Follow the Primarch and keep him covered, Devourer’s! Form a perimeter and fan out!”. He heard Astartes growl as they were forced to halt, knowing that each wanted to follow their Primarch into victory. 

Yet they knew the pyramid needed to be defended and did as they were commanded, even as Kontos and his two Command-Squad Brothers pulled ahead. Wynrick was a monster in close combat, his giant two handed Chain-Axe was rumored to had cleaved as much heads from the shoulders of Xeno, men or otherwise several times that of the Primarch. His mane of white hair fell from his shoulders, caked in blood wavered gently in the wind. He had saved Sgoran during the assault, after the Devourer leader had fallen into a deep pool, nearly drowning in the process as water had inflated his lungs. 

Angron pulled himself onto the platform atop the pyramid. The aroma of cooking flesh filled his nostrils and he grinned darkly. The old frail man who was reading from a giant book turned as he saw him. His face lit up and he said “Your forces tear apart this city. They pillage, burn and slaughter yet take a pride in it. They are damned warriors, who can only walk into darkness you know, Lord Angron. Yes, we Elran know your name. It is the one which runs rife across our humble empire, one of which had tried to become your allies. Do you think destiny has a importance over us? I believe it does, but you…Well you have something different that could end this entire universe. You are special Angron, as are your so called World Eaters.”

The Primarch moved towards him with both weapons held pointed towards the ground and replied in his constantly rage filled voice “You are traitors, each and every one of you. Your worlds burn for a reason whelp, and I do love the fire of war. My fleets bombard your fellow worlds even as we speak, and they shall-” Yet no finish came. A claw ripped into his shoulder and twisted, ripping flesh painfully. The Primarch stared down at it, watching his blood mingle with grim he cursed and elbowed backwards. 

Whatever was behind him shrieked in pain and was sent tumbling onto the ground. Angron revved his Chain-Axes and stepped towards the man before him muttering “Emperor protect your soul, foul bastard” and brought both down onto him. Blood squirted and flesh was eat by the metallic teeth, he cried out and fell down to his knees. His blood spread out around his feet and Angron spun around to face whatever had attacked him. The serpentine creature which lay on the floor behind him, its tail twisting in all directions looked up on him. 

It thrust the tail upwards at a angle. His torso armour cracked under the extreme pressure and he felt cold barbs strike his skin. With a roar, he threw Gorechild too the ground and gripped the thick, slimy appendage. It thrashed in his grip and pushed further into his flesh, causing him to grunt loudly. With that, Gorefather came down and severed it. Even as flesh parted, it slid away from his grasp on long limbs. It moved down the side of the pyramid, and met its end soon after at the weapons of a pair of Devourer’s. 

A second creature held Wynrick upwards with two claws. His armour was dented and broken, and his thick blood coated the white and blue surface. Andrik came from nearby, the skin of his face dangling from his chin and struck the creature with both upraised arms. It fell to the ground and the Terminator followed, his immense bulk pinning it to the ground. Wynrick stumbled, falling to his knees he looked off to his side and watched as the tail of the creature speared forwards. His helm crumpled like a sheet of paper and the skull broke inwards, crushing his brain. Andrik roared and punched twice into the beast. 

With the second he lost his hand too the fang filled mouth. The veins in his wrist fell out loosely, touching the obsidian ground beneath him. Several seconds later, his right shoulder was bit down upon strongly. The armour however managed to hold, even as Angron severed the head with Gorefather. The jaw slackened, and let go falling to the ground with a wet slap. The Primarch offered Andrik a hand, and hefted him upwards. He smiled at the Devourer and smiled saying “Little Brother, Wynrick will be most missed from my retinue. You fought valiantly this day my friend, now where is Kontos?”.


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## Flerden (Aug 17, 2008)

Awesome, next part please :grin:


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Thanks for the post Flerden, appreciate it. As asked here is the next part -

Kontos tumbled too the ground, feeling cold metal blades slip through his flesh with little effort. He coughed, spitting blood against the inside of his helm and let out a low growl, like a stricken dog and swung his Lightning Claws wide. Two of his attackers were shredded, their skin flapping open to reveal white bone and pink organs. A third was ripped in two at the chest, the upper half was flung away idly, creating a wet thump as it impacted something further along the hallway. A round struck his armour from the darkness, pinging away loudly. He roared and charged into the darkness, crushing a shrieking woman beneath his bulk. 

The blades which protruded from his form clanked with each step, some slipped deeper into his flesh while one or two fell away, allowing his wounds to seal over in a mixture of crimson crystals and scar tissue. His eyes bulged as more drugs were pumped into his veins, compensating the pain which flowed freely though his form. He drove deeper into the enemy which tried to halt him, his form casting a dark shadow across the pale faces of his enemy. Kontos slid to a halt, when a piercing light enveloped his from the farthest reaches of the hallway. 

There was a crackle in the air, followed closely by a snap of eldritch energies, and Kontos was gone. Several moments passed before he opened his eyes once again. His limbs felt as if they were giant slabs of rock, and were impossible to move bar the twitching of his fingers beneath his Lightning Claw. When the light finally died away he gasped in awe. His form was held suspended above a steaming pit of water which bubbled in a almost playful motion. A platform of silver was held above the water, several metres away from Kontos. Wires snaked across the surface, towards a pulsing purple altar in the centre.

Around it knelt hundreds of Pegasus Cultists, their faces obscured beneath glorious gold and silver inlaid face plates that bared no emotion. They chanted blasphemous texts, their throats hoarse in pain. Each wore a simple fluttering robe which pooled out across the metal around them, beneath their naked bodies were defiled with hundreds of crisscrossing scars. He noticed several of the dark haired, broad shouldered Golsburan’s amongst the crowd and growled in rage. He was in some form of cathedral, evident from the giant stained glass windows which cast pink and red lights across his armoured bulk. 

The chains that held him in place jerked forwards and he was moved towards the platform. He would be able to escape. The Pegasus Cultists angled their hidden faces upwards at them, some spat too the floor or took up rocks to pelt him with while others simply stared in fear at him. He was pulled too a halt, and his form swayed upwards for a moment. Those below moved to the side of him, and the clinking of gears started reverberating throughout the cavernous expanse. He was lowered slowly, until after several minutes he stood on the ground, surrounded by cowering Cultists who stared with wide eyes. 

A brick struck his form, twanging loudly. He turned his head towards the thrower, a small boy of no more than six summers who twisted his lips in disgust. A mane of sandy hair fell from his head, nearly obscuring his face beneath the dirt encrusted strands. His blue eyes pierced deep into the soul of Kontos, and the World Eater looked away from his dark gaze. Why he did not bare a faceplate escaped the thoughts of Kontos, who desperately tried to pull himself free. His left arm finally came free, but as it did so a female Cultists charged forwards, a long curved blade in her hand. 

She snorted like a boar and punched the blade through his side. It slid through the armour, the vast bulk providing little resistance to the energy wreathed weapon. He felt his skin rip like paper, and it was followed close behind by the snapping and cracking of bone. He grunted and backhanded her away, crushing her larynx violently. She landed hard amongst the Cultists, slicing her throat with her clawed nails while gasping like a fish out of water. A nearby man raised a rifle from his robes, shouldering it weakly and slamming a fat round into the breach. 

The Astartes chuckled loudly, pink froth building at his lips. The man, clearly unnerved by this squeezed the trigger with his finger tightly and the round was sent spinning forwards. It struck his armour hard, but bounced away and struck a unfortunate bystander in the throat, slicing the flesh there with ease. Warm blood sprayed away from the wound and the man tumbled, landing on the ground. His body shuddered on the ground, leaking the bright red blood around the bare feet of his fellows. 

Kontos never stopped laughing, even as he ripped himself free and marched towards the cowering enemy. The first eight fell without time to cry out, the World Eater ripping through them with ease. The ninth managed to fire a short burst from his carbine before he lost the skin of his face, the pinky substance ripping away with ease. Bone peered out from beneath tight muscles and the man fell onto his back, dead. A hail of fire begun to rain down upon him as he advanced towards the altar, hastily emitted cries filtering above the sound of weapons fire. He smashed aside a old, frail looking man without remorse and leapt against the altar. 

His massive bulk struck it and he wrapped his arms around the thick pillar, locking his fingers tightly he heaved loudly. The stone at the base begun to crumble, dust tumbled down onto his feet as he pushed his chest forwards again. Splits in the rock snaked upwards and slowly it came apart, sections collapsing down onto the ground. The Pegasus Cultists wailed loudly as Kontos pulled away, staring at them as they surrounded the Marine. He lifted his Lightning Claws into the air and roared loudly, his lungs soon became exhausted of air and he moved into them, swinging his arms wide. A feral grin spread across his lips as he murdered his way through the enemy. 

+++++++++

Even as the remainder of Squad Jarrn and Squad Kharkov fought on, the Xeno grew in numbers. They swarmed from manholes and windows, hissing and clicking loudly. Varren was propped against a wall, the eight surviving members of his small escort having formed a powerful semicircle around him. Kharkov himself stood in the centre, firing his Bolter one handed while he swung a short sword in the other. Pegasus Cultists advanced with the Xeno, firing ornate rifles at the hip. Rounds bounced away from the armour of the defenders who fought like wild dogs over scarce food, refusing to give in. 

Brother Elka, one of the last survivors of Squad Jarrn fell to one knee, the left side of his torso punctured by a jagged piece of metal that had been wielded like a blade. He placed his Bolter onto his leg, the ammunition sickle used to keep it straight and opened fire. The man who had stabbed him burst, organs slapped against the armour of Elka and slipped away, leaving bloody lines on him. He pulled himself up, and continued to fight with renewed energy. He ripped the metal free, and thrust it into the heart of a Pegasus Cultist who collapsed, warm blood trickling from every orifice in his face. 

A Xeno slithered towards Kharkov who met it head on. The creature crashed into the Sergeant, its claws slid along his side, cutting a deep rivet but failing to break the flesh. He fired and its four legs that remained on the ground, snapping them like twigs. Blood, a thick white thing not dissimilar to a sick mans phlegm slipped out onto the ground. It fell too its front, breaking one of its forward most arms. With a roar, he brought his short sword down onto its back, pinning the thrashing thing too the ground. He crushed its head with one stamp of his boot and fired into a nearby Pegasus Cultist, sending his form flying backwards. 

Brother Kroh was lifted into the air, his form punctured in a dozen places by blades, a claw of one of the Xeno ripped through his chest armour, the tips visible through the other side. Though armour in his back bulged, cracking and leaking blood. He hefted his Bolter as high as he could, his limbs aching and opened fire. The creature died in a hail of fire from Kroh, who was released from the blades. He fell back, landing with a thump. Yet it was clear he no longer remained on the realm of the living, and sadness overtook Kharkov who had fought with Kroh since both were initiated. It was replaced with rage. 

Haj swung his Chainsword in both hands, spinning through the Pegasus Cultists and each time sending a head upwards, followed by a jet of sparkling blood. He was a monster, slaughtering them without mercy as he mourned the fallen Brother. A round struck his shoulder and spun him, sending him too the ground below. One of the Xeno, its tanned hide covered in grime, launched at the downed Marine. Haj grinned darkly and thrust his blade upwards to the mouth of the Xeno. The head sliced down the middle, teeth eating through flesh and chitin alike, spraying the white blood onto the ground as its body lifted upwards and collapsed onto its back. 

Xeno ripped from a side street, tumbling over one another and Kharkov snarled loudly, redirecting his fire into them. Something whooshed from nearby, drawing air into its momentum and struck amongst the Xeno. A giant fireball erupted outwards, turning the Xeno into nothing more than black smudges on the scorched ground. The Pegasus Cultists turned to face a new target but were flayed, their skins pulling away from their bones, flapping gently in the wind before tumbling to the ground. The Xeno screeched and scuttled away, many receiving grievous wounds to their backs. 

The remaining World Eaters angled their heads down the street, where a cloud of thick smoke hung in the air lazily. A World Eater, his armour pristine marches out, a Power-Sword which runs rife with dangerous energies held in one hand. A helm, molded into that of a leering skull, the fanged maw formed into a eternal grin and with the eye lenses both coloured a great gold. His left hand, the free one is coloured black too the elbow, the fingers of which were extended into long cutting claws. He drew nearer, and a pair of Land Raiders, both covered in murals of the Emperor followed, each followed by a cohort of a hundred World Eaters. The Marine stopped before them and Kharkov stared on muttering “High-Chaplain Longinus…The Spear of Terra has arrived!”.


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## Flerden (Aug 17, 2008)

I am impatient I know, but I want the next part, so hurry up and write/post it :laugh:


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Thanks Flerden, heres the next part- 

The bunker was filled with Legion Officers. Faustin was present with Anzo, who took the place of Varren this day. Sgoran was also there, his bulky Terminator Armour nearly touching the low hung roof. Anzo went without a helm, his copper beard hiding the lower half of his face bar the thick pink lips that rimmed his mouth. A mane of dreadlocks dangled from his head, leaving a gap down the centre where a transparent pipe slurped fluids between sections of his body. A scar ran down his left eye, pink and clammy it was evident he had took it in the battle. Faustin conversed with him quietly, pointing out high ranking Legionnaires which Anzo was not familiar with. 

Longinus entered, the cold wind snapping up the cloak which fell from his shoulders. He wore a simple chain mail piece that clung to his muscular body like a baby to a mother. His face was beautifully crafted. Untouched by the ravages of war, high cheekbones and a thick brow framed his shinning blue eyes which twinkled in the dime light. A mane of blonde hair fell from his head, rustling against his wide shoulders gently. A spear was held across his back, the tip dipped in gold. Rumour had it that Longinus had been gifted this by the Emperor himself, thus earning his title, the Spear of Terra. 

The shaft was crafted from the finest silver and the pommel was made from amber, containing a ancient insect which was itself was coloured black and red. He moved past Captains, when the door once again opened. This time, Lord-Lieutenant Titusian entered. A long time hated rival of Faustin, both locked eyes darkly. Titusian was the younger of the pair and a arrogant whelp who was disliked by all who did not fall under his command. His short cropped black hair was combed back to reveal a pair of scars formed into an X across his forehead. His lips were forever turned into a snarl and his nose was nothing more than a smudge in the centre of his face. Silver eyes sat in deep sockets that were lined with wrinkles and scars that zigzagged down onto his cheeks and forehead. 

He took his place next to Longinus, a sniveling adjutant followed close behind in blue and white robes. He was tight skinned and young, with shoulder length copper hair and a scar devoid face. He propped himself against the wall and begun to move through pict slates, holding them out before his monstrous commander. Angron was next, followed by a pair of Devourer’s. His torso was naked, bar a white bandage which had turned pink with blood loss, however the wounds had now healed yet he did not remove it. A cloak fell from his shoulders, spread out across the ground behind him. The brown and cream fur twitched softly in the wind. His eyes scanned each Marine present as he moved towards the centre where a small table had been hastily prepared. 

Sgoran moved forwards and the Primarch clasped hands with his chief Devourer, smiling weakly at him. The doors once again opened and a pair of tall men, though both were dwarfed by even the smallest Astartes present entered. The first was covered in flowing crimson and gold robes that were pulled tightly into his body. His head was bald and deathly grey, patches of his flesh were replaced by smooth metal plates and clanking cogs. The mouth and nose was hidden beneath a triangular rebreather which vented steam freely, the grill glowing red hot as he did so. Both hands were bronze replacements, the fingers long and skeletal. No ears were visible upon his head, rather a pair of small lumps of scar tissue. 

The second wore the uniform of the Imperial Army. A blue tunic covered his body to the knees, where his high brown boots met with the fabric. A red greatcoat with golden edges was pulled onto his body tightly, elbow length white gloves with a silver braiding along the fingers obscured his hands perfectly. Leather straps moved across his torso, holding a array of equipment, from viewing scopes to blades in place. A curled moustache sat on his upper lip and fell down past his chin, the edges twisted and dotted with diamonds. His right eye was half sealed shut by a red scar which stood out against his dark skin. 

Beneath, Faustin could see a grey eye which was evidently from blindness. The other was a sparkling orange, probably from the environment which he originated from. The top part of his head was hidden beneath a tall furred hat which was kept onto him via silver straps which connected with one another at the chin. Angron turned and raised his right arm at them saying “My Brothers, this is Mechanicus Representative Volker and General Mathias Levites of the Alexian Dragoons”. The Astartes spared them curt nods or even a shake of hands, at least with Levites, they avoided Volker purposefully, aware of the Representative.

Both took a position too the left of the Primarch, resting against the table tiredly. Faustin now noticed the curved sabre which fell loosely from the hip of Levites, and the bulky Bolt Pistol that lay in a black holster on the other side. Both were powerful things that could pierce the armour of a Astartes if struck in the right place. Faustin nodded to him twice and was happy to see that the Alexian returned the gesture and smiled calmly. Angron cleared his throat and the talking World Eaters fell into silence almost immediately, staring towards the centre of the room. 

The Primarch clasped both hands and rubbed them together saying “My sons, you have all fought well this day. It saddens me that Captain Varren has been placed aboard a medical frigate in orbit, and I am pleased to say that he is making a full recovery” Faustin stepped down impatiently at this, hoping that his closest Brother would return soon. Angron noticed him doing this, his eyes flicking towards him but continued to speak “I am pleased too say that our Expedition Fleets are making good progress, although none are within proximity to redeploy. For now my sons, we are alone”. 

Titusian snorted loudly and Faustin glared at him, baring his teeth. Titusian raised his arms in challenge, bringing them out wide before striking his chest with outstretched hands. Anzo gripped the wrist of Faustin as he was about to lift his arm and yanked him back whispering “Don’t be a fool lord, he is not worth your trouble. I am sure Tikhon would relish in striking that whelp”. He nodded and pulled his limb free while Angron continued “High-Chaplain Longinus has thankfully brought a great number of our Marines back from the Western Front, along with thirty Imperial Army Regiments and an entire Legion of Skitarii under Levites and Volker respectively”. 

A thunderous clap came from the World Eaters, followed by a whoop or two sent from the throats of the youngest Captains present. Laughter flowed freely from Angron who finally stopped after several long seconds and once again continued “A coastal city has been a thorn in our backs, it is towards the north and that shall be our next objective. The ocean will be frozen this time of year thus the Alexian’s, supported by the Marines who fall under the command of Faustin will advance across the ice. I shall lead the heavier forces, including the Skitarii through the front. Caught between a hammer and anvil, it will allow us to move through the Elra System. Those under Faustin and Levites shall move out immediately, dismissed my sons”. 

++++++++

The Fiftieth Heavy Alexian moved silently across the ice. Gale force winds, mingled with flakes of snow and rain struck the men who pulled rebreathers tighter around their faces and adjusted goggles. Rifles dangled loosely at hips as officers moved along their lines, chatting with Sergeants and Lieutenants and giving them friendly advice. Each Alexian bore a similar uniform to Levites although each wore a bowled helmet covered in tribal markings rather than the tall hat which their General preferred to wear. Light walkers moved amongst them, roughly shaped like a bipedal bird each was taller than a Astartes and with a enclosed cabin, beneath of which was a under slung chain fed heavy weapon. 

The wind howled so loudly that for the Alexian’s they were forced too shout at one another simply to get their conversations across. The Astartes were luckier. Their helms provided each with a private communication system, and thus their movements were far more professional compared to the Alexian’s. They advanced close behind the Fiftieth Heavy, their Bolters drawn and held at the ready. Sergeant Gavin Mlant sat beneath a ice outcrop, that was probably at first a rogue wave which managed to break free of the ice and unloaded, then loaded his carbine.

He was trying too stop ice setting in the barrel, as he knew the great importance which lay ahead. Like most Alexian’s he was a broad shouldered man with dark skin and muscular, tall figure. Eight members of his twenty man Squad also shared the shelter, shivering as they awaited the return of the remainder of the Squad who were providing the lead scouts for the entire Regiment. A single platoon, fifty men in total were moving forwards while Mlant and his eight troopers provided a rearguard should anything go wrong. Something crackled across the Vox which lay on a outstretched tunic nearby, inaudible and caused Mlant and one of his troopers to yelp. Both laughed beneath their rebreather and Mlant moved over too the square shaped machine, turning the long and thin aerial. 

The speaker fizzed and crackled and Mlant turned a dial on the side with one gloved hand, trying too get a signal desperately. He cursed after a minute or two and stood, kicking it over onto the rear with one foot and grasping the back of his rebreather with both hands. He turned away and looked out into the cold wilderness, scanning the distance with squinted eyes. For a moment he believed he had seen something dart between pillars of ice but shook the thought from his mind, knowing it was either a Alexian or some form of native bipedal predator which he had encountered several times since landing a day earlier on the ice fields. 

He turned on his heel and walked back into the cover. Something flashed and one of his troopers was knocked backwards, striking the ice wall. A gaping wound in his chest had sprayed blood, which froze almost instantly. Another of his troopers screamed as a small hole was punctured in his lower belly, leaking blood and other bodily fluids over his fatigues. The wound froze over, a stalactite of blood dangled from it and the men let his weapon drop loosely in its straps. A second hole punctured his face, creating a deep cavity where the nose had once been and he collapsed back, his cold form twitching gently. 

He reached for the Vox unit with one hand, the fingers outstretched towards the mouth piece. His fingers disappeared in a spray of crimson. He screamed as they were severed, warm blood trickled down his hand as he lifted it towards his face before the cold got too the stubs. He screamed as the blood turned into red ice, painfully. Another of his troopers was thrown backwards, his entrails dangling in the air behind him and struck the wall of ice with enough force to crush the back of his skull. He ran. He got up drunkenly, stumbling forwards and he ran. He didn’t know which way friendly units were, but if he had stayed he would have certainly died. 

His heart pumped hard against his chest as adrenaline was pushed through his veins. He was deafened by the wind, the screaming of the winter air was so intense that it hurt his ears, causing them to throb systematically. His foot got snagged on something and he fell forwards onto the snow covered ground, hitting it hard. The air was knocked from his lungs as they were pushed against his chest and he pulled his boot upwards from whatever it had got caught on. He spun and looked down in horror. A hand, the skin pallid and blue was pushed from the snow, the fingers twisted inwards so that the tips pointed at the palm. 

Blood was splattered across the back of the hand, and a torn vein could be seen through a ragged cut in the flesh, as could white bone. He vomited in his rebreather. Warm, foul smelling fluids fell down his mouth and neck, chunks of food mingling with it. He pulled his good hand upwards and ripped free his rebreather, splattering his sick across the snow. Desperately he gasped for air, trying to fill his lungs with the snow clogged gas. He pulled himself up, his face growing cold and felt the skin on his cheeks split open, his lips did much the same so that his teeth could be seen through the wounds. 

He turned and walked away, fear etched within his chest. Ice and snow slipped away with every step he took, his limbs clicked in their sockets and grew lazy. Something ripped through his kidney and pushed its way through his front, sending him scrambling too the floor. He spun onto his back, looking down at a ragged hole in his torso. Strands of flesh fell from the wound in all directions, lifting into the air as the wind took them up and pulling the wound open further. A dirty hand fell onto his mouth, pushing his head down into the snow. He felt a blade slid between his ribs and his eyes clenched shut in agony. 

He bit down. His attacker screamed as the flesh of his palm, covered in small sections of ice, was ripped free. Warm blood leaked into the mouth of Mlant who spat away the flesh and screamed. He never stopped screaming, even as a horde of Pegasus Cultists fell on him with weapons in their hands, cutting his limbs free and pulling the flesh of his chest open. The screams were lost to the Alexian’s who continued their advance, into the guns of the waiting Cultists. The Astartes followed, not knowing the killing fields they marched into.


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## moodswing (Mar 10, 2010)

I've only read the first 2 parts, i'll post a more detailed review once i'm done reading. 

first off, great work. Very well paced, and very apt characters for the World Eaters. 

One major point i want to mention is the verbosity. I feel your descriptions, both of scenes and objects is too drawn out. This is not a bad thing normally, but in action writing, it slows the pace down too much. 

I suggest you a) reduce the length of descriptions and b) shorter sentences. A lot more punch that way.


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## Holmstrom (Dec 3, 2008)

Interesting so far. One thing is you should use the word 'an' more instead of 'a' in some places. This site shows a rundown of what I mean.

Also, I would throw you some rep but I still have to spread it around elsewhere apparently.


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Thanks guys! I appreciate your advice alot. At Holmstrom: I realise I mess that up often, and I will probably continue to do so for a while, the way I have been taught I guess. However, I will be trying to iron that out. Anyway, I guess a day or two without the internet does me good, so here is the next three pages- 

Tikhon watched as one of his veterans fell into a crevasse which had been hidden by a thin blanket of snow. He roared in rage and charged forwards, his feet leaving great cracks that wrinkled across the surface of the frozen ocean with each step he took. Three more of his Terminators followed close behind, their Power Fists crackling with a shimmering fields of energy. Tikhon pulled himself to a halt at the edge of the abyss and snarled loudly when he realised it was far deeper than he had first assumed. The darkness reached up at him in great almost inviting tendrils, for a moment he wanted to leap into the abyss and forgot his duties. He quickly diminished these thoughts, knowing that the Brother who fell was surely dead. 

A nearby group of Astartes, one of the younger Squads from the command of Varius vaulted the abyss with their Jump Packs, the circular thrusters wailing loudly. One nearly slipped but managed to grab hold of the ice, which threatened to crack beneath his weight and ignited his Jump Pack. He lifted into the air ponderously and flew two metres forwards, landing hard with enough force too send him rolling across the ground. Tikhon chuckled quietly to himself, realizing how much the younger Marines longed for war. Their Sergeant was no different, and pushed his Jump Pack to straining point as he took great strides forwards. Something flashed and the Sergeant continued onwards, headless. 

His helm and the raggedly torn head lay on the ice several feet away even as the body continued to stride. The corpse fell onto the ground, striking it hard. Blood poured freely from the wound across the ice, coagulating and freezing as it did so. The Squad stopped dead in their tracks, watching the form of their leader slide across the ground, scraping the ice with the effect of finger nails across a blackboard. The Space Marines winced, looking away when another was downed, a deep crimson hole put deep through his temple, the helm sparked for several seconds as the body fell to the knees and finally keeled over. Tikhon watched in horror and stepped back roaring “Terminators! Across the crevasse!”. 

He charged forwards. The gap in the ice grew nearer with each crushing step he took, and with one lung draining bellow he leapt forwards, one leg outstretched forwards and the other backwards. He landed and felt the edge of the ice slip into the darkness below, crinkling as it did so and pushed onto the other side. Alexian’s, hundreds of them in wild flapping tunics followed with carbines at the ready. Many were thrown off their feet as they leapt the maw, deep holes punched into their flesh. Those who were unlucky fell below, their bodies hitting jagged pieces of ice which protruded outwards, leaving blood imprints where they had struck. One of his Terminators lost his hand in a spray of gore and lifted the wound to his face, watching as his veins and tendrils of meat fell outwards, patting against his armour. 

He laughed manically and continued onwards, even as the sporadic fire grew more intense. Platoons of Alexian’s, consisting of fifty men armed with simple carbines and side arms charged forwards in staggered lines, ducking and diving beneath rivers of bullets. The Space Marines marched forwards undaunted by the rounds, bar those few thick based, point edges ones which tore through their helms like a knife through butter. Tikhon led his eighty or so surviving veterans from the front, his twin Power Fists clenched tightly, blue and green energies rolling along the thick fingers. The first Pegasus Cultist which dared show his face was blown off his feet by a bolt, his body becoming nothing more than blood tatters. 

The Pegasus Cultists charged in mass. Hundreds, of not thousands of them in brown leather cuirasses, bug eyed helms and wild flapping purple robes pulled themselves from cover, curled blades and snub pistols in their hands. The Alexian line met with the Pegasus Cultists and all chaos broke loose. Short swords were drawn by the Imperials, triangular stabbing blades with circular rivets cut from the sides making it perfect for ripping flesh. Dozens died in moments as short bursts of fire were exchanged in close quarters, illuminating the storm. Blades became lodged in flesh, yet both sides continued to fight with ferocity that rivaled the Astartes. 

When the Astartes reached the Alexian’s rear, the Pegasus Cultists revealed their trap. Mines, which had been dug in deep holes exploded outwards as vibrations jarred through them and great pillars of flame, taller than a Warhound Titan erupted upwards. A great section of the ice ripped upwards, taking the Alexian’s and few Marines that stood there with it. Many screamed as they fell into the depths below, desperately trying to cling on with anything they could. The Space Marines slammed their Chain-Axes or Power Fists into the ice, digging deep and used them as perches. One or two were not so fortunate however, and rolled end over end back down the steep slope until they got caught between the main body of ice and the base of the newly raised mountain. Agonizingly they were crushed, their armour cracking like eggshells, leaking blood and sections of mashed bone and skin. 

Tikhon watched from behind, having managed to not get caught in the explosion along with most of his Terminators. The fifty or so newer inducted Marines from Varius’s bunch which had bounded ahead were fighting with their backs against the deep crack in the ice, their Chain-Axes swinging wide and Bolt Pistols flashing. The Pegasus Cultists had been caught in the blast, slaughtered by their own forces yet thousands more had pulled themselves from concealed positions, screaming battle cries as they charged forwards. They struck the Astartes like a tide against a seawall, reeling backwards as muscle was torn from bone. 

The Brother-Captain watched one unfortunate Brother take a blade through the throat, blood dripped down the blade as a quartet of Cultists dived into his form headfirst, taking him into the darkness below. The group of Astartes begun to dwindle in numbers, and Tikhon snarled loudly. The ice beneath him and his Marines gave way suddenly, cracking and sending juts of ice spearing upwards, impaling one in the helm and gushing warm blood over the surface. The World Eaters bellowed in rage and fear of death as they fell into the darkness, limbs flailing in the air. It swallowed the mighty Astartes whole.

++++++++

Varren awoke. He was suspended in a giant tube filled with green amniotic fluids and thick black wires which pierced his skin with long metal blades. A rebreather was fixed over his mouth and it sent bubbles cascading upwards towards the surface above. He brought his hands up to his face, staring at the puffy, cracked white skin of his palms calmly. Questions ran rampant in his mind, and he pulled his arms free from the wires which held them at his sides, leaking clouds of blood from his arms. Warning runes flashed outside of the tank and a man and woman, both in knee length white coats ran from a nearby door, the woman carrying a notebook in her hands. The man stared through the glass at the thrashing giant who struggled in his restraints. 

He stared back with fire filled eyes, and brought both his fists against the inside of the glass. A crack seeped up the length and the liquid around him begun to hiss outwards, the man rose both hands up in a stop gesture and Varren complied after several seconds of deep thought. The woman was hastily moving her fingers along a console of flashing runes, expertly she tapped and clicked, while her colleague tried to keep the Space Marine calm. After a minute or two, there was a series of bubbles which flew upwards from beneath Varren and he was lowered slowly too the ground as the amniotic fluid leaked across the decking. His feet touched the cold metal at the base of the tank and he eased himself down onto his haunches, his naked form shivering. 

He reached up to the rebreather that clung to his throat with four thick brown straps, bronze clips held it at the back of his head. He gripped the straps on his throat, and with one heave ripped it away. It refused to budge at first, but after a tense moment the buckles shattered and flung in all directions. He threw the rebreather down and gasped for air, each time he did so a burning sensation was sent down his raw throat. The female attendant went off for a minute and returned with a tanned robe held across the forearms of her arms, she pushed it up towards Varren who snatched it from her with sore hands. He lifted himself back up on weak muscled legs and threw the robe over his head, letting it slip down his length as he maneuvered his arms into their relative sections. 

A Astartes walked into the room. He was tall, with high cropping cheekbones and a mane of shining black hair which was held braided against his scalp. Pink tinted eyes sat either side of a thick nose. His face was orange in colour, and his youthful features were laced with intelligence. His armour did not show the blue of the World Eaters, but rather was pearl white and trimmed with yellow. At his side rested a Bolt Pistol and a abundance of medical needles and vials. He waved his hand and the pair of attendants filled out of the room hastily, bowing before they did so. He outstretched one armoured hand, and wearily Varren took it, shaking it up and down slowly. 

The Astartes smiled saying in a foreign, thick accent “Lord Varren, it is good to see you have awoken. My name is Apothecary Xander, although you may call me what you wish. I have been the one who has cared for you. Yet your body is not fully healed, it shall be another week before you can rejoin the pacification. Those few who fought too protect you, seven survivors in total under one Sergeant Kharkov are also onboard, they refused to leave you side, a good bunch may I add”. Varren listened to his words with all his attentions upon him, slowly he nodded. 

After a minute or two of silence he replied “Please Xander, call me Orak I never was one for formalities. By the looks of things I am aboard the _Magnificent_, a good ship with a good crew but I never have enjoyed waking up in one of those damned healing vats. Please Xander, get me my armour I wish too tour the ship” He nodded and turned away, Varren took a seat on the wet decking and as the Apothecary left the room the Captain shouted “Oh and Xander, please do assemble Kharkov and my Squad”. 

++++++++

Apothecary Vashta stared at the giant form of the Devourer as he was loaded off of the Thunderhawk. He marched across the barren hanger, which only two days earlier had been covered with wounded Marines. The Devourer had been found by the Mechanicus Skitarii in a mountain top outpost, crucified. How he had got there was a mystery but his armour had been stripped away from him and his flesh ripped by what could only be called claws. Dozens of blades had protruded from his form, yet as the Skitarii had drawn nearer the giant awoke, screaming madly to himself before collapsing back into the darkness. 

A pair of Marines marched either side of the hovering slab of metal, both with a Bolter pulled tightly into their chests. The pair were both Devourer’s themselves, although they wore Power Armour rather than the usual Tactical Dreadnaught sets which had been gifted from the Forges of Mars. Even without their usual Terminator armour, both dwarfed Vashta in both personality and size. Drugs had been so thoroughly pumped through their metabolisms that they nearly bulged out of their armour. The first Marine had a chain mail cloak pulled around his armour, which was adorned with fetishes of bone and jewelry. 

A topknot poked from the back of the helm and fell down onto his back, the silver mane rustling gently. The red lenses of his helm snapped towards Vashta as the pale faced Astartes closed on him and a gruff growl was emitted from within. Vashta flinched, the muscles in the back of his neck bunched tightly under the gaze of such a hero, one which had saved the Primarch on many battlefields and could gun down a fellow Marine without a second thought if he was ordered. Vashta stammered as he spoke “I….I am….Apothecary Vashta, this is my patient now, I can take him too his…..His healing vat without your escort”. The Devourer burst out in a loud laughter which echoed around the cavernous hanger. 

His head shook from side to side and he replied “Don’t be afraid youngling, I wont shoot you yet. I have orders from Angron himself not to, my friend here however” He indicated the other Devourer who was standing above the head of the injured Marine “Has not. You will need my company, know that and do not underestimate me. Seeing as you thought it necessary to introduce yourself, so shall I. My name is Thoros, and my companion there is Janus. If you do not bother him, he shall not bother you”. 

Vashta could not believe it. Devourer-Champion Thoros, perhaps the most skilled swordsman in the entire Legion was actually speaking with him. Whoever lay upon the hovering slab, must have been of great importance for Thoros to accompany him. Was it fabled Sgoran? No, the Fleet would have landed thousands of pilgrims and bondsmen to pray for the Devourer-Lord if he was injured. Only Angron was loved more than Sgoran Mith within the World Eaters. It was evident if Angron was to fall, Emperor damn the moment that Sgoran would take command of the Legion. None would resist his rule however and he would be accepted with open arms. 

Sgoran could _not _fall for the sake of the Legion. So many heroes walked amongst the Devourer’s, that whoever lay on the slab as it moved towards the giant hanger blast doors was a true legend. His hearts stung knowing that it may already have been too late.


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## Flerden (Aug 17, 2008)

Cool work DA, good as always. Post/write then post more please :biggrin:


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## Lord Ramo (Apr 12, 2009)

Nice work yet again da. This is so good! I want more NOW!


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Cheers for the posts guys! Next part will be coming soon, and shall detail a space battle hopefully. I must say sorry for my ignorance in not posting, but the I shall get up the next part sometime in the week. I hadn't realised that this had fallen so far behind, so hopefully Ploss you will not mind that this is kind of a "bump" if so, I am sorry. :victory:


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## Chaosrider (Feb 3, 2010)

wow.... more please?


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

wow, great work. Just read it all through in one sitting, nice job. I'll be following this with intrest. +Rep. 

I have one small favour, and that is that you check out my fanfic here please. 

Thanks, and looking forward to more.

-Bane of Kings


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