# Bearers of Death



## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

_Death hath no Terror.
Death hath no Fear.
Death hath no Injustice.
Death is Mortarion.
Barbarus Sting.

Poisoned chalices clash.
Battle cries shrike.
Death roars “Into them!”
The enemy return “Retreat!”
The Guard of Mortarion slaughter.
Relentlessly.

Flames roil over great swathes.
Earth blackens.
Night falls.
Vermin swarm around the feet of the XIV Legion.
Yet they are welcomed.
The war is broken for a scarce moment.

But the enemy returns. The Legionnaires continue their onslaught.
Hours pass.
Thousands die.
Mortarion watches gleefully. 
With a swing of Manreaper, he beacons death.
Flames erupt over his form.

A dark silhouette is cast. 
Flanked by the hounds of war, Primarch and Astartes march forth.
Weapons bark. 
Enemy quiver and flee.
War has come. _​-Account of the Death Guard, written by Lord (Heretical) Maltharei XVV.​
_The Blackest Night falls from the skies, 
The darkness grows as all light dies, 
We crave your hearts and your demise, 
By my black hand — The dead shall rise! _​-First-Captain Typhon during the transformation of the Death Guard.​
The Void fluctuated. Space was rent, a seeping crack of oranges and crimson spreading off towards either direction. Something immense stirred, sliding along the crack and lashing out with ethereal limbs. Thousands of maws, each large enough to swallow a space faring vessel suckled at a withering golden sun in the distance, longing for the devouring of it. But that was not the prey of the Empyrean dwelling monstrosity. A single frigate moved silently and effortlessly towards the opening in reality, engines flaring blue. 

Blunt nosed and wide bodied, it advanced like a gladius, shredding shadows from its hull like dried flesh. The entity which hunted it swung in from the side with one shimmering tentacle-like limb, however it simply evaporated over the hull of the ship and did nothing more than send a mild tremor throughout the decks. With a wheeze of invisible energies, the vessel was shot forth. The name _Emperor’s Grace _shorn brightly along its length in glossy bold, and a series of seven mighty cannons twisted in their holdings. 

Of course, the name was contradicting. There was no graceful movements as the vessel slid into a halt, sending a series of debris forwards from its prow, mainly hull-dwelling Xeno mollusca that fed on the heat which reverberated throughout the vessel. Often the crews of Mechanicus vessels would venture out onto the hull to cleanse their ailing spirits of such beings, however most could not afford such revelatory actions. 

The hallways of the _Emperor’s Grace _were silent. Few traveled on it, those who did tended to be shambling collaborations of machine and flesh who stared errantly at the expanses of space. Some living beings trudged along with them, swinging braziers back and forth in both hands. Incense burned prosperous purple around them, casting clouds of smoke across their forms. The gentle rumbling of the engines was loud in the ears of each onboard, but most had grown accustom. Those few who had not were forced to endure ear grinding torture, and one had already slit his own throat since departing Barbarus. 

Barbarus. Toxin clad Barbarus. Green clouded and brown earthed, it was now the home of the Death Guard. Mortarion had grown beneath the mansion topped peaks, raising a army from the tribal villages. Most of those were now dead, scattered memories on the horizon which few remembered. It was a despot of a world, once ruled by tyrannical mutated creatures who raided those tribal communities below. Now it was ruled by the Legion Astartes. 

A small garrison, perhaps seventy Marines at any one time, roughly a Recruitment Squad per-Company, kept the civilization in place. These had been mostly led by veterans of the Dusk Raiders, rotated from the front to share their expertise with the Astartes below them; however the Terran officers were mostly disliked. The arrogant new breed which swarmed into the Legion had pushed the original forces into the minute and now they were all but extinct.

At that thought, Sergeant Lothar clenched his fists. He was a Terran, dog-loyal towards the Emperor and a stern believer of his ways. However most of the Death Guard which he had tutored were ignorant towards him, simply choosing to put down the old ways rather than embrace them. The newest batch, those which had grown up under the full rule of the Imperium, were different however. Most were welcoming towards the traditions and the Terran masters deployed on Barbarus; while apprehensive at first, accepted they were true of word. 

Now twenty of these Marines were to be deployed on the Crusade front. And Lothar was with them. He had not fought since previously injured by a Ork at Ullanor, some ten years previously, due to it nearly taking his life. While that had failed, it had destroyed the majority of his face, turning his nose into a twisted splotch which pooled out beneath his eyes. He cared little for his appearance however. He suddenly realised, when a warm trickle slipped down his palm, that he had clenched his blunt finger nails into his flesh. 

There was no pain as crimson dripped from the smooth gashes, pattering against the plain deck below. The wounds sealed however, as enhanced cells wrapped together and new skin was formed. He stared at the raw-looking skin with half closed eyes, his pupils glistening in the candle light. The scars reminded him of a dueling incident between him and a Son of Russ back on Terra where the bumbling oaf had took a bite from his shoulder. The scarred areas were almost identical, each in neat rows, of incisor and talon.

Lothar stood from his high-backed chair, sliding it away without even a exertion and stared around. His quarters were among the larger aboard the Grace, save perhaps for those of the more elegantly traveling Remembrancers and Imperial dignitaries which accompanied the Death Guard from Barbarus. A golden bulbous atrium deep within a metallic canyon, the quarters was well protected from all sides, with a pocked blast shield being able to slid over during times of conflict. 

The room itself was much like the vast rotundas of the Imperial Palace; although more like a model when compared to them, and the groan of the engines was near silent here. A plaque sat on one wall, commemorating the moment that Mortarion was joined with his Legion. Purity seals dangled from the edges, fluttering in a unnatural breeze and letting the smell of lubricants drift from his resting armour nearby. His helmet watched him menacingly, the skull-formed faceplate grinning and revealing demonically efficient teeth. 

He looked back down at his desk, staring at the waning communications plate which rested between a miniature canyon of parchments and idled pictures. It was from First-Captain Typhon himself. It bore the personnel heraldry of Typhon; although Lothar knew that it was wrote by some Mechanicus lackey rather than by the hands of Typhon. And for the eightieth time in the so-far three week travel, he found his attentions whisked away by such a uneventful thing.

_On proclamation of His Holy Justice, Lord Mortarion, the following Squads are to be routed from Barbarus towards the Illixia system-

Squad Lothar.
Squad Hauser. 
Squad Rudolph. 

The Imperial vessel *Emperor’s Grace* has been transferred from picket duties to deliver the Astartes, Timing is an asset here, and thus Mortarion has ordered that those to return into the glorious battle will not waste time. Those who do will personally be ordered back to Barbarus, and that is not a threat. It is a promise Brothers. We are in need of those Astartes under you; a war is brewing currently and while Mortarion wishes to halt it, his duties have currently been taken away with the arrival of the Nine Hundredth Expeditionary Fleet. _​
_Farewell, old friend. This shall be your reckoning or your undoing. 
Yours sincerely, Calas Typhon. _​
Short and abrupt, but it got too the point. Thirty Astartes would be deployed, along with the odd one or two which were returning from funeral details back on Barbarus. Mortarion himself had beseeched for the Astartes to return, and currently they were on task. Not day behind, nor a day ahead. Perfection that perhaps only the artistic whores of Fulgrim could rival. Lothar sniggered at that thought, a smile cracking across his lips. Oh war would come, and he would embrace it fully….

++++++++

Conrad Monferat: You are in the dining hall of the frigate, idly nursing a bowl of brown-yellow soup. It is far from the best that you have eaten while aboard, but rather was hastily repaired by the first of the vessels crew that have awoke from their Warp-Slumber. You sit alone in one corner, staring out of a observation bulb at the distant sun. Somebody alerts you suddenly, a tray smashing against the table and a rough ‘I swear, I have eat better food from the arse’s of a Grox’ tears from the throat of a Marine. 

You look up at the armoured form, and realise he is a member of Squad Rudolph named Heydrich. He usually sports a Power-Fist but currently his arm is left as would yours be if you bore armour, a simple gauntlet and forearm. He takes a seat and begins to slurp the food, nodding at you slowly as he does so. Unlike many Death Guard he is rather handsome, with high cheekbones and pursed lips. A fringe of hair obscures his left eye and a good portion of his face, however the right eye is a twisting orange nebula.

A bionic, you realise, probably taken during a training injury. He looks up at you and asks ‘So….Conrad is it? Tell me, how did you become to be an Astartes? How was you graced by the love of Mortarion?’. 

(Answer him, go into your background a bit, do you and Heydrich know each other on a better level rather than what the training operations and confines of the Glory have offered?)

Nero Vyze: Currently you sit alone, in a small dark corner of the Frigate. Solitude is what you like after all. It is rather cold currently, due to this part of the vessel only recently regaining power after an accident earlier on during the journey which left many Serfs dead. You bear but a simple robe, pulled tightly around your body by bronze broaches that have grown deathly cold. A fitting touch, considering the name of the Death Guard. 

(Sorry for the rubbish update, but seeing as you are new to RP’ing, I want to see how you handle it. Your thoughts should dwell on the upcoming campaign however, why has Mortarion called your fellow Astartes to war?)

Audamar Hailwic: You are currently moving through the busy machine decks of the Grace, your armour cold against the dimly lit decks. Small and scrawny figures move in the gloom, carrying parts which look far too heavy with them as they do so. A purple haze whisks around your form, slithers of gas sliding along your front and wrapping behind you. Your servo harness is currently resting in your quarters, and both your Bolt Pistols are back within the armoury, along with your Power-Axe. That means you are currently unarmed although you know that you do not need any form of weaponry. 

Each of your footfalls are silenced by the sound of a great clanking in the distance, and you realise many of the disheveled figures around you are more than likely deaf. You know that many of the Barbarus Astartes dislike you, most of which believe you are favoured by Mortarion over them, and because of this you find it hard to socialite with them. Some are welcoming, namely those of Squad Lothar; but others simply despise you. 

(You have kind of a free reign here, how do you describe the machine decks? They are cramped and stink of petroleum and other fuels remember, along with the perspiration and occasional tang of blood. You are here to make sure that everything is in running order, if you decide something is faulty, fix it. Although keep that to a minimum please, I don’t want anything major breaking. Just small things that the ship can run without and all.)

Varik Scharf: You are currently in the dueling pits, facing off against a member of Squad Hauser. Both of you wield short blades, and lacerations create bloody stripes across both of your naked torsos. Twice you have managed to down your opponent, however each time he pulls himself back up as steady as he was during the first moments. You realise this is because of the presence of Hauser. He sits on one of the surrounding benches, his bear like form hunched over. You see his beard is wet with wine, and shake your head at that.

(Take down the opponent, however he will not go down easily. He is slightly larger than you and his muscles bulge, but you are faster where he is stronger. Hauser will continue too watch you, why do you think that is? Has he got some form of problem with you, or is he simply enjoying the match?)

Balvarn Hierdacht: Currently you sit in your quarters. You are one of the few who has a Remembrancer attached, a young man by the name of Samuel, who is now sitting opposite you. He begins to ask you questions, which you should return an answer to, while describing your surroundings if possible. 

(Really sorry about this being so….Bland, but I know you want to delve into your character and there isn’t much more I can say here for you to do so. Feel free to create the questions/answer them though.)

Tancred: You are currently on duty upon the bridge. Lothar has made you his second in command during the transit, and thus you have some form of control. It stretches off into the distance, long and thin, with dozens upon dozens of consoles forming a minute cityscape. The Ship-Captain, 33Neo, a simple collaboration of flesh and steel sit’s a few metres away from you, his skull like visage muttering binary codes. Being in your armour, you dwarf all around you, and hold your Chainsword against the deck point first. 

(Not much you can do at the moment I am afraid. Basically: Describe your feelings towards being made second in command, you know that some of your Squad will be jealous. Do you wish that you had not been made secondary commander, even if it is only till you reach Illixia? Lothar has yet to tell you why he has made you 2IC, but you must not fail. Note: You cannot take command of the ship at any level, you are more there as a form of security.)

Gardax Fargryn: You are, like Balvarn, currently in your quarters. However unlike him you are alone and tending to your armour, administering lubricants and seals. You are nervous for the upcoming campaign like everyone else, and are simply preparing in your own way by tending to your equipment. Your room is deep within the vessel, amongst those of Squad Rudolph, and thus you are separate from the remainder of Squad Lothar. You know that this was not intentional, however you cannot help but to feel some form of pain for being separate.

(How does Gardax react to being placed with Squad Rudolph? Has he found any friends within Rudolph, namely the sociable Heydrich? Or is Gardax simply a lone wolf, awaiting to return too his Squad? While he is not completely isolated, he must rest in the room alone, while his Brothers above are near one another.)

Reinhard Thates: You are on the gunnery decks. The crews are currently not awake, and thus you can move undaunted throughout the giant cannon emplacements. Or at least that is what you thought. Sergeant Rudolph turns a corner nearby, his iron cloak pulled tightly around his form and you both collide into one another. Rudolph, being far larger and a veteran of the original Crusade manages to regain his balance however you are unlucky and collapse onto the ground in a crumpled heap. He chuckles loudly, his olive face twisting in the mirth and offers a hand. 

(React to Rudolph, will you take his hand or are you too stubborn to do so? Do you laugh along, and converse with Rudolph? Note: If you do talk, I will post for Rudolph, so other than not saying what he will say, you more or less have a free reign here.)

Loki: You are currently on the Medicae deck, standing over the unmoving form of Traugott Janke. During a training incident, the pommel of your blade knocked him into unconsciousness and thus you have not left his side for several hours. While you know that he will be fine, you cannot help but to feel guilt over his injury, which has took the form of a badly bruised face bisected in several places by small pink lacerations. 

(Deus Mortis is currently away, so I will leave it up to you to detail what happened and how his injury actually came about. Try not to control Traugott however, if you need him to speak, I will do that for him. How do you feel, are you happy that your old rival is injured? What will Lothar do when he hears of this, will he have you condemned? What are your general feelings?)

Note: Sorry it is bad, but I am just trying to get this started at the moment, action will come soon lads!


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## bobss (May 18, 2008)

Cold light streamed balefully through, touching lightly upon his leathered brow, cascading amongst his grim features, his foreboding attire. So typical of his Legion, so typical of Mortarion`s hounds. Ghostly claws of an icy nature, the almost ethereal, machine-spewed light bathed him from ceiling-mounted rivets. Reminiscent, so of Barbarus... _The blood-shot clouds, casting their chemical palour across what, to any other mortal-being, would be a wasteland. An acrid tundra of an alkaline nothingness..._

''... Is it like?'', bespoke the Remembrancer boldly, somewhat shrinking in grievance to shattering Balvarn`s memory-wrought bliss. '' Killing. To kill, to take the innocent soul of the Galaxies manifested creation in search for your own immortality... in the Emperor`s name proper, of course'', he stumbled feverishly, to correct whatever blaspheme he had obliviously intoned towards the giant astride of his own fragile frame. 

Balvarn smirked at the Remembrancer’s obvious ignorance. Shifting a hulking leg, he took up a more philosophical position, his fixture now one of puzzlement and deep-thought. ''I usually think little of such, Samuel - May I use your name, or what something less colloquial be of your tastes?'' begged the Astartes politely, lest he humble this rotting corpse of a man. 

Samuel battered a liver-spotted hand feebly, his caring not for formalities but for the morality of the Emperor`s chosen-sons. ''It matters not, your respect comforts me, as I am sure this loathsome cold upon this damnable ship does your own self'', he jibed, his barb still intertwined by humour, as to bludgeon the ice her feared would engulf his newer study. 

The Space Marine let out a gruff laugh, his thickly fogged eyes angled in amusement. His jovial approach soon faded, and once more he debated the ponderous bindings of the desired question. ''... The Xenos is as unremitting as their vile hostility suggests. They seek not the comforts of society or advancement of technological guile, but to writhe within the crimson-dirt they so revel upon. The alien, the _ Xenos _, is of little thought. Their mere existence demands hefty judgment'', belittlement detectable within his frozen tone, though not to such extents as it would prick this mortal he now debated unfathomable intrigue with.

A low tap heralded feeble sounds of ragged hands rapping monotonously upon a plastek surface. Samuel looked up, his brow furrowed. Sloughing, his muscles discarded their knots as muscle would, once bitten by a chainblade, his demeanor apologetic of the disturbances. Laying his data-slate upon the slated table they sat around, Samuel began his next tirade of questioning and philosophical adventeur in earnest.

Steepling bony hands upon an equally gaunt and whiskered chin, the Remembrancer trod with the strenours of anxiety into more compassionate ground - '' The destruction of mere incestesoid filth is but fixed upon base-hierarchical gain and within lower echelons of my debate - any man from this expedition could show me what ichor-ridden bugs look like once the Emperor`s divine will, hammers upon their evolutionary-retarded race. Such... trivialities are beneath one of my colossal intellect, and to you, with regards to your divine birthright. I wish to merely speak of... our lost 'cousin`s' if to put it so crudely as to make it understandable to one as yourself'', he opened eagerly, though skirted the fiery-anvil of the Astartes zealously, with trepidation.

The Astartes shifted uncomfortably, his meek irritancy now obvious. Samuel`s mechanical-heart skipped an approximate of several hundredths of a beat- as those driveling imbeciles of the Mechanicus would drone out - as he feared Balvarn would leave. He did not bade to leave, but instead gazed out across the wrought-iron interior of the Spartan room and its sparse furnishings. 'Functional' one man would remit, a stern nod of common-appreciation by the unyielding sons of Ferrus, yet a sour distaste at the bland, art-void and muted room by those of The Phoenician. 

''The lost fragments of humanity, of _our_ omnipotent race, scribe?'', he challenged, his voice but a throaty rumble; the splitting of rock, with flinty emphasis upon their genetic similarities, much as he would live to see the Golden Age, and this shriveled whelp would die before even it had begun.

''So it would seem. Yes, they who shun the light of science and the Emperor`s indomitable and undeniable truth'', babbled the man more monofilament platinum and magnesiate alloy than tendon and blood. ''Where they-''

''That which defies the blatant light, the warm suffuse of our righteousness is but a fool, a lowly cur of a fool who will cower within the shadows of our Stormbirds! The unbreakable hammer of He; his son`s, his will incarnate to our steel blades and thrice-blessed bolters steel-rain. I care not for their technological achieve, nor their genetic similarities. He who would shirk from the ultimate truth deserves naught but to be clubbed into the rancid ground from whence their heretic ideals grew forth from, and were nutured upon. I will not heed such... such... slander, from one who has but never tasted his own coppery blood, nor harvested entire races within but a day...''.

Balvarn stormed through a gilded-arch depicting past-glories and Mortarion’s never-ceasing triumph. Samuel stared onwards. _He will return as yet he always does. Like they all do. To grasp power and immortality as he, they always seek to bequeath their emotions upon us... for they too, are human..._


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## Lord Ramo (Apr 12, 2009)

Conrad sat in a dimly lit corner of the ships mess hall. Other figures were talking, laughing and joking to each other whilst they ate their hastily prepared "meal". Conrad stared down at it and knocked it around with his spoon. He didn't need to eat, and this couldn't really be called food. It looked as if someone had just added lukewarm water to whatever they had found. Conrad stared absent mindly out of the nearest observation bulb. Outside the Emperor's Grace was the void of space. He stared at the sun that was outside the craft, watching it, almost transfixed.

Conrad was interrupted by a sudden slam of a tray on the table, and he looked up. Heydrich, a marine from Sergeant Rudolphs squad sat down, his armoured form missing his fearsome powerfist. Conrad smiled at Heydrich when he talked about the food. "Bet you could cook something better as well." Heydrich then asked him a question that took Conrad aback. ‘So….Conrad is it? Tell me, how did you become to be an Astartes? How was you graced by the love of Mortarion?’. 

*"Graced by the love of Mortarion and the Emperor Heydrich. To me becoming an astartes, it is simple. Mortarion freed our planet of the vile tyrants that ruled us all. My father told me of how brave and god-like Montarion was. As more and more of our fellow brethern fell to the unrelenting tides of xeno and the crusade, I was chosen to seve the Emperor and Mortarion. The only one among my village to be chosen." *He said this last fact proudly.

Conrad turned his attention back to his food for a short while, before he spoke up again. *"Mortarion and the Emperor have graced me with a chance to bring death to the filthy xeno that populate this galaxy. They have allowed me to use the heavy bolter, a weapon of death to see these foes fall."* With that Conrad was silent again.


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## Lord of the Night (Nov 18, 2009)

The lower decks of the Emperor's Grace were alive with the sounds of driving pistons and grinding machinery. Smoke lifted from intake vents and floated throughout the decks with nowhere to go but down the throats of the pitiful souls indentured to labour down here until their likely premature deaths. The dim lights flickered on and off, the off-durations were merciful as the on-durations lit up things that nobody wished to see. Hunched-over and gaunt figures, menials forced to work in this depressing pit, scurried through the decks, all carrying machinery so big that the cause of their decrepit figures were not hard to divine.

Audamar Hailwic, Techmarine of the XIV Legion and a Son of Mortarion and Terra, strode through the cramped hallways, menials scrambling out of his path as he walked through into the primary decks. All around him menials kept their distance, for to them they only saw a cloud of thick purple smoke with two glowing green eyes, the fear of the unknown a driving force in their distance. Audamar cared not for their fear, even his own battle-brothers were uneasy around him, to converse with him was more akin to dialogue with a soulless machine rather then an Astartes. He ran a finger across his mask, permanently grafted onto his skin, forever separating him from humanity. His moment of self-pity passed and he descended the stairs to the lower levels, which were even worse.

The smoke was so thick that only an Astartes could see perfectly down here, and only if they tried. The sounds of clanking mechanics and labouring workers was prevalent down here even over the strides of the Techmarine. As he crossed through the smoke-filled platforms he kneeled down and pried off one of the ducts. The air recycling system on level four had clogged up again and as usual it was Audamar's duty to fix it, nobody else was closer. As he dropped into the vents he peered ahead and saw the device. Letting his mechanical hands open up their fingers, revealing repair devices built in, he started work on fixing it. This was a thankless chore but he was free at the moment and any excuse to be busy was acceptable to Audamar.


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

Brother-Marine Nero Vyze sat in one of the many seats on the _Emperor's Grace_, alone on a damp corridor, watching other Marines and non-Astartes scurry about on their appointed tasks. 

Vyze embraced the cold from the earlier accident. Something had gone wrong with the engines, he had heard from passing non-Astartes. But now it was fixed, and heat was beginning to flood back into the spaceship. His thoughts then turned to his Primarch, the almighty Mortarion, son of the God-Emperor, and commander of his legion. The Death Guard. 

From others, he knew that before they had found Mortarion, the Death Guard had been named the Dusk Raiders, after their tactic of old. But he knew that the tactic had changed. Some Terrans in his legion weren't happy about it, others adapted to the new tactics set by his Primarch with ease. 

Vyze was honoured to be chosen as part of the upcoming campaign. He wanted to taste the blood of the enemy, drive his beloved Chainsword into those that dared to oppose the rule of the God-Emperor. Over the course of the journey, he had wondered why his Primarch had chosen him to take part. Was it because his Primarch had some sort of connection with his Sergeant, Lothar? 

But that didn't matter. All that mattered was that he had a chance to prove himself, maybe to be elevated into the First Company if he performed well... But Vyze realised he was being optomistic. _too_ optomisitic. A fellow Marine of his legion walked past. He wasn't of Lothar's Squad, so Vyze didn't recgonise him. He didn't need to, either. The Marine wasn't even giving Vyze a glance.


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## Flerden (Aug 17, 2008)

Clad in only a pair of boots and a loin cloth Reinhard walked silently on the gunnery decks, looking on the giant ship cannons. The only sounds to reach his ears is the sounds of his boots on the metal floor. Reinhard was exited that he finally was going to the forefront of the crusade. He hoped that he would be able to fight at the side of Mortarion himself, even if he knew the chance was very little that it would happen.

Reinhard walked a while deep in his own thoughts about different thing's. Therefore he did not see Sergeant Rudolph coming around the corner before it was to late, colliding. Reinahrd fell hard on his back a bit shocked of seeing some one else, and a bit humiliated of falling.
Reinhard took Rudolph's hand and stood up.
"The fault was all mine, sir!" Was all that Reinhard was able to get out of his mouth before noticing that Rudolph was chuckling.
"But of course it would be good if you would watch out when walking around in full armour, you could trample some poor humans." Reinahrd quickly added with a small chuckle.


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## Lord of the Night (Nov 18, 2009)

As Audamar allowed his finger-devices to interface with the machine he began muttering a thanks to the Machine-God. 'Hear me God of all machines and his favoured avatar the holy Omnissiah, I thank you for the gifts you have bestowed unto I, a simple servant and devotee of the machine that I may repair this damaged machine and restore it to its fullest potential. All praises to the machine.' As he chanted he detached his mind and interfaced with the machine, to meld with its spirit.

It was beyond glorious, to meld with a machine. To see things as they see, to feel as they feel. The rest of the legion couldn't understand it, too mired in fleshly concerns. Audamar was beyond that, it was his duty to understand the machine and to work towards becoming one with it. As his mind entered the machine he saw streams of data conversing through the entire ship, he could see the entire ship at once. Every Battle-Brother wandering the corridors, every menial scurrying to work. Every machine running in perfect order, the servitor-bay door had a glitch in it. He would work on that later. He could feel the _Emperor's Grace_ all around him, the engines pushing them through the cold depths of space that he could feel rushing against his skin, the heat of the stars and planets that were light years away, while this was his paradise he knew he had duties to accomplish and disconnected himself, his body shaking briefly as the connection faded. Quickly finishing his job Audamar decided to check out the vehicle hangar and make sure everything was in order, then he would fix the servitor-bay door. He rose up and climbed out of the vents, back into the smoke of the lower decks. Back into the fleshly world which he despised, and it despised him so.

As he left the decks he re-entered the higher levels, he didn't like being up here because there was always the chance he would run into other Astartes, and Audamar hated being around them. They treated him like an outcast, all because of his mask. Bionics were not so bad when you couldn't see them or if you could, when they weren't something you needed to focus on. However Audamar's metallic face-plate had forever severed the bonds he had with other flesh-beings, and for a time Audamar had hated it until he found solace in the machines that he tended. They did not judge him, they thought him better for it and treated him as an equal amongst them, it was where he truly belonged rather then with his fickle brethren. As he entered the vehicle bay Audamar began tending to the vehicles, nearly every type of Astartes vehicle was here from Rhinos, Predator Tanks and Thunderhawk Gunships. Audamar had driven Predators and Thunderhawks before, and could drive a Rhino by extension as Predators and Rhinos were the same chassis. However he had only driven Predators into combat, his Thunderhawk experience was a mere trial run to see if the repairs had been completed on one gunship a few years back. Audamar enjoyed using the machines to their full potential in combat, and so much more to crush the xenos with the mighty treads of a Predator, and to silence them with its roaring cannons. Audamar knelt down and began administering routine maintenance to a Predator who's treads were jammed, it was something to do for now. And nobody would bother him while he was doing it, nobody ever bothered Audamar. They were either afraid of him, or uncomfortable. And that was how Audamar liked it.


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## Theren (May 25, 2010)

As Gardax sat in his rooms alone, quietly and methodically tending to his arms and armour, he had time to think as his muscles took on the automatic function of cleaning. 

His first thought was of the battle to come, of the enemy, their tactics and weapons, their will and morale. such things was the usual thought for Gardax, as he cared little for the matters elsewhere. As he checked over his Bolter, its Gun-metal gray casing unadorned bar a small skull rings with a spiked circle, he continued his slow, methodical thought.

The company he was stationed with... who where these Astartes? he was a fairly new recruit, and as such did not know each brother by name. One had tried to socialise with him. Although the name escapes Gar at the time, this does not trouble him. he has no need for breatheren outside of his own squad. He checked the state of his chainsword, which had been recently returned from the repairing chambers after biting too deep into a training servitor and blunting its teeth on the wall behind. The weapon had been refitted with the rearside casing, this Irked Gar slightly, had he not told the menials to leave it off? of course he had, he wanted his weapon as deadly as it could be, better to rend and crumple the Emperor's foes beneath his Ceramite boots and whining blade.

Taking a small tool from his arming chamber, he quickly removed the rear-guard of the blade, this was not considered a bad thing as such, as it only made the weapon deadlier to the swordsman as well as the foe, but it was what he liked, the double edge, so similar to the life he lead now.

Gardax looked around his chamber as his hands done all the automatic work of maintenance for his Bolt Pistol, sparse was considered an understatement for his quaters, he had been told by the sociable one.. perhaps he was right. the Chamber was bare apart from a huge steel-wrought bed, his Arming chamber gently illuminated by the biolume glo-globes. a large desk scattered with various reports and papers. he thought nothing of it and returned to his duties, savouring the nervous taste of the battle to come. The opertunity to impress his betters through his work always clung to a dark recess of his mind, but he would always kill for the purpose, never for sport, like the Whelpish brothers from the Emporors Children. 

We are all brothers, but some things brought shame to the forefront of Gar's mind. He quickly dismissed this and stepped into his arming chamber, the servitors installed within helping into the lower half of his armour. Unpowered the armour weighed down Gar, even if it was only the greaves and boots. still it was good training and the first and last thing on Gars mind was being the best astartes he could be. his hyper-powerful muscles straining with the weight, he left his room with only his combat blade set to his belt and a tunic over his torso, bare arms swaggering slightly as he lumbered down now familiar hallways in search of the Lunch Hall


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## Scathainn (Feb 21, 2010)

Tancred stood on the bridge of the ship staring out the armaglas viewport into the broad expanse of the void. Lights in the distance would occasionally flare and shine, then disappear, like a flare on a black night. Of course, it wasn’t like Tancred had anything better to do; he had been posted to the bridge for only an hour and it had already begun to grate on his nerves.

He looked around at those under his watch. Surrounding him on the left and right were rows of servitors hard-wired into ports of flashing lights and instruments, their eyes flashing images like some sort of extreme-speed slideshow. Behind him, the shriveled, barely-human form of 33Neo mumbled machine code to himself, his incessant stream of numbers directing everyone on the bridge.

Tacred sighed and leaned against the terminal next to him, briefly distracting the servitor mounted into it. He was a little irate that he was posted to the bridge; he could have been in the fighting pits or at least reading up in the Librarium, but instead it seemed his leadership was better suited on the main deck. He polished his chainsword absentmindedly as he brooded silently.

That was another thing: Why was he posted to the bridge? To babysit a group of servitors who couldn’t even move from their seat? To advice a captain who lacked the capacity to speak Gothic? To watch the horizon for enemies in a supposedly cleared sector of space? He wasn’t sure. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to know; command usually did keep their directions a bit in the dark. All he knew is that perhaps this leadership experience could go a ways to help him advance in rank. He smirked slightly under his helmet; he could already envision an inscription he could receive relating to this particular leadership “experience.”

*Ordo es incompertus , tamen suus factum planto fabula.*
_An Order Can Be a Mystery, But Its Actions Make History._

[[OOC: Had to rewrite the whole thing because I couldn't find the damn thumbdrive... ]]


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## heartslayer (Oct 17, 2009)

Loki stood over his wounded Rival, and smirked, although he felt guilty for doing this to him he felt a sense of pride that he had finally Beaten Traugott in close combat, this was a new feeling to him, he never beat Traugott, the emperors luck was obviously on him for once. he smiled as his brothers eyes began to flicker, he was waking up. 'took you long enough, was that a nice nap' chuckled Loki with a huge grin spreading across his face


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

_The tales of piratical vagabonds and butchers
Have haunted the merchant lanes of
Space since before the Emperor
Ruled. 

It is of no surprise, that even with Astartes
Battle fleets patrolling the
Stars that the pirate hordes still sallied forth. 
It was during a small skirmish, that the
Vessel known as the Emperor’s Grace
Became famed in the annals of history._​
-Extract from “Great Battles of Naval History”.​
Wallowing alone in a sea of black, dotted with islets of stars the _Grace _slowly vented atmosphere from various ventilation systems. She was a behemoth compared to the pleasure yachts of rich aristocrats yet still she barely reached the tonnage of a standard Frigate. Once it had been a mere ore transporter but when the need for escorts increased she had spent fifty years in the Docks of Mars being refitted into a weapon of war. Some had dubbed her “Iconoclast” however that had been all but ignored by the officials. 

Something was stirring several thousand miles off the port side of the vessel, the Warp rippling and seeping fluorescent energies into real space. Those who could gain a sight of such a thing did so, grubby hands leaving smudges against the viewports as standard personnel attempted to take a look. What was sent forth caused them to recoil in horror. Seven ships, by far larger than the _Grace _were spewed from the Empyrean in a compact arrowhead formation. The nearest and centremost was a utter monster yet it still owned a sleek appearance which betrayed the gigantic cannons along the flanks. 


The remaining six, three spreading off from each side like armoured wings were some form of Cruiser class, their bridges struck high upon pillars of silver and obsidian. These were the deadly ones, fast packs which could pick the lone Frigate free of its armoured flesh within moments. Warning klaxons cast the close knit hallways of the _Grace _in a red hue and the Astartes were awoke from their errant duties. Cannons swiveled on new bearings although many bore no rounds within. A threatening but hollow gesture.

Like a awaken beast, the Battleship shuddered wildly and opened fire. Plumes of flame traced forth, obscuring the giant rounds within perfectly. Not awaiting orders from the Astartes aboard, the Captain of the Frigate quickly took control of his vessel, transferring power from helms to his own throne. Seconds turned into minutes and agonizingly slow the _Grace _twisted upwards, dislodging crewmen and Astartes from their feet. The Death Guard Frigate returned fire as it ascended. 

While not particularly powerful, each of the cannons could easily damage the enemy vessels. The Battleship prowled forwards as its rounds completely missed its target and spiraled away beneath the bulk, pushing into the depths of space. That was perhaps its main punishment. The smaller weaponry of the Frigate let loose, tearing armour upon the enemy vessel and sending lithe figures erupting outwards. Stormbirds, piloted by interred Servitors and Housecarls burst from the primary hanger, swooping in like predatory birds. 

Fire, indecent and burning with leaking fluids began to slowly crawl along the length of the vessel. Stormbirds banked to avoid seas of flame, as they exploded the fuel and died. Some were not so lucky, and one, a smaller Thunderhawk albeit, simply ceased to be as ceramite melted and dissipated amongst the stars. A great eruption sent several long cylinder like shapes hurtling towards the Imperial Frigate and a single warning went throughout the ship - Boarding torpedoes - Marines scramble to regain their weapons, many of which head into the primary hanger. 

++++++++ 

Conrad Monferat: You suddenly hear ‘Hold the Xeno bastards bac-’ however before the sentence is finished the sound of screeching metal erupts and your ears both begin to leak trickles of blood. Heydrich is already standing, Bolt Pistol drawn and combat blade tossing towards you. The sound - like howls - of weapons fire becomes loud and you and Heydrich charge towards the doors. This is your first taste of battle, how do you react to coming out into a flame licked hallway dotted with the torn bodies of Legion Menials? 

A dead Brother lays several feet away, his helm broken inwards so that the red skin could be seen pealed back, the skull caved inwards. You collect his Bolter, which only contains half a magazine, roughly ten rounds. Not the best. Heydrich takes the Chainsword of the Marine and tosses you a single grenade. Something, a monotone scuttling alerts you to the flashing area behind you. Heydrich spins and fires directly over your shoulder. How do you react, as the rounds ripple your fatigues? 

Whatever he is firing at screeches and you spin, barely catching glimpse of a muscular leg being dragged around the corner, leaking dark sticky blood. You both give chase. Right into a large enemy patrol. You now see the enemy, clearly human although with far more muscular appendages and wearing a overlapping gleaming armour. One roars and raises his long barbed rifle but is cut down by Heydrich. However he is downed almost instantly, a lacuna slicing through his throat. Heydrich tumbles back into you, a low gurgling sounding as he evidently laughs. How could he do such a thing, when his throat is torn and bleeding?

(Get your injured Brother out of there. There is perhaps fifteen of the enemy ready for your blood, most wielding close combat weapons taking the form of butcher like hooks and long pole arms. There are two or so with similar rifles to the one which Heydrich downed, however. How do you get him out and were do you take him? The dinning hall is still more or less safe, but would you risk bottling yourself in there or try and link up with the Astartes aboard? Your choice, but try and make some good action, kill as many as you can!)

Nero Vyze: The warning klaxons of the ship has caused the other Marine to take off, you however, as you stand are knocked back down and cannot follow. Along the hallway you see a series of figures running towards you, looking over their shoulders with fearful eyes. One, a lithe cragged women suddenly collapses and a hiss of blood jets outwards. Your fists clench. Such meaningless violence…Another dies almost immediately after, the back of his head sliced in two. Then their hunter comes into view. Easily as tall as you but no where near as muscled, the figure prowls forwards with a rifle pressed into his shoulder. 

His aims falls on you, and he begins to fire. Rage fills you instantly as rounds whip past, cutting your flesh in several places. Charging forwards, unarmed and without armour you barrel into the enemy. Somehow he slips from your grasp and strikes you across the back of the head, hard. Blood beats in your ears and you land hard, striking your jaw on the ground. Spinning, you kick upwards and send him tumbling away. 

(Kill the enemy however you deem fit. There is no weaponry nearby nor anything you can really use as such, bar that of the enemy, which he still clutches tightly like a bat. He will prove some form of trouble, as he is slightly faster and armoured. Go for the neck or skull, or any other weak spots you can find!)

Audamar Hailwic: You are one of the few not embroiled in combat immediately. You instead charge towards the nearest sound of screams, and come out into a large open area which serves as a storage section. Something stirs in the red light. Something small and insignificant. A young Legion serf, no older than you when you were first inducted stumbles around on his hands and knees. You approach, some form of humanity longing for you to aid him. Yet as you draw nearer a dozen or so figures charge around him, hooks held in both hands. In your unarmed state there is little you can do.

That is until one of the raiders moves past, a long spear like object held in his hands. You reach out and snap his neck, silently. Taking his toy like weapon in your hands your wade forwards through the knee length boxes and lash out, immediately killing one. 

(Kill them and proceed towards the armoury to reclaim your weapons. You will not reach there in this update however, nor will you run into any one else. However is that where your priorities lay? If a team got to the engine control room, they could easily destroy the ship. But can you travel there armed with just a piece of metal? You decide dude.)

Varik Scharf: During the main attacks you find yourself alone, as your opponent and the Astartes watching burst off with training weapons held at the ready. You are standing alone on the perspiration and blood slicked sand, when something cold wraps around your throat, pressing into the vein at the side with sharp talons. The warm trickle of blood slips down your shoulder, and you twist your blade in both hands. With one thrust you stab it backwards and the sound of ripping flesh echoes loudly. Whatever holds you in its clutches rips itself free of your blade and runs away. 

Spinning, you half expect it to have gone. You are wrong however, and instead the man, for that is what it is, though madly twisted, punches out. Your nose hurts suddenly and you return the blow. Soon you are both hacking away, it with talons and you with your short blade. Lacerations are cast and blood is spilt. Yet neither of you refuse to give in. 

(Kill the man-thing and then move on towards the armoury and gather your armour/weapons. Note: I want the previous update to be included in this one seeing as you missed it.)

Balvarn Hierdacht: Samuel is thrown from where he sits almost instantly. You cannot catch him but instead watch in almost slow motion as he twists and lands hard, and you yourself are dislodged from your position. You land on the decking, looking around for your attached Remembrancer with actual concern. You find him, lying down with a small slice running along his cheek. Something loud sounds outside your hallway, like a war horn of old and you quickly collect a small combat blade. 

Samuel trudges behind you, caressing his would with one finger. You tell him to wait until you make sure that it is clear and open the door, as you do so however a series of rounds hurtle down the hallway towards you, and momentarily you are forced back into the quarters. The sound of running feet causes you to spin back out, right into seven men. Six wield simple blades, clearly hacking tools by their long and wide faces. The leader carries a pistol with him however, but you quickly dispatch him and begin to take on the others. 

(Keep Samuel safe, but do not get yourself badly injured, remember you have no armour and are thus exposed. The enemies are fast and strong but with your enhanced body I am sure you can deal with them, no?)

Tancred: You have now marched from the bridge, Bolter shouldered and at the ready. The spacious upper decks are swathed in a blanket of bustling Legion Serfs who move as you march forth, parting like the crimson sea of Terran legend. After a short time you come to a freight elevator which penetrates the spine of the ship like a needle, the doors are cast open and below you can see liquid flames twisting and turning, crackling as rounds pop off. Suddenly the Grace rocks and you are sent forth, into the shaft. 

Luckily however you get snagged on a jagged piece of metal, your pauldron catching it hard. It yanks you and stops your tumble abruptly. A nearby doorway is open and you throw yourself there, managing to somehow keep a grip on your Bolter. As soon as you land, a torrent of flames rush over your lower body and begin to move upwards. Throwing yourself from the torrent, you cock your Bolter and realise what was attacking you. Some eight men, all tall and bearded, each carrying flame gushing weapons. 

(Kill them, their incendiaries are mostly waded off by your armour although each is armed with…Chainswords, or at least what you can only describe them as. Will you attempt to link up with the remainder of the Astartes after this? Or do you think you should head back to the bridge as protection towards the crew?)

Gardax Fargryn: You have no time to don your armour and instead take your weapons and march into the hallway. A member of Squad Rudolph moves past, a powerful Heavy-Bolter held in both of his hands. He doesn’t speak and soon disappears from view, twisting a corner. You follow where he had took off too, and come to a flight of stairs leading upwards and downwards. Which do you pick? Up would take you towards the barracks, but downwards is where the main Serf force is housed. Both will lead you into enemy patrols. 

(Decide where to go and head there, feel free to have a skirmish if you like, nothing major though.)

Reinhard Thates: The sound of warning klaxons causes you and Rudolph to move off, the Sergeant draws his Bolt Pistol and checks that it is loaded as you head along the gunnery decks. One weapon, the only one of which is crewed at the moment fires and you are deafened for a short few moments. That ceases but a horrible humming is left, Rudolph however seems undaunted as a great cloud of smoke charges towards you. Closing your mouth and eyes as it washes over you, Rudolph is lost in the haze.

You hear the harsh retort of a Bolt Pistol. Seven times it booms, and screaming sounds. Not one screaming, but rather the chaos of a charge. Thousands can fit on these decks and your hearts suddenly pump harder. From the smoke one scantly clad raider leaps, his sword raised above his head for a killing blow. You punch out and claim his weapons, beheading him first however. A slash cuts your cheek, and you spin to find nothingness. 

(Keep yourself alive, there are filtering shapes in the shadows. Do you look for Rudolph? He is far more capable than you in combat, but he is as lost as you, if you come running from the shadows there are chances that he may open fire.)

Loki: The lights dim suddenly and there is a rocking, a violent rocking. Your Brother is nearly tossed from his bed, but you manage to grip him and leave him in the attendance of the Servitors nearby. You turn and charge towards the entrance but as you do so a sudden wetness on your chest wells up. You look down at a long laceration which seeps blood, dripping it downwards like fatty ichor. The flesh melds together and heals, and you spin towards the side in search of a target. Standing there, is a half dead raider. His left side is crisped and leaking fluids, but yet he still challenges you growling like a rabid hound. He leaps uncannily forwards, firing. Rounds hit you in several places although nothing major, and they simply fall away. 

(Not much of a update I am afraid, but you know what to do…)

Eckart Dieter, Julian Dresdner, Hans Schetic and Adalwin Meinrad: You four are currently in the hanger having been deployed there earlier on as a guard unit. Smoke and flame coils around your legs, and a crashed oblongata vehicle lays before you, spewing out that which is now hampering your vision. Helms are locked into place and Bolters shouldered. A giant groaning sounds and the entire flank of the vehicle clambers open, revealing several ranks of raiders each armed with an array of weaponry. You open fire instinctively but are forced into cover by the sheer amount of enemy fire. 

A roar sounds suddenly and you all turn, to face Sergeant Lothar. He charges forwards with his Chainsword in both hands, and leaps as he reaches the advancing enemy lines. Several are downed instantly as they are cut from shoulder-to-hip, rich arterial spray coating your Sergeant’s unadorned armour. His face, devoid of his helm, is curled into a wide snarl as blades lash out. For a moment you simply stare in awe before realizing that it is you who need to help. Charging, Chainswords are drawn and Bolters are cocked.

(Kill them, there is plenty of them for each of you to have. Sorry its not the best update, I wanted you to get into the combat, too see how you each handle it, as two of you I have not seen in an RP before, and Masked Jackal, I cannot say I have seen you play a combat situation.)


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## Baron Spikey (Mar 26, 2008)

*Adalwin Meinrad*

'_Da-doom, da-doom_' 

Each foot step of Adalwin's armour-shod feet echoes like the tread of a titan in his ears, the accompanying cacophany of the other three brothers overlapping and merging till all he can focus on is the pounding drum beat of war that underscores the screams and roars of the hangar turned hellish battlescape.

Lost in the reverie of looming combat Adalwin doesn't register the numerous richoets spinning from his carapace until one particularly forceful shot glancingly kisses the temple of his helm, even with all the training and power of an Astartes Meinrad is spun from his feet landing with a clatter of bruising volume. Before the echo of the collision has begun to fade the young warrior is up on one knee, bolter at his shoulder, with the curious '_krk-thss-boom_' of his bolt gun firing he sweeps his weapon in a tight arc to clear a path between the Sgt and his brethren.

A head bursts like a ripe grapefruit, a torso becomes a blackened husk as it's organs are blown out one side, a bolt fails to detonate and propels the mutated human raider twenty-feet into a bulkhead rending his bones to shards with the impact. All these actions take place within a heartbeat of each other, but to the Death Guard they appear as distinct events slowed by the burn of combat stimms so that each resembles a separate beautiful dance with mortality.

Clamping his bolter to his thigh Adalwin rises and charges all in one smooth motion, unholstering his pistol with one hand he revs the chainsword with the other so it sounds like an unholy dirge of the damned.
With a rictus smile hidden by his blunt and brutal helmet the Astartes barrels into the ranks of the raiders, not slowing for a moment but shouldering, and punching his way through like a demented minotaur of myth. Esconced deep in the mortal scum's numbers he begins to indiscriminately pull the trigger of his heavy pistol sending an opponent to the decking with each clench of his finger, a sweep of his howling sword sending entrails fleeing from their viscerated hosts and limbs thudding to the floor to be turned to jelly by his punishing foot-falls.

But even an Astartes isn't a god, a fact that has seemingly escaped the inexperienced warrior, and the raiders closest prepare to alert him to this deadly fact, throwing themselves on his weapons in order for their brethren to pull their aggressor down. Under a swamp of hissing combatants Adalwin disappears lashing out with boot and gauntlet, chainsword ripped from his purchase by misfortune, tale to be cut short without aid.


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## Theren (May 25, 2010)

*Gardax Fargryn*

Gardax rounded the Corner, coming into the stairwell like a raging spirit.

Choosing up rather than down, hoping more are headed to the armoury, he thumps his way up the stairwell. Distantly, his Astartes mind is listening, _thunk...thunk...thunk..._ happily he ripped his Chainsword from his belt, the noises above him of something not Marine coming down the same Stairs as him.

He rounded the corner into one of the attackers, a lighting elbow crunching the things helm into scrap as he hammer fisted the thing on the shoulder, feeling bones snap and skin shear under the brutal onslaught of an Astartes fist. The second of the things raised it's strange rifle and fired a trio of shots, two of them embedding withing the think Ceramite and plasteel of Fargryn's leg armour.

Thumbing his blade to life, he lept as his assailant. the whining blade catching and tearing through the plates of armour, into flesh and bone. such was the feeling the Fargryn felt he ripped the blade upwards untill the Humanoids head exploded in gristled gore. the third one also raised its weapon, but a whining Chainsword met its legs and hacked both off in a clean sweep. Rather than listen to the thing mewl and cry, he brought up his boot and with a dim _"grnsh"_ shattered the things head and helmet into the ripped decking. looking down, a ragged bard hangs loosely from the flesh of his arm, a spatter from the third round that exploded agains the wall. Leaving it for the Apothecary he tramped on. Feeling on high, the marine took the stairs two at a time, heading steadily toward the armoury.


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## Masked Jackal (Dec 16, 2009)

The dull thumping of Julian's armored boots stopped as the attack began, the reverberations of the enemy's shots shaking the hangars, and destroying an oblongata vehicle in front of him and the other guards. "Under attack." It wasn't a question, but a simple statement, not even necessary. He shouldered his bolter, ready for action. It didn't take long for it to come.

Boarding parties, raiders along the flank. Julian raised his bolter and began opening fire, before their own massed return fire created a chorus of pinging and a loud, audible crack. As he slammed himself behind some cover he realized it was just the trim of his shoulder-pad, a mere glancing hit, but it could easily have been his head.

More cautiously now, he reached around the flaming piece of wreckage to fire at them again, presenting a much less obvious target. This fire didn't last long before a roar echoed. Julian turned fractionally, enough to see the Sergeant charge by, chainsword and bolter in-hand. Quickly, Julian slammed the bolter into place on his armor, then grabbed his pistol and chainsword in each hand. By the time he and the others waded in, The Sergeant had already killed several of the enemies, weak as they were. 

His field of vision seemed to narrow, excluding the other members of his patrol as he madly fought to kill the enemies before they overwhelmed him, at first going for killing blows, but now just disabling them in the quickest way possible. Purely by accident, Julian's fight and Adalwin's overlapped, Julian taking some of the pressure from Adalwin at the cost of being almost overwhelmed. If the enemy didn't run out of bodies soon, they just might win. Vaguely, Julian's tactical mind remembered something. *Hold, it's all you can do until help arrives.* Gritting his teeth, he renewed his efforts, even as the bolt pistol's clip ran out, and he began using it as a mere club, having no time to reload.


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## Lord of the Night (Nov 18, 2009)

A massive shudder disturbed Audamar's work. 'Omnissiah's cogs!, whats going on!,' he cursed as his fingers retracted into their inactive forms. Picking himself up he marched out of the vehicle depot into the corridors, it seemed strangely quiet and deserted. Coming out into a storage section bathed in glowing red light from the emergency klaxons Audamar looked around and quickly became annoyed by the noise. 'Ship, cancel klaxons. Override Techmarine Audamar Hailwic, serial code 082/475AZ,' he imputted in binary. 

The whining noise died down and Audamar marched further into the room. Something stirred in the light, a legion serf crawling about. 'Serf, what is going on here?,' Audamar barked, his monotone voice coming out a bit quicker then normal. As he approached the Serf a dozen figures leapt out and hacked the young servant to death, hooks tearing into his flesh. Audamar cursed but he could do nothing, another raider stumbled past him unaware of the Techmarine's presence, even as Audamar reached and snapped his neck.

Grabbing the raider's spear Audamar spun it in his hands, switching his grip to test the weapon. It would suffice. 'For Terra and Mortarion!,' he yelled, his voice as monotonous as ever, as he charged forward and struck out, punching right through a raider's head, splashing the crates around them with blood and brain matter. Coming out of the shadow the raiders turned to see Audamar standing with a bloodied spear, his mask's green eyes glowing menacingly. 'Welcome to the _Emperor's Grace_, know that you have made a very grave mistake this day. And enjoy your final moments before I end you in the Emperor's name,' Audamar intoned. A raider leapt forward, before he could even raise his hooks Audamar spun the spear out and slit the raider's throat open before turning it around and punching through his heart with the shaft.

'Run now, you wont get another chance vermin,' he threatened as he ripped the spear shaft from the dead raider. Two raiders panicked and ran for their miserable lives as another three rushed towards Audamar. Bringing the spear up it flashed out and impaled a raider through his throat, his head falling from his shoulders as Audamar yanked the spear out and grabbed the second raider, hauling him up into the air before crushing his neck with a contemptuous squeeze. These scum were weak and pathetic, unworthy to face an Astartes, let alone a bionically-enhanced Astartes like Audamar Hailwic. The third raider froze up in fear, mesmerized in horror by Audamar's blank visage. The mask, devoid of any features besides two bright glowing green eyes, made of a polished iron make were quite imposing. Audamar moved forward, his armour stained with blood from his kills, and as he passed the last raider a simple punch caved in the whelp's chest and ended his life.

Audamar paused, the quiet finally allowing him to calculate his options. This spear wouldn't last longer and the armoury was not far off, he could grab his artificer Bolt Pistols and be able to mount a defence. But if the enemy got to the engine room they could sabotage the Grace and cause a self-destruct sequence. Audamar then made his choice, the enemy couldn't be stupid enough to kill themselves by sabotaging the engines. Bringing the spear up the Techmarine ran down the corridor, his Astartes-physique increasing his speed, towards the armoury, once his weapons were back in his hands he would relish dispensing the wrath of the Death Guard against the filth that dared defile this hallowed machine.


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## Boc (Mar 19, 2010)

Eckart was frozen, completely still. Not with fear, for such a concept was alien to an Astartes, but with anticipation. This was his first taste of combat, _real_ combat, outside of the endless hours and years of training that he had endured before his ascension. His dual heartbeat hammered in his ears. Every sense was heightened, every minute detail clearly visible. He was truly alive.

Something creaked. Squinting towards the oblong vessel, flaming on the hangar deck, he could see no movement. _Foolish_, he thought, realizing that his grip was unconsciously tightening on his bolter’s handle. He forced himself to relax his fingers. Energy poured through him, his glands pumped stimulants and adrenaline through his system.

A tremendous groan shook the hanger as the vessel split its side, a massive maw opening up and disgorging rank upon rank of raiders. His bolter was already at his shoulder, already charged. Training took over as his mind immediately began calculating trajectories and vectors. His finger tightened on the firing stud and a hail of fire erupted from his bolter. The assembled Death Guard fired as one, the opening volley splitting apart the first wave of raiders. Bodies burst as bolter shells found weak points in their armour and blew their flesh apart. Great bouts of blood and gore erupted into the air, but still they came. Again and again his rounds found their marks, killing and maiming with each shot.

The return fire began as a trickle, raiders shooting from in between their comrades as they were torn to shreds by the unrelenting salvoes of bolter fire. Inexperienced in actual combat, the Astartes’ bolters began to fall silent as their magazines were expended. Eckart knelt behind a metal storage box to reload. This gave the raiders the opening they needed. The front rank knelt down, while those behind them levelled their weapons. A hellish volley erupted, spraying the four Death Guard with an incredible volume of fire.

Solid shot and energy scorched and ricocheted from his makeshift cover. There was nothing he could do; to stand and take a shot would be suicide. As a warrior, a _true_ Astartes, he did not fear death. But to die without a clear purpose, without accomplishment, that was inexcusable. He would defend the hangar, and push these bastardous scum back into the void.

His frustration grew as the strategic hopelessness of the situation dawned on him. He would stay in cover until the enemy reached his position, then engage them from close range. As long as he hugged the wall, his confines would limit them as much as they would him. He drew his chainsword, revving its powerful engine to life with a roar.

Someone bellowed, cutting through the hail of gunfire. Risking a look over the crate, he witnessed something both beautiful and terrible to behold. Sergeant Lorthar leapt into the enemy lines, cutting through them like a man possessed, like an ancient hero from the legends of Barbusa. Eckart could do nothing but watch for a moment, transfixed by the ferocity and heroism of the attack. His power, his prowess, both were what it meant to be _truly_ a Death Guard.

Anger poured through him. Indignation at having his _ship_ boarded and violated, at the raiders for [d]daring[/i] to attack them, fuelled him.

“For Mortarion! For the Emperor!” He stood and charged, firing his bolter blindly into the horde of raiders. One, two, three steps and he closed the gap, coming to his sergeant’s aid and seeing his brothers do the same.

Tucking his bolter into his chest, he barrelled into one of the massive raiders. The impact reverberated through his body, and the man flew back, his gleaming armour dented and his organs pulverised. Eckart swung wildly, the whirling teeth of his chainsword chewing through his enemies as though they wore paper. The raiders swarmed around him, a seemingly endless mass of flesh and armour and hate. Each thrust and hack of his chainsword impacted, severing limbs in spurting gouts of blood.

To his left, Adalwin was overwhelmed by a score of raiders, powering the warrior to the ground by their sheer power of mass. He noticed Julian inching towards their brother, struggling to overcome his own foes.

With a final lateral sweep of his chainsword, Eckart cleared his immediate area of any threat. Bodies lay shattered and broken around him, the blood pooling on the deck as wounded men still pumped their life onto the cool metal floor. He saw his chance to aid his brother, to alleviate the pressure on him.

Lowering his shoulder with a cry of rage, Eckart charged again. So intent were the raiders on Adalwin’s demise, they failed to notice the threat coming from behind them. Eckart’s furious charge impacted with the force of a land raider, tossing the raiders into the air.


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## Lord Ramo (Apr 12, 2009)

Warning klaxons blared into life and Conrad felt the deck underneath him as the ship was hit at least three times. Boaders. He and Heydrich exchanged a glance before Heydrich leapt to his feet. Conrad could hear gunfire in the corrider and knew that the fight had just begun. Conrad leapt to his feet as he heard someone say, "Hold the xeno back!" and he reached for a weapon, anything. Heydrich chucked Conrad his combat blade who took it with a nod. Conrad and Heydrich charged out of the mess room to be greeted by a dead Astartes on the floor. Heydrich reached down and retrieved the fallens chainsword whilst Conrad, muterring a prayer to the Emperor took his bolter. He ejected the magazine and saw that it held around ten rounds. Not enough for Conrads liking but he would prevail none the less.

Conrad felt a ripple pass through his fatigues and saw Heydrich firing at something behind him. Conrad remembered his training and rolled to the left and turned bringing the bolter to bear. Whatever it was it had hidden from view and Conrad felt a surge of adreniline as he and Heydrich charged round the corner. Heydrich met an alien head on and cut it down but recieved a wound of his own spinning into Conrad, blood gurgling as he laughed. Conrad now knew that his objective was to get his fellow astartes to safety. He also needed a proper gun so he decided to move Heydrich to the medicae. It would be well defended by his fellow brothers and he may be able to get a better weapon.

He draped Heydrich over his shoulder and backed down the corridor firing single shots at the oncoming xeno. He downed one with a headshot, awe struck as its head exploded outwards in a smear of blood and gore. The second took two shots from the bolter the first round blowing a limb off before the second tore through its heart. The third xeno returned fire on Conrad and he was forced to duck around the corner. He sat Heydrich down and kneeling, burst from cover. He drew a bead on the alien holding some form of rifle and opened fire taking it head clean from its shoulder. Grinning he emptied the rest of his magazine into the remaining 12 taking another 3 lifes and handicapping two. He threw the empty bolter to one side and rushed to pick Heydrich up before making a break for the armour, ready to turn and engange the other nine in close combat.

He pushed Heydrich down a doorway, "Stay here brother, if we can get to the medicae facility you will be fine brother. I will deal with these filthy xeno." He grabbed the chainsword off Heydrich, who would not need it at the moment and turned to face the xeno. They were advancing slowly towards him eyes weary as if they suspected something. Conrad didn't give them a moment to think and yelled "FOR THE EMPEROR AND THE DEATH GUARD! FOR MORTARION!" He charged into action, throwing the combat blade back to Heydrich. He may need it. Conrad met the first alien head on ducking under its attack he stabbed his chainsword upwards. It moved so fast that Conrad could barely keep up and he missed it. It dived on top of him and Conrad wrestled to get the chainsword free of its powerful grip. He quickly kicked it before following through, hacking it in two. Only eight left now he thought to himself, standing with a snarl on his lips, challenging them to attack.


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

THE WARNING KLAXONS confirmed that the ship was under attack with three loud booms, and instantly the marine by Vyze dashed forward to meet the invaders. Before Vyze could join him in battle however, a loud shudder threw Vyze off his feet and hurtling across the floor. In the distance, half a dozen remembrancers and their children came scampering towards him, terrifed and, Vyze guessed that they were being followed. 

Before Vyze could reach the humans, one staggered to the floor, a loud scream echoed from a little girl's lips as the old woman hit the ground with a loud clunk, revealling a dagger in her back. The next, a brown-haired man in his twenties stumbled, and was decapitated, blood hitting the three children that were there, as one man turned around to buy time.

No Time was brought, as before the aspiring hero could even turn around, he was brought down by several bullets from a crude rifle. It couldn't match the Astartes Bolters, but none of them were present and it could still kill a marine without power armour. The Black Armour of the attacker reminded Vyze of the Raven Guard and their scouts, as Vyze had took part in a campaign with them back on his first mission as an Astartes. Indeed, he was lucky enough to spot their Primarch, the tall and majestic Corax. 

However, unless Vyze ended the threat of this attacker, he would never see any other Primarch again, nor his brothers. He would die alone, protecting three children from prey. The children were now hiding behind the chair that Vyze had abanonded upon battle, crying. Vyze vowed that he would not see them dead whilst this invasion commenced. Anger filled up inside the Astartes as he yelled, "For the God-Emperor, and the Primarch Mortarion!" 

The Attacker readied his bat as Vyze charged, hitting the Space Marine in the head, sending his jaws flying to the floor and his body hitting the ground, blood gushing through his ears. Before the attacker could land a killing blow, the Astartes lashed out with his foot and struck home, sending him into the wall.

The Space Marine clambered to his feet and punched the attacker in the face as he charged forward, the voices of the children crying echoing in their ears. They watched Vyze kick the attacker again, this time in the bare armour beneath his leg. The Attacker beneath the ferocity of Vyze's attack, and dropped the dagger. 

That was all that Vyze needed, for he caught the dagger in its grip, and plunged it into the attacker before he could recover from his mistake, which had proved to be fatal. Sounds of Bolter fire could be heard from around the corner. Vyze longed to join his brothers in battle, but he had to lead these children to safety and find his beloved Chainsword and Bolter. 

The Children screamed, tears dripping from their eyes, but now some of it was in relief as their attacker had been slain. "Mama?" asked the only girl. She looked about five. 

"Your mother has fallen," Vyze reluctantly confirmed the girl's worse fears. "But more xenos are on their way. We must hurry if we are to get you to safety. Follow me."

"M...more?" asked a black haired boy, pushing his glasses up to his eyes. "You.. can beat them, can't you?"

"Not without weaponary," cursed Vyze, and lead the children up away from the battle, which he longed to be taken part of. Had there been another human with him, he would have asked them to take the children, but they didn't yet know the layout of the ship and might wander back to the battle or get lost in other parts of the ship.


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## deathbringer (Feb 19, 2009)

One moment, your standing, whistling quietly inside your helm, thinking about pixies, a terrific crash and your on the ground bullets ripping over your head, boiling supersonic metal coiling towards you like the fangs of a snake, desperate to tear the life from your body leaving the soulless sell of a corpse and a mothers tears spilling over the ground.

Nobody would shed tears over Hans's body, it would be disposed of, the precious geneseed removed the corpse jettisoned without a second thought, the boy that caught a round in his first encounter, hushed murmurs of poor sod before the aforementioned slipped easily from there mind.

____________________________________________________________

The thoughts flittered through his mind as he paced gently with 4 other members of Squad lorthar and he gripped his bolter tight, eyes flittering around the hanger as warning claxons burst into life. Screaming, waling howls, interjected by intercoms buzzing as they shrieked of an incoming menace.

"Boarding torpedos"

Hans's helm was already clicked into place yet his squad mates moved, there own helms fixing with the low hiss of air tight seals their heads twitching slightly in a chunky unnatural fashion as they attempt to hold the whole hanger in there view.

Hans moved, moved towards the form of vehicle or some sort of cover as smoke rose, coiling in grey spirals mingled with black plumes of ash, underlined by the dancing flickers of flames, orange yellow and white mingling as they rose, feeding on the dabs of oil and petroleum that lay upon the hanger floor. They licked at him yet he felt nothing, his eyes peering at a strange, shape, foreign and unnatural amongst the reems of smoke that poured around it. The bolter in his hands raised and he locked his arms, ready for the recoil as his fingers tightened around the trigger, switching carefully to full auto.

There was a tired groan, the protesting squeal of metal on metal, hinges howling in protest as the odd oblong opened in a gaping blackened maw and chaos poured into the hanger

Hans was firing , his bolter bucking as he sent shell after shell into the mass of weapons, limbs and sinewous muscle that poured towards him and he saw his shells rake across the front line into the densely packed mass, before weapons raised and he felt rounds ping off his armour, one causing him to stagger as it ricocheted off his armour with a sonorous crack of ceramite. An icon in the top left of his helm turned yellow and a small alarm blared and he ducked behind the vehicle.

His hands reloaded, though he paid them no heed his mind frozen by the roar of weapons, the screams of someone wounded, someone else lost in the heat of battle, alien words, words he knew not, nor cared to no, there blood curdling howls of rage and ecstacy already memories, building in magnitude, imprinted already a magnified echo upon his subconcious. They seemed to replay in his mind for a life time as a new clip slid into place.

He was ready, primed, his breath hard and fast, anticipation seeped through him and he ducked outwards. The bolter bucked once in his hand, a blind shot, though he thought, more like prayed, but still was almost certain he heard a small scream of anguish before a round clipped his shoulder with such force he was spun, his armoured foot tracing a path through the flames as he spun, toppling to the ground, falling with a clatter that rung throughout the hall. Smoke and flames danced around his prostrate form his bolter skittering across the ground as the impact tossed it aside.

A guttural roar, announced a new arrival and Hans turned his eyes fixing upon the tremendous form of sergeant Lorthar, his face a smear of destruction almost too gruesome to behold, the valiant warrior barrelled past them and into the enemy beyond. Slow to rise, Hans scooped up his bolter holstering it carefully he withdrew bolt pistol and chainsword. The sword long, gnarled fangs whirring into life as he thumbed the activation rune sprinting forwards, speed carrying him into the enemy. He was the last to arrive, though small and quick he had been slowest to respond to the sergeants charge and he found him cutting a swathe through the raiders, fresh blood spattered over his armour, a red stain upon his breast as he hacked left and right

Two of his brothers fought together, Aldawin aided by Eckhart. A third brother fought nearby, struggling to overcome his foes and reach the prostrate figure upon the floor, who lashed out flailing like a fallen rabbit, back twisting desperate and legs flailing as it struggled to rise, hampered by the sheer mass of raiders around him.

It was the brother alone he chose to lend his strength to, together they would make more progress and Eckhart seemed to be effective to say the least tossing raiders right and left as he burrowed towards his fallen brother, desperate to pull him to his feet once more.

The pistol in his hand was compact and he pushed forward, sprinting towards the enemy, he forced his legs to work harder, kicking forward with a spurt of speed, his small wirey frame carried easily towards his struggling brethren he saw a gap as Julian clubbed a brother to the floor with the butt of his bolt pistol and Hans stole into the gap, using his momentum he drove the growling chainsword lance like, through the first raiders midriff, he held on tight as the corpse toppled backwards, firing his pistol into the melee pointblank rage into another raiders stomach.

He seemed to stay up, eyes confused by the sudden agony of the explosive shell that caused a disguisting mass of organs to spill from his stomach, He gave a growling howl of agony before dropping lifeless to the ground.

A second pistol round and a third were shot blindly into the raiders around him giving him a little respite thought the mass pressed forward, trampling over there lifeless comrades and he hollored out blindly through the vox

"Reload or draw your sword brother, we must cut through them quickly if we are to aid our brother or our sergeant"

A terse growl of exertion followed as he tore his chainsword from the corpse and raised it in his left, the pistol still barking in his right. He was ready to defend his brother, to give him time, the time to draw his sword and join him in combat once more.


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## Deus Mortis (Jun 20, 2009)

Traugott was sparring with Liko. The whelp from the rival tribe couldn't beat him in close combat training, he never could. His attack were always a bit too slow, and his counters would break under pressure in the right places. He had much to learn. Well, even Traugott knew that he and all the other recruits had much to learn, but too betray that to his rival was to entice Loki to exploit his weakness. So he merely continued, getting lazy and merely blocking and letting Loki get frustrated with his inability to land a blow on Traugott. Unfortunately, complacency lead to laziness, and laziness lead to weakness, and Traugott was about to learn that, painfully. A simple side slash which Traugott blocked easily, but didn't force it away. The pommel slide easily up his arm and into his relaxed face which crumpled under the strain. His head shot back, and the recoil was the last strain that sent him spiralling into unconsciousness. His body fell to the floor and brought up a small cloud of dust from the sandy floor. Loki stood over him in exhilaration at having beaten him, but his heart felt a mild pang of guilt at having demolished his face and waited for medical attention. Of course, Traugott was unaware of this and instead was flung through his memories and landed in a signature one. Hard.

He was thrust abruptly back into the forest on Barberrus, in a tournament organised by the rival families. The task was simple in nature...kill the Wulfen. Simple in nature, hard to execute. The beast had evaded them for many hours now, him and Loki had both split up to track their quarry differently, but neither had any luck. The shadows danced around the trees, and the leaves rustled of a hymn of promise and power, and sweet revenge against a rival clan. There was a soft pitter-patter against the ground behind him, and his spun around on the balls of his heel. What he saw couldn't have possibly matched and fantasy or nightmere of his. It was far beyond it. Whatever this beast was, it clearly was only a shadow of it's former self. His skin was bubbling with volatile pustules, and its maw dripped with corrosive acid mixed with some form of deadly venom. Even the stench of its rotting flesh was a violent assault on his nostrils. Traugott eyes drained of colour and spoke of pure terror. This..._thing_ they had been sent to hunt was the living embodiment of death. And how was one supposed to kill death itself. Emotions Traugott weren't even sure existed stirred, fantasies and terrors reared their ugly heads in tangent with the terror that stood before him. The thing looked incapable of speech, and yet vile words tumbled forth from his lips. *"So young, and so very afraid of death. You may yet prove to be a fine specimen for Grandfather Nurgle."* And then something that could have been akined to a laugh spilled forth and then the thing bounded out, for reasons reasons unknown to anyone but itself. Traugott merely stood there in sheer shock, baffled and dismayed by what had just taken place. He had seen many brave and noble warriors march forth and go to war, but at this moment, he was convinced that even if all the warriors of Barberrus were united and waged war against this beast, they would fail. It had remained a blight for this long for this reason, it was immortal, death incarnate. And this Grandfather Nurgle, what was it. Some sort of Hive Queen, or Hive King. If it was, and there was a hive of these creatures, there was no hope. If one of these things was immortal, nothing could stop a hoard of them. Suddenly, Traugott was running, in the opposite direction to the beast, and a vague form of light that there was on Barberrus spilled onto the floor...

...And as Traugott was flown from the hospital bed, the synthetic light spilled into his undiluted pupils. They recoiled in shock, and his limbs refused to move. An invisible hand pulled him back, and Traugott recognised the face of Loki. Something was happening, and Traugott still couldn't move. Loki darted out of the room and left him in the 'hands' of the servitors. His face hurt, and he could almost feel the lines of fractures which had been repaired. "My pistol" Traugott gargled. The servitor looked blankly at him, and his numb limbs fumbled for his pistol which lay on the table. His legs still refused to work properly, so he merely used his waist strength to fling his legs off the side of the bed, and levelled his pistol at the door, ready to fire at any intruder, whilst the servitors still tried to repair him and bring him round fully to consciousness...


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## bobss (May 18, 2008)

_I... perhaps he stands upon the stoic bedrock of truth, traversing anxiously that which I am to blind too see... Perhaps the Emperor binds his words with reverence and plunges my own into the chasm of self-doubt? I... have much to learn from my brother Astartes; Tomes of insight and gruff whit to divulge my learning towards, and slay the demon of loathing with that of a righteous lance? Nay, for I am lost amongst the maelstrom of my mind, forever dragged in a multitude of varying directions, torn ragged throughout the equinox of my skull. Each slavering for my throbbing soul from needline maws and gelatinous barbs, each deigned to flense my alabaster flesh and run purplish tongue`s of joy across tormented body, their tortures slaughterous, glorious to their agonising perfection-_

''My Lord?” Quivered Samuel abruptly to much whimperish concern. His presence rank with the pungent tang of fear, his form drowned in nervousness. _Weak... but human. Astartes must never defy that which we were born to achieve _ ''... My liege, you seemed lost... within some stupor... You bequeathed your anxiety to me, your mind is contorted by feotid thoughts?'' he offers. No, more aptly - begs. Balvarn strode across the rest of the Spartan room, his plush tabard of ash-flecked cream billowing unseen to hidden, recycled zephyrs. 

_I now breath that same air as my fellow Death Guard did... Have done for centuries... From Holy Terra to the oasis of Ullanor. Across a myriad of corpse-drowned battles and plethora of feotid Xenos. The harbinger of such orbital damnation and fiery ruin... My life is yet degraded, dehumanized to that of a lowborn serf, if not a rotting servitor of penal-ascent upon this damnable ship..._ 

The hulking Astartes swept his cloth across a heavily muscled frame, to place himself --still prostrate-- upon a sparse, bare-iron chair. Somewhat relaxed, and content upon this riveted throne of simplistic origin, Balvarn adhered to the Remembrancer`s pressing concern`s, his distraught and worry yet a lapping tide to the Space Marine`s unbreakable granite cliff. '' I have found myself, many a time, perturbed by... visions... of false-truth and heretical values. Perhaps my ammonia-rich blood sings to wildly, and I lust for the red-mist of battle and the clamour of deaths vengeance too much...'' he offered solemnly, his tone balanced, yet unyielding as he stretched an arm: Biceps like admantine spheres, torquered by snaking cables of flexi-steel and bound by solid pauldrons of ceramite-like bone. A glorious triumph to the Emperor; a credit to the Biologis section of the Marsian Mechanicum. 

Suddenly, amongst a cacophonous roar of meter-thick deck plates absorbing some external-force of colossal magnitude, Balvarn was hurled from his chair; former ponder and exertion of philosophical thought wrenched asunder by an internal wave of neuron-enhancing drugs and blood-stimuli, hormone rich fluids bolstering his reserve organs, and propelling his Astartes heart into a deep, resounding chant. He was battle ready. He was Astartes. Born for battle and bred for slaughter, trained to hone such and unleashed to deliver his mandate, through curtains of blood and shells. He was Death-Guard. 

Nanos-gyrostabbalisers locked deep within his ceramite boots and fed through a throng of power-oozing wires from equally scarred and dulled greaves, withstood the immense buffeting of the ship. A violent screech of tortured metal hung about the air as a raucous chorus of blissful agony, flensing his biological hearing, and eating deep into his bionic systems. 

Samuel, either by mystical-fate or sheer luck, remained standing, his robe torn and wetted by the bitter musk of urine, his face bludgeoned by self-guilt. A final groan of metallic death emitted across the somber mood, slamming sideways into the deck with barely contained force. The Remembrancer yelped in a howl of bestial cowardice, his puny voice trembling like Xenos put to the sword or flaming brand. Balvarn roared, lunging for the Remembrancer with all his guile and psycho-induced training. Alas, he was too late, for no augmentation to the flesh, nor doctrine to the mind could enhance and better him to perform such a menial task; Samuel sloshed to the grilled floor in a tumbling ball of robbed flesh and failing arms, blood spattered out in a meager storm of scarlet droplets. 

Scrabbling from his dishevelment, the human rose with all the dignity his urine-soaked, bloodied and ashamed mind could yet muster still. The Astartes great paw rested across his trembling shoulder, his grief-raked figure so obvious to the eye. Tensing calloused fingers yet gentler, the man`s self-wrought disdain flushed away, as had his bowel’s noisesome moments before. Kindness now the spark between Balvarn`s eyes, he pleaded with mere glints of these flint-jewels to bid Samuel to walk towards the door. 

''Samuel,'' the gruff voice boomed, yet not with an malice or distaste, ‘We must reach the deck`s medi-bays. If they are full I will entreat you to the Apothecaries of my company...'' the wearied man nodded in futile acknowledgement, guided down Spartan corridors of steadfast iron and brazen lamps of chlorine-like light. 

Aghast from the caldera of shadows and the abyssal depths of utter blackness sprang a throng of burley men. Wielding simple blades of iron - no doubt rife with molecular impurities, they advanced, half-crouched, teeth bared into wolf-like snarls. Yet more slithered from their darkened pits to bear simple autopistols. Their gunmetal barrels pregnant with heavy slugs braced within oiled chambers - high caliber rounds destined for naught but his diamond-hard flesh. 

''Remembrancer... back to my quarters...'', I offer, my voice commanding yet subtle. He heeds no warning of such, instead rooted to the greenish-grey ground by tendrils of fear and sorrowful despair. Even the hulking, statue of an Astartes, a saint brought to biological life, between he and these murderous thugs, bestows little faith to his bleeding soul. ''Samuel get yourself back to my chamber! Now!'' roared the Astartes, blinking away his discomfort and charging the clustered ruffians.

''Lo, foolish curs, you come to my door to grovel for your deliverance to the Emperor? You wish my blade to sign your death-warrants and condemn your worthless lives to a dirtied end upon my hands? I expect you know of such, for you all know of me and shadow my door, and yet you will gaze upon your bringer of death, scythe-in-hand!'', he bellows, lunging from a thundering sprint after his pious pledge of zealous-born fury. Several bawked at this, their punitive knives dropped to clatter against brazen bulwarks and iron meshing. A handful remain, their leader rooted through his defiance, firing of great slugs with momentary bangs and the sluggish chug of more rounds slotting into their grimy chambers. A stray slug chafed his shoulder, digging out a furrow of flesh and forging a thin groove upon arm, only to well with rich, filmy blood. A second, no! A third slammed home into dense musculature upon his sweat-bathed torso. 

The man`s Autopistol kicked its final chug, and fell silent. Their wielders overcome by a sense of utter helpless fear. He fell to his knees, as Balvarn crashed into this flimsy wall of flesh, tearing limbs apart with his strength, gouging out eyes with meaty fingers and crushing rib-cages to his massive fists.

''My... friends. You do not believe you may tame a son of Mortarion so easily? A fool... even in death... fools...'', he spat humorously, barking back a retort of laughter.


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## heartslayer (Oct 17, 2009)

As the ship rocked Violently Loki just Barely caught Traugott in time to stop him flying off his bed, Loki ran towards the door in his unarmed state, knowing he needed to get to the armoury as he stepped out of the door something Lascerated his bare chest, a minor wound which sealed up swiftly, he turned left, nothing, he turned to his right to see what was left of a raider, somehow still standing with his torso blown in half, and he was Growling at Loki in challenge, the raider leaped at Loki, firing into Lokis bared shoulder and chest, as the Raider landed in front of him Loki grabbed the Raiders remaining arm and snapped the wrist of it clean in two at the hand leaving the raider weaponless and totally inable to fight, but the Raider pressed on, he was fast, but Loki was faster, and moved behind the raider placing one hand on either side of its head and twisting it at such a pace the Raiders head came clean off in Lokis hands, he tossed it aside and started making his way to the armoury


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## Flerden (Aug 17, 2008)

Reinahrd was talking with Rudolph when he heard the warning klaxon's. Reinhard saw Rudolph get his bolt pistol from it's holster and decided to do the same thing, but when he brought his hand to where he usually keeps it, he cursed at his stupidity, he was not wearing any armour or weapons.
Reinhard was about tell Rudolph about his problem when the nearst gun fired. Thanks to standing so close to it, Reinhard got deafened by the noise. As soon as Reinahrd got his hearing back he noticed Rudolph had disappeared into a cloud of smoke that was getting closer.
Reinhard closed his eyes and mouth just before it reached him, when he opened his eyes again Rudolph was gone, and Reinhard heard seven shots. Reinhard then turned to see a raider wielding a sword. Reinhard hit the raider straight in the face and took his sword then beheaded him.
Suddenly Reinhard got a wound on his cheek, turning around as fast as he could he could still not see the raided who did it.
Only shadows in the smoke.

Rainhard quickly though of his alternatives, and deciding he did not want a bolt round in the head He started to walk slowly towards the direction he had come from.
Reinhard then saw another raider jump at him from the side, Reinhard quickly blocked the raiders sowrd and punched the raider in the stomach.
The raider backed away a bit and jumped at Reinhard again and trying the behead Reinhard, but suddenly found himself without a sword hand. The raider blinked a few times at
his arm, or the part that was left of it. Then he fell down dead with a big gaping wound on his chest.
Reinhard turned away and started to walk towards the exit again.


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

All: Your various own personnel duels has led you into the hanger, of which is now devoid of live, a pentagon of Astartes standing at the centre back to back. At the tip is Lothar, striking back and forth with curled fists, his sword dug into the ground. Your know the four Marines as members of your Squad, although each is now clad in rich sanguine, dripping from shoulder pauldrons and greaves. Lothar himself bears a injury along his forehead, which is now half sealed and raw looking. Around them are strewn corpses of the raiders, ripped and rent, leaking arterial spray across the ground. 

Only the final twitches and spasmodic movements of the dead alert you, and some of you decree it necessary to put a bolt through their forms. Squad Rudolph, lead by their Sergeant and dragging the injured behind them, appear a few metres away from another doorway, weapons held at the ready. You notice that his arm is pitted and leaking scarlet, and Reinhard comes to the conclusion it had been injured in such a way during the confusion on the gun deck. None of the injuries are ones of seriousness however.

The only one that would cause concern in fact is the ruptured throat of Heydrich, yet he still clambers on with his Squad, wet wheezing sounding where he moves. You gather towards the centre of the room and Lothar lifts up his arms, you can see the armour rustling gently as he shakes, adrenaline and other stimulants rife in his system. Rage glows red in his cheeks, his eyes burning with beads of perspiration and blood. Yet he does not show the pain clearly, bar the slow twitching of his lip, which appears to annoy him too some degree. 

‘We have been struck a terrible blow, Brothers’ he bellows loudly, aiming it at each present. You almost feel his voice wavering, and he flicks his left gauntlet, sending blood flinging from his ceramite clad fingers.

‘That we have, Lothar. Yet we sit on our arses, nursing wounds, when we are eager to return the blow’ retorts Rudolph, his caring voice twisted with malice. 

‘You are more than welcome to do so, Lomrak, I will not stop you killing yourself’ growls Lothar, and tension in the hanger suddenly grows to boiling point. Some of you ready weapons at this, and the gesture is returned by those of Squad Rudolph. 

‘Oh shut up you intolerable dogs’ suddenly blurts out from nearby, and five members of Squad Hauser march from the shadows, led by their apish leader. None wear their armour, but are adorned in silver chain mail cloaks and leather helms which obscure their faces down to the upper lip. Each has a Bolter pulled across their chest, although the rear guard also carries a Flamer handing at his hip. 

Lothar and Rudolph both quell their argument and spin towards Hauser, who erupts in a deep mirth. You all know of the reputation of Hauser as a rebel, as one who does not care for others. He is Highborn, a Terran aristocratic descendent of the Nord Afrik Colonies. His pink lips purse for a moment as his Squad pushes through you, like a arrow through skin you part, letting them pass. 

‘This is my command, Tristan. You will not tell me what to do, or I will put a Bolt in your skull personally’ barks Lothar, but Hauser simply flicks his wrist as if dismissing the comment. A Stormbird nearby illuminates you all with its search lights, and those without helms are forced to shield their eyes. Sergeant Tristan Hauser grins, revealing perfectly aligned teeth that have turned the colour of rust with blood. He had clearly taken a punch, although you cannot decipher how he is bleeding.

‘You don’t understand Lothar. I am not here for an argument, simply to gather up some Marines. I am going aboard their vessel. It is dying, Brother, but I intend to take the skull of their commander with my own blade before he is allowed a pyre. Now; who is with me?’ the majority of Squad Rudolph, bar Heydrich and a Marine named Remmel immediately move towards the idling Stormbird, looking over their shoulders at you. 

‘You undermining dog, ill have your eyes for this!’ roars Lothar and leaps forwards, however he is barred by the boorish Remmel, who grips him by the chin and tosses him back. You realise he is doing this for the safety of Lothar however, when the turrets of the Stormbird spin around to face your Squad. 

(How do you react? Do you want revenge, too take the fight to the heart of the enemy? If so, move onto the Stormbird, you will find the remainder of Squad Hauser (Bar one Marine who is in the cockpit) awaiting. If you do not, move off towards the side and speak amongst yourselves. Lothar is raging however, and Remmel is holding him in place with his huge fists. Sorry for the shit update guys, I want to get you making decisions related to the character however! Feel free to detail your time between your last posts and this, you have a free reach there.)


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## heartslayer (Oct 17, 2009)

Having retrieved his armour and weapons, Loki followed Squad Hauser onto the Stormbird, feeling this the ultimate way to prove that he was better than Traugott, his armour was stained red from the multitude of Rangers he had killed, He had a number of new scars on chest from the Rangers, he hoped to repay the favour, although no matter what Hauser said the enemy commanders head would be in Loki's hands at the end of this battle, he smiled at this thought. then turned to Sergeant Hauser, 'I would be honoured if you would allow to me to accompany your squad on this mission'


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

You don’t understand Lothar. I am not here for an argument, simply to gather up some Marines. I am going aboard their vessel. It is dying, Brother, but I intend to take the skull of their commander with my own blade before he is allowed a pyre. Now; who is with me?’ the majority of Squad Rudolph, bar Heydrich and a Marine named Remmel immediately move towards the idling Stormbird, looking over their shoulders at you. 

‘You undermining dog, ill have your eyes for this!’ roars Lothar and leaps forwards, however he is barred by the boorish Remmel, who grips him by the chin and tosses him back. You realise he is doing this for the safety of Lothar however, when the turrets of the Stormbird spin around to face your Squad.

++++

"I HAVE DECIDED to Remain with my Sergeant," announced Vyze after a few moments of silence. Lothar nodded in recgonition but the rest of his squad mates and those of Rudolph's paid no attention.

_'Why is Brother-Sergeant Lothar allowing us to be split up?'_ pondered Vyze in his thoughts, before his attention drifted to the marine on the left of him, whom he known was Loki. Loki had voluenteered to join the other Squad instead of remaining with his Sergeant. For all Vyze knew, it could be the last he saw of his brother. Across from him, various other Marines made their choices.


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## Lord Ramo (Apr 12, 2009)

Conrad and Heydrich managed to link up with astartes forces inside one of the big hanger bays. He felt relief at seeing so many of his fellow astartes and rushed Heydrich to oneside of the bay. Conrad felt tense as the two sergeants Lothar and Rudoplh argued about what they should do next. Conrad would support his sergeant and brought the chainsword to his waist, teeth slick with the blood of raiders. He looked over at Heydrich, the only brother who had seen him in real combat. Another sergeant joined in and told Lothar that he would be taking astartes to the crippled ship. Though Conrad longed to join them he saw how fuming Lothar was. He respected his sergeant too much to cause him anger and resentment. *"I will stay here and look after Heydrich, and obey my sergeant and superior." *He wanted to make sure that there were no problems on Heydrichs behalf.


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## deathbringer (Feb 19, 2009)

Hans's chest rose and fell as he sucked in air desperate to quell his aching muscles. His hearts pounded each muscular contraction reverberating in his chest cavity like the roar of a drum. The argument was fast, the hot headed sergeant's desire for vengeance causing him to disobey his superior. Hans had no such trouble, his loyalty lay with Lothar and if Lothar said it was suicide then hell it was suicide.

"My place is with my sergeant, I will remain here." he muttered moving slowly to stand behind sergeant .


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## Baron Spikey (Mar 26, 2008)

*Adalwin Meinrad*

Adalwin felt the bone deep ache of his contusions and lactic acid build up fade rapidly as his Astartes physiology performed it's wonders, an almost palatable wave of heat spread throughout his body. There were minor rents in his armour but nothing that threatened it's integrity or it's abilities to protect him if he was cast into the void so he ignored them for the moment as Sergeants argued...
----------------------------------------------------------------

_‘You undermining dog, ill have your eyes for this!’ roars Lothar and leaps forwards, however he is barred by the boorish Remmel, who grips him by the chin and tosses him back. You realise he is doing this for the safety of Lothar however, when the turrets of the Stormbird spin around to face your Squad._
----------------------------------------------------------------

Helmet tracking Loki as he disappeared inside the Stormbird Adalwin was otherwise motionless merely noting as one by one the squad began to splinter further with Hans, Conrad, and Vyze crossing to stand behind Lothar.

Without alerting anyone to his attentions Brother Meinrad took a single step forwards whilst striking his breatplate with a clenched fist creating a dull boom.

"_We are not Sons of Russ. We do not bicker_" his voice came hissing from the helm vox as he took another step, "_We are not Horus's get. We do not seek glory_" Adalwin took one last step angling himself to stand nearer Lothar "_We are Death Guard. We endure!_"

With a nod of his head towards the trimuvirate of brothers who had made the same choice the young Astartes turned is back on the Stormbird.


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## Flerden (Aug 17, 2008)

Reinhard listened in disbelief as his commanders bickered like child's. His choice was a fast one, why go die.
"I think we should just blast the raiders ship into the oblivion, and not care about any trophies, they are just in the way most of the time any way." Reinahrd said with a loud voice. And started to slowly walk away from the Strombird.
"And even if we could not blast them to oblivion I would not go without armour or my commanders order." He added.


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## Deus Mortis (Jun 20, 2009)

Traugott lay on the edge of the medical bed, his gaze firmly fixed on the door as the ship rumbled and shook with then force of boarding torpedo's hitting it. He was now fully conscious, and his limbs all fully worked. He had become accustomed to the poking and prodding whirring of the medical servitors, and they no longer phased him. One ranger, who seemed to be either lost or separated from his group, or both, swung round the corner into the medical room. He tried to raise his gun to fire at Traugott, but never got that far. The bolt sang straight into his skull and exploded with the familiar force of all the bolt weapons of the Astartes. The head-less ranger dropped to the floor, it's blood soaking the floor. After about a minute, the servitors seemed content with the condition of Traugott, and so he got up, pistol grasped firmly in both hands, and walked bare footed to where he knew their forces would be assembling; the hangar. His soles a deep crimson left a faint trail as he traversed the great halls of "Emperor's Grace'. As he walked, he saw dead rangers, and mix of thick and thin crimson, making the Astartes blood distinguishable from that of their foul enemies. He emerged into the half-light of the hangar just in time to see the bickering of his Sergeant Lothar and Sergeant Tristan. Tristan had a well known reputation for being a rebel, and this only confirmed it as Tristan ignored his superior and marched defiantly into the Storm Bird. The rest of Squad Rudolph followed, along with the whore-son Loki followed him. Reinhard, Adalwin, Vyze, Conrad and Hans all stood sternly behind Lothar. 

No one had yet clocked Traugott's entrance into the hangar, which gave him a brief advantage. he could ponder, show wavering loyalty and later live it down at staunch dedication to whichever cause proved to be right. On the one hand, his sergeant had said not to go, and clearly, he was pissed. And Lothar had a reputation not to be trifled with at the best of times, and certainly not now. On the other hand, Loki had deliberately challenged him by going in search of glory. He had already knocked him unconscious, and now was charging blind into the heart of the enemy. If he came back with the commander's head, Traugott would have a lot of ground to cover to make up the gulf of superiority. But could he risk not beating Loki even if he went, and then having to face Lothar? As the two sides of the coin flipped over in his mind, he realized he had to make a choice. So he walked sternly and with a bold faced to Lothar. As far as anyone looking at him would tell, there was no doubt in his mind. However, he was taking a risk. If Loki bested him, he would surely never live it down. But the thing that had swung his vote, was even if he did go, he would be competing against Loki and 10 other, more experienced, Brothers and then would have to deal with another, more powerful force, the wrath of the Legion. With Lothar, he was safe behind the knowledge of obeying his superiors, and he was in the majority. Secretly, he wanted Loki to fail, then all his disobedience would have been for naught, and he would be the one found lacking in there own personal duel...


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## Masked Jackal (Dec 16, 2009)

Julian took his place behind his own commander, as it should be. Silently, he regarded the others, marking their choices. Revenge. A sweet word to some, but any true warrior knows it is foolishness. A battle is won through pragmatism and reality rather than hot-blooded temerity. 

Julian banished his wordy thoughts, and focused again on the present situation. It seemed most of the others had stayed with Lothar, and only Loki had wandered off. Good, it was much better that way. The more warriors they kept from a quick and pointless death, the more they would have later to spend for a real victory.


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## Theren (May 25, 2010)

After having retrieved a fresh set of Power armour, even though the armour in question was unpainted this did not much bother Fargryn, he had long ago come to the conclusion that the paint wont stop a Bolt Shell, why have it?

After reading the output in the helm a few moments, he made off at an Astartes pace, eating the distance of the long corridors to find his squadmates.

Entering the hall just as the Argument kicked off, he slowed his pace and joined the other Marines, listening to the Captains bicker and argue. _Fool's, we do not need captains that fight with each other right now, let them do it over a game of Regicide..._ was the thought, but this was quickly banished as his captain leapt for the other one. the large marine that held his captain, and the scraping tracking of the gunships turrets made him stop and hesitate a moment, before making his mind up. 

Taking a few bounds forward, he stood impassively behind his captain, Bolt pistol leaking smoke and Chainsword sitting loosly on one shoulderpad, the teeth of the exposed back would have torn the paint had he not hastily shoved on the first set the Artificers of the Armoury could find. He watched the soldier holding his commander at bay with the look of an assassin, waiting for the best moment, before changing his mind. 

Striding up to the gunship and straight in, half-shouldering Hauser out of his way into the cockpit of the stormbird, Their he told the marine waiting within, in a much more..angry, terminology, that if the guns did not power down he would in essance have a few very loud words with him. after storming back out, he stood again behind his captain, but not before booting Loki gently but firmly in the shinguard and telling him to get off the Gunship before he gets in trouble worse'n death.


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## bobss (May 18, 2008)

Half-congealed gore dripped, almost greedily, from his alabaster frame. Tendrils of lank, flinty hair smothered a sweated brow, also plastered by flecks of dried, maroon blood. The Space Marine heeded little to such, sparing but a momentary glance at his body, now defiled by the putrid life-essence of weak-traitorous fiends. Instead, he paced forth, down a labyrinthine gantry, and onto the main arterial route spanning a handful of decks, severed by the Death Guards central barracks. His genhanced neuron-circuitry divulged this conjuration of mysticism in scarce milliseconds, unraveling this intrigue with bemusement like a crinkled scroll. Behest his indomitable, Astartes-mindset, conditioned by Terran-born Dusk Raiders and piqued by blood, battle and a peculiar, chivalrous interest in Remembrancers, he mentally weighed the dilemma, inverting future actions into this messy debacle and pondering over the various spectrum of resulting data and myriad possibilities. Of course, he joked gruffly: the almost soul-eating mandates of Barbarus doctrinaire rigouressly beat into him during his abolition of emotions, now frayed at its gleaming edges by Samuel’s philosophical questionning - the scholarly kin of this expedition, the Remembrancers, upon order in correlation to His divine will, contradicted his neophyte training and mentoring to degree`s. Was such a thing for the benefit of the Astartes, to momentarily quell the interest of mere mortal scribes? Or did a enthusiasts inquiries lead to more permeable damage to the strict Astartes psyche?

Though stripped bare of his ceramite casing and ingraining servo-cables. The former, his _MkIII Power-Armour_, burnished and blessed reverently by drooling Mechanicus adepts and apprentices over the unmatched skill imbued within its pock-market, ash-brushed armour. His preternatural feet still resounded upon the cold admantine floor like thunderclaps. Circling a buttress of over-polished brass, and a cluster of throbbing sodium-burners throwing out equally icy light, his living-bust of a frame squared through the iron-bound entrance, into the metallic plaza below. Upon reaching the docking bay, a sight of mechanical-borne wonder overcome Balvarn; rows of glorious Stormbirds, their wings trimmed and under slung by cyclonic missiles, their cockpits sparkling like freshly-cut jewels, and each lay, grounded, begging to their flesh-and-blood masters to take them to the skies and rain holy death. The usual tide of milling serfs, barking fools of the officer cadre and bumbling servitors of grey-flesh and bionics had parched, sparing the Astartes -- thankfully -- of their qualms and irritants. 

A river of flowing awe oozing from his joyous mind swallowed on itself, and as drawn-heavily from Pre-Terran barbarianism, bloodied and reddened like diseased blood at the scene of visceral carnage before him. Flanking the untamed, unbridled beauty of the Stormbirds, with the simplistic, crude efficiency of war. In all his degrading majesty. An ocean of crimson, spattered in arterial-gouts across the ashen-walls in violent fountains and geysers of fleshy-gobbets, the stark antithesis to the feeble dribbles of hormone-rich Astartes blood, pattering rhythmically against the lackluster ceramite blast-doors and matching floor. 

He descended a riveted stair of simple iron, to come yet closer to this feotid pool of death, his enhanced nasal-receptors identifying the brutal reek of oxidized copper, and the mangled bodies half-drowned within this lake of their own, putrefaction. Cavorting in death, the bodies of the dead lay amongst a carpet of limbs, raggedly torn and weeping colorless amniotic fluids.

_Less of this carnage, I do not seek to detail this morally-fangled slaughter, lest escape it. No, Death Guard care little for their inflicting brutality, for duty overrides whatever lacerations we perform upon the impure. I must speak to my squad, to Lothar my liege and conquering of a dozen feral-worlds... yet why can I not help but gaze upon this butchers-house?_

A staccato of harsh, zealous barks shattered his reverie. The periphery of doubt but shirked to the shadows whence it originated from, but still it resided; a beast borne of the twilight, and sustained upon anxiety. Leeching as it fed upon him, an insufferable feeling no mental-retort or physical-suffering could brandish.

_I may wish to consort the Apothecaries. Samuel has unwittingly planted the seed of doubt within the rich, pious matter of my brain. Fool! No wonder the others - My brothers-in-arms and Legion to I - shun these pestiled half-wits. _

Looking up meekly, any adrenaline-nourished courage locked his impulse-glands, Balvarn viewed the latter stages of this slaughter-house and it’s more intelligible discussion. A parting of Astartes, after a dull thud of meaty-fists beating proudly upon ceramite breast-plates, erupted amongst the gathered. A copse became throngs, until many marched -- hatred a mask savouring their brows -- towards the orderly lines of awaiting attack-craft.

Balvarn followed. His mind rife with anxiety, his brow furrowed from doubt. But he was Adeptus Astartes, and no illusion of the mind would sever his loyalty nor dash his righteous incarnation of justice. He bade towards a Stormbird, flushing jets of bluish-flame blossoming from its rear, and a gleeful howling emitted from under slung and flank engines. Rotary pods whined, and sponson heavy-bolters roared in their deliverance to-be.

_Aye, today be a good day to quash these predations I suffer ill of_, he rejoiced eagerly, taking his place with grim resolution, fastened grav-straps with professional, well-oiled care.


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

(Note To All: I apologise for this VERY late update, however my exams hit hard. Thankfully they are done now, this update is smaller than most, but it is just for me to get back into the mood J)

Those Who Stay: Lothar has stopped his roaring, as the Stormbird lifts into the air drunkenly and swings through the void shields. You no longer hear the throaty growl of its awaiting engines as the fluorescent engines at its rear roar silently, and send it veering into the distance. Lothar is on his knees, fists balled between his legs. His head is angled downwards so that you can only see a pulsing red mass, bisected by strings of shadow and light. He looks up at each of you, his lips pursed and torn from the previous battle. His eyes brighten for a moment, realizing the majority of his Squad have remained behind at his side. 

He stands and clears his throat, shaking away the arms of Heydrich and Remmel. 

‘Our Brothers have abandoned us, charged into the fires of war, my fellows. We have a choice, one which I will need to consolidate with you upon. This ship is stricken, and I am worried we will not be able to rendezvous with the Legion in such a state. Yet the majority of our manpower has fled for the thrills, for revenge. You are the ones which will come of some sense within our Death Lords’ gaze. But my fellows, do we stay here and babble amongst one another on a idling ship, or do we return our erstwhile Brothers? I need your advice, but do not get used to it” with that he chuckles slightly. 

(How do you react? If possible I would like each of you to put in your own bits, how do you react to almost being messed around by Lothar? Feel free to say what you like, I understand this is a boring update for you, but either choice you make will get better!)

Those Who Went: The Stormbird spins around the mighty enemy ship twice, and you feel the pintle mounted weapons venting ammunition in the ground beneath you. You cannot see the ship shimmering into the smoke clogged hanger, but when the hatch falls down you each get from your seats and steadily advance towards slowly dropping hanger. Rounds begin to whip in around you, many clipping shoulder pauldrons and chests. None penetrate although and you simply return fire into the haze. Something suddenly happens. The pilot screams, and the sound of tearing metal causes you to spin. 

The Stormbird veers off towards the side and you are each thrown from your stances. You hear Hauser roaring, firing his Bolter from the open hatch, a small slither of metal embedded in his chest. He gets up and immediately charges outwards, and you find yourself being dragged forwards by one of his Marines. You are blinded immediately as you stumble randomly, avoiding sweeps of blades every now and again. Some eighteen enemy soldiers are aligned before you, wearing nothing but leather rags across their bodies, and each bears a black blade no longer than your forearm. With a roar, they charge, and all hell breaks loose.

(Again, far from the best of updates. I have allowed you some more than the others however. Kill the enemy together, there should be enough for you to suffice from)


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## Bane_of_Kings (Oct 28, 2009)

Lothar has stopped his roaring, as the Stormbird lifts into the air drunkenly and swings through the void shields. You no longer hear the throaty growl of its awaiting engines as the fluorescent engines at its rear roar silently, and send it veering into the distance. Lothar is on his knees, fists balled between his legs. His head is angled downwards so that you can only see a pulsing red mass, bisected by strings of shadow and light. He looks up at each of you, his lips pursed and torn from the previous battle. His eyes brighten for a moment, realizing the majority of his Squad have remained behind at his side. 

He stands and clears his throat, shaking away the arms of Heydrich and Remmel. 

‘Our Brothers have abandoned us, charged into the fires of war, my fellows. We have a choice, one which I will need to consolidate with you upon. This ship is stricken, and I am worried we will not be able to rendezvous with the Legion in such a state. Yet the majority of our manpower has fled for the thrills, for revenge. You are the ones which will come of some sense within our Death Lords’ gaze. But my fellows, do we stay here and babble amongst one another on a idling ship, or do we return our erstwhile Brothers? I need your advice, but do not get used to it” with that he chuckles slightly. 

~~~~~~~~~

NERO VYZE SMILED at his sergeant's statement. "Since when have you ever needed our advice before now?" asked Vyze, breaking the akward silence. "You must be getting too old, Sergeant." 

A few Marines chuckled at his statement. Vyze was never the one to crack jokes normally, and he knew that.


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## Lord of the Night (Nov 18, 2009)

*(OOC: Sorry for my late update, this is for last and latest updates. Wont happen again.)*

Audamar had reached the armoury without any further interruptions, his twin Bolt Pistols _Ebony_ and _Ivory_, one blackened from being caught in the backwash of a Melta blast, and one whitened from Audamar's personal taste. He found it amusing that his pistols contrasted, like him. Flesh and metal combined, opposites together in one. Picking both Pistols up with the reverence they were due and blessing each with a quick prayer to the Machine-God Audamar set off to the hangar to make sure that the Stormbirds were alright, they would need them for the engagements to come and while these traitors to humanity were inferior in mentality, it didn't take the intelligence of a Techmarine to smash a gunship into pieces. Offering a prayer to the Machine-God to protect the Stormbirds until he could get there Audamar took off, running as fast as his biological and mechanical enhancements would allow him.

However, as he expected to find the hangar filled with enemy boarding craft and marauding scum, instead he found a group of his fellow Death Guard, fellow in name only at least, standing in a pentagon and surrounded by the dead and dying. As he walked forward towards them the silence was broken only by Audamar putting a round from _Ebony_ and _Ivory_ into some of the dying who twitched more then they should. The reward for such foolishness and illogical actions could only be death, their overconfidence had led them to the Death Guard who were glad to dispense that reward. Other Space Marines began arriving, the new recruits of Squad Lothar, fresh from Barbarus and the trials. Audamar felt disdain for them, they had seen nothing of true warfare yet and yet they were still called Astartes. To the Techmarine, they were no better then untrained aspirants. Soon they would be reborn as true Death Guard in blood and fire in the fields of war, but until then Audamar was not interested in them.

Squad Rudolph arrived and Audamar paid them no attention, apart from Heydrich whose throat had been carved open. If the Apothecaries could not heal it then Audamar would have to give him a bionic implant to correct the issue, he was lucky. His injury would most likely heal and be little more then a scar, Audamar would never heal. He was to be like this forever. Thankful for his metallic face that betrayed none of his inner thoughts and emotions Audamar allowed himself a moment of envy for the injured marine. Satisfied that he had vented Audamar crushed his envy and turned his head to look at Lothar who was bickering with Rudolph. Such childish behaviour was typical of the biologicals of the galaxy, unable to see the illogic in their actions and words. Unity was order and logic, and here were the mighty Astartes fighting like pre-adolescents in a scholam recreation area. Audamar sneered mentally and was about to cut himself off from the argument and return to his duty, which now would involve fixing everything that these weaklings had broken in their attack.

But the arrival of the maverick Hauser stole Audamar's attention. Hauser was a fool, an illogical idiot who's bravado would either get him killed or viciously wounded like Audamar and be isolated from others. And the worst part was Audamar had been like him once, brave and foolish. Now logic ruled the Techmarine, and he disdained Hauser for not taking a lesson from Audamar's crippling injuries and altering his behaviour to a more appropriate standard. He was Terran, like Audamar but neither were any like each other. Hauser had come from the Nord Afrik colonies, and Audamar.... Audamar did not remember where he had come from. He remembered the Yndonesian Bloc but he wasn't sure that had been his home, not that it mattered. There was nothing that could identify him anymore, any visible parts of his body outside his armour were mechanical. Mars was the closest thing he had to a home, he had learned more there then he had as a normal human and more then he had learned in the Death Guard.

Hauser proclaimed that he had come to gather marines for a revenge strike, such petty impatient foolery. Revenge wasn't worth anything, all it did were get good marines injured, like Audamar. Scowling mentally he turned away and began doing a survey of the vehicles when one of the Stormbird's searchlights went active and blared in the marine's direction. Audamar's mask immediately compensated and lowered the internal light so that the Techmarine's vision was not distorted. The marines of Squad Rudolph immediately boarded the craft, apart from the wounded one and another whom Audamar did not know and did not care about that remained. Squad Hauser and their Sergeant boarded the craft while Lothar was being held back by the last Squad Rudolph marine, shouting and screaming at the departing Astartes. Audamar could have joined them but such was idiocy and meaningless revenge against an unworthy foe, and so he remained put.

As the Stormbird began to power up Audamar did a quick cursory examination, if it was wounded he would quickly stop it from taking off. He did not care if the marines died but he wouldn't allow a wounded gunship to die merely because these fools were too impatient to wait for their useless revenge. However the gunship was fine and Audamar let it go, he could feel the machine's spirit demanding payback for the unanswered attack, while not understanding the machine's lust for the blood of the enemy he allowed it to depart out of respect for the ship. As it took off and left through the shimmering void-shields Audamar saw Lothar on his knees in rage, such a wasteful emotion. Turning his back on them and their conversation, which he had no place in, he knew it and they knew it. Lothar was asking for advice but Audamar remained silent, nobody wanted his advice, he was not welcome in their discussions, if they needed a bionic then they came to him but other then that he was left alone, which was good.

Heading back over to the Stormbirds Audamar began working on a broken engine that had been slashed during the fight, connecting with the gunships machine spirit he felt its hurt pride at its wound. He knew how it felt, and sympathized with the machine and it sympathized with him.


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## Masked Jackal (Dec 16, 2009)

Julian didn't laugh at Nero's jibe, though he had to admit it was clever, it wasn't really relevant. "I have a feeling sir," Julian said, hoping the others would quiet down. "...that the fools will refuse to be returned until they taste defeat. We should allow them to do what they want, and round up any survivors that we can, if there are any. Perhaps those will have learned their lesson."


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## Lord Ramo (Apr 12, 2009)

Conrad stared at the stormbird as it lifted into the air with disgust. How could his squad brothers disobey their superior? It was insanity. He simply stood there and turned to face Lothar who had now stopped his ranting and sat their, hands between his legs. Conrad felt for his squad leader, being on the sideline for so long when he should have been fighting with the rest of the Legion. 

‘Our Brothers have abandoned us, charged into the fires of war, my fellows. We have a choice, one which I will need to consolidate with you upon. This ship is stricken, and I am worried we will not be able to rendezvous with the Legion in such a state. Yet the majority of our manpower has fled for the thrills, for revenge. You are the ones which will come of some sense within our Death Lords’ gaze. But my fellows, do we stay here and babble amongst one another on a idling ship, or do we return our erstwhile Brothers? I need your advice, but do not get used to it”

Conrad was taken aback by this. It seemed to him that Lothar had been messing them around. However Conrad realised this was not the full truth and had seen the sergeants anger as other squad members had left. Conrad felt a moments shame before he heard Nero crack a joke. Conrad didn't find it amusing but simply looked at his superior.

"In my opinion, sir, we should fully arm ourselves before we head over. If we go over soon they may think less of us, think that we have come to "share" their glory, but we must try and save as many as possible." Conrad finished hoping that his heavy bolter would get to taste xeno blood soon.


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## Scathainn (Feb 21, 2010)

The pressure lock on one of the doors began to turn, slowly at first but then increasing in velocity. The door rattled and shook briefly, then gave way to the massive armored form of Tancred, clutching the mewling body of one of the pirates. His armor was caked in gore and slivers of bone, except for the areas bearing inscriptions. These were polished to a sheen as typical for him; he would hate to keep his insignia dirty. 

Staring down into the eyes of the raider, Tancred was overcome by a feeling of utter revulsions. He had battled the enemies of the Imperium before, that was for sure, but this was different. Seeing someone so obviously weak, so without aspirations or hopes or even _a future_, even _attempting_ to assault a ship of the Emperor's Angels of Death sickened him to his core.

The pirate gulped in his throat. "P-p-please, lord, d-d-don't kill me. I was f-f-forced into this m-m-man, they g-g-got my parents." Tancred noted the raider could not be more than 19. The fact was no different. Slamming the pirate's body into the wall, Tancred leaned in close and whispered into the pirate's ear. "Proditor recipero suum semita," he breathed. Still standing in the doorway, he revved his chainsword and thrust it deep into the pirate's face, spraying blood all over his body. 

He dropped the remains to the floor and revved his chainsword again to clear off the gore and blood caked onto it. Pausing again, he again wiped the remains off of his armor to clear his inscriptions and symbols. As he walked over to the other Space Marines, he removed his helmet to reveal his face dripping sweat and blood from a brand-new scar across his jawline. Wiping his face with his gauntlet, he wandered over to the rest of the marines. 

"Sorry about the wait, brothers," he grumbled. "I had something to take care of."

[[OOC: So sorry I haven't been able to post yet, I had a serious emergency because one of my coworkers was killed in a car crash six hours before we were supposed to present the biggest project of the year to our supervisors :shok: Hopefully that won't happen again (not posting that is, of course I don't want more of my coworkers to die) ]]


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## Theren (May 25, 2010)

Gar looked over to the shuddering hatch now containing the hulking form of Tancred, one of the very few marines he got along with and actually talked to.

"Brother Tancred, you should know better than to drag those things around, why should a Mortal see our honourable ship?" He chuckled, a deep, mountain like rumble of a laugh. "Destroy it before it causes more hastle"..

Turning away as his brother's chainsword pulped the defeated raider, he watched the Gunship take off. and opening a vox link with his squad.

_Our brothers travel to destroy a weak foe, glory to them in death or return. We have a ship to clean. Captain Lothar. Your command. And I believe brother Loki is still aboard that vessle._

With that he severed the Link.


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## bobss (May 18, 2008)

The Stormbird, but a conglomeration of thrice-blessed, brass cogs bunched and refracted into a flawless admantine cage; swaddled in inch-thick sheets of blackened, holy ceramite and imbued with a sublime and irritable life-force denoted as a Spirit of Mechanical origin - took to the blanched void of space, asunder a staccato of cacophonous noise. The bird of wrought iron shuddered, as if shaking off the viscous embryonic fluids of its fiery birth. Oil droplets condensated and froze, and lubricant liquids spat out from the cyclonic barrels in preparation for their deathly rain. 

Veering through the shadow-bound pit of space. The all-too real chasm of bottomless black, clouded about the Stormbird in a cloak, as the denoted 'beast' by many of the Imperial Navy personnel, embraced the cold emptiness and flew unimpeded towards its destination. The enemy ship. But the size of a lowly frigate, and boasting a futile array and broadside lance-batteries and the legally-minimum of auto-turrets, it was but a bemusing hulk. A metallic shack cast into the unconquerable honey of space, to prey upon the righteous and innocent.

Balvarn dissected the garble of Vox-traffic, to discern the irritable grumbles of various Astartes, as gravitational forces once more kicked in. Muted conversations began abruptly by various serfs, and servitor-drones rocked unsteadily upon their sponson mounts. Necrotic flesh patched across bionics of all diversity itched as these animated corpses - by the so-called will of that foul cult the ''Adeptus Mechanicus'' - he retorted to himself briskly.

Fighting the restraint of his harness and peering down the armoured corridor, Balvarn noticed the sparse nature of the Death Guard, attack-cadre and noted at the presence of many Expeditionary Veterans.

''Yes. To pluck surest victory, ample yet suitable force must be rendered upon the foe, centered precisely upon their number, armament and base-traits'', he recited in a practiced, if slightly mocking tone.

An Astartes beside him turned in disbelief, his dour face a landslide of muscle across any trace of a smile, ''You remind me of two things: The sons of Guilliman, and a recruit. And you sure as hell don`t look pompous enough to be the former,'' he joked, more to ease the tension. Tension even genhanced superhuman warriors were not exempt of.

As if spurned by the dazzling mental image of azure blue chest plates housing Space Marines as freakishly perfected as the Emperor`s Children, Balvarn too pondered his lack of armour. Unbidden mantras of a warriors oneness with his weapons surfaced, only to be grimly bludgeoned back into the recesses of his mind by sheer, Death Guard practicality. 

''If one does not maintain their tools, they should indeed grab a large object and cower the Xenos with their impressive stick, alone'', he jibed, reminiscing over the giant scythes wielded by the bronzed, Deathshroud of the unyielding Primarch. He turned to the Veteran to his right, only to drain of any emotion, and gouge his perfect smile. The Stormbird rocked violently, tapered wings buckling and the rear-engines chocking and spluttering their engine-wash as if vomiting. Several Astartes slammed giant hands upon unlocking studs upon harnesses, releasing them of their tortured bondage. 

Servitors spasmed without rendition, their grotesque corpses wriggling like leeches, cables writhing beneath their taunt flesh like maggots fattened upon the bounties of putrefaction. Electrical faults and the malevolent, yet cunning genius of Vox-jamming sparking amongst the Stormbirds engines and internal appliances. 

Banking sharply to a perverse angle, the Stormbird smashed through a host of obstructions, their fragile forms broken by the colossal mass of the aircraft. A trail of destruction followed its messy descent, crashing through bulkheads to the primitive groan of bending ceramite sheet and shriek of contorting metals. Jerked in equal electrifying ferocity as the now lifeless Servitors, their feeds severed, and augmenters fused, Balvarn thudded within the confines of the Stormbird. Frankly attempting to unbuckle the harness, his form was hurled end-over-end into an alcove as the 'beast' finished its uncontrolled crash-landing. 

A film of hormone-rich blood bled in ever-running layers from lacerations, clotting in his eye-sockets and nose, chocking him with his autonomously healing circulatory essence. Thuds the equal of heraldic booms to summon Apostate Daemons resounded, echoing from metallic cavities, punctuating his fading vision and descent into a throbbing darkness....

... Balvarn awoke prematurely. Opening eyes cracked crimson crusts formed across his eyes and his ragged breathing blew out chips of debris. Adjusting to the blood-red emergency lighting within nanoseconds, a flurry of sparks erupted from faulted machinery, to spatter onto his face, burning chalked skin with their short life-spans.

The simultaneous rapture of his twin-hearts sounded dull in comparison to the harsh bark of bolter-fire. Curses of mother’s promiscuarity, oaths of fulfillment and prayers to celestial beings drowned out his senses, as he hauled himself from his pit of despair fumbling for a weapon; feverantly hoping to find something more appeasing than but a metal stanchion against foes with sufficient ballistics.


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## Flerden (Aug 17, 2008)

Reinhard watched silently as the Stormbird flew away. He then turned toward the rest of the group and listenend to Lothar while he was talking and was about to say his oppinion when Nero said something about Lother getting old. Reinhard actualy chuckled abit.
He then decided to listen to the others before saying his oppinion.
After a while Reinhard stepped forth.
"I agree with Conrad that we should get our armour and weapons before we go, if we go att all, I am not fond of the idea of going to a ship that is about to die." Reinhard said before taking a step back to show he was done talking.


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## Baron Spikey (Mar 26, 2008)

*Adalwin Meinrad*

With a click-hiss Adalwin unsealed his helm's atmospheric locks, quickly removing the helmet and holding it in the crook of an arm whilst he spat congealed gobbets of blood sustained from the brutal combat merely minutes ago.

------------------------------------------------------------
_Nero Vyze smiled at his sergeant's statement. "Since when have you ever needed our advice before now?" asked Vyze, breaking the akward silence. "You must be getting too old, Sergeant." 
_ ------------------------------------------------------------

With a humourless cough of laughter at Vyze's attempt to lighten the tension Brother Meinrad resealed his armour, unconciously relaxing as he did so. His hatred for the mockery of his physical form was only bettered by his loathing for the Throne's enemies, but behind his bare metal carapace he could be a featureless engine of war.

_"I would stay as I wish no vengeance nor glory"_ rumbled the pallid Astartes _"but I will not abandon my brothers if you choose to retrieve our absent brethren"_

With his views made clear the young warrior began an automated diagnostic on his armour to determine if some defect had been overlooked by his cursory inspection.


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## Theren (May 25, 2010)

Fargryn looked around at the assembly of warriors... and grinned.

"I am with Brother Meinrad. I will rescue my brothers" spoak the Astartes,"but I will not go glory hunting. Unless you see othwise, Captain."

With that, he blinked through some irrelevent imformation within his visor, ran a check on his Power Armour, now chasitised in the fire of battle, however pitiful the battle may have been. Sitting himself down on a huge Ammunition crate, he gazed around the hanger. The hanger was special to Gardax, for it was from here they could obliterate the enemies of the emporor. It was from here that worlds had been won and lost, it was from this very deck he would find either honour, a glorious death in service to the Death Guard.. or perhaps both.


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