waz up! So If ya wanna bi big an'mean, If ya wanna be best an' green,If ya wanna get da job done fast,Da ORK CLAN iz where it's at! greetings from moddlord1
This is another short story that I wrote, but I'm not done with this one, so please take that into account when reading it. XD
Posted by jonathon2 on May 6th, 2013
Sergeant Idean of the Ultramines looks out over the assembled ranks of the strike force, a total of twenty one Space Marines from four different chapters. His sky blue eyes pass over the five Ultramarines, each one's armor immaculetely inlaid with magnificent gold embellishments. Each one on their right hip, has a power sword sheathed in a basic brown scabbard addorned with golden studs. On their left hips each one has a bolt pistol connected via maglocks to their left thighs. Draped fromt heir shoulders are purple capes, also connected via maglocks, with golden stitching along the edges. Clasped in their left hands, each one has a combat shield, each at least a thousand years old, each also a relic of the chapter.
Three more astartes are standing in a group of three, off by themselves, keeping to the solitary nature of their chapter, the Salamders. Their dark green power armor is pitted and scarred from weeapon impacts recieved from decades of fighting the enemies of the God Emperor. Two of them, in their armored hands, clutch flamers, and the third one has a tank killer, a Multi-Melta, a weapon that fires a stream of super heated gas that reduce tanks to a pile of molten metal. Though he prefers the hectic brutality of close combat, Idean respects the sheer killing power of the tank killing weapon.
Four Howling Griffons devestators are standing together, their red and yellow quartered power armor reflects the light of the glow-orbs situated along the massive gate behind them. Three of them are holding heavy bolters, a heavy machine gun version of the standard weapon of the astartes, while the fourth is holding a lascannon, once again Idean has to respect the killing power of the tank killer.
The seven Blood Ravens are gathered together in a circle around a shrine to the God-Emperor. Their blood red armor is glowing brightly from the glow orbs, giving them a slightly spectral look. Each of them is in kneeling position, their knees resting against the ground. Their words, directed by their Chaplain and emitted from thhe vox speakers in their helmets, echo around the hangar and fill the chamber with their holiness. 'God-Emperor, please bless us, your greatest warriors and finest sons as we battle against the legion of the Great Betrayer Horus. The Black Legion are burning one of your worlds, killing and enslaving millions of your servants. They shall quiall at the roar of our bolters and cry at the tip of our swords.' As the Blood Ravens finish their prayer, they rise and stand before that dais that Idean is on.
'Greatest warriors of the Imperium, we have assembled here today to slay a traitor from my own chapter,' as Idean says this, a great apin fills his eyes as he realises that his chapter's honor is forever stained by the betrayal. 'His name is Romin, and he is in charge of a warband of the Black Legion. We could leave it to the Imperial Guard, but if they were to fail, his warband could usher in the fourteenth black crusade.' As he says this, event the staunch Astartes gasp at the implications of what he is saying, each knowing the dire circumstances of the Imperium. 'He and his forces have brought three worlds of the Emperor to the torch, not one faithful soul escaped from any of the worlds, and they call for retribution in the blood of the traitors, and in the name of the primarchs we shall deliver it to them!'
As he says that, the masive Ultramarine dreadnought in the back stirs and raises its power fist into the air and yells out a battle cry, the other marines echoing with their own respective ones. 'Courage and Honor brothers! In the name of the Emperor and the Primarchs shall we bring this cur to heel!
Agemon sits in the circle of his cabal, each one peering into the warp. He forces his mind eye into the swirling torrents of pwer natural to the daemonic realm. Moving into the currents of time, he hopes for a glimpse of the future. He sees three futures swirl up before him. The first has him and his lord Romin's bodies broken and bloodied at the feet of a Tyranid Warrior, toxins seep out of it's mouth like drool and drip down onto the broken forms at it's feet. That future is taken from him upon a river of blood.
In the second future Agemon and Romin stand at the head of a massive army of thirty thousand traitor marines before the Imperial Palace. In front of them is but a company of Ultramarines, the only defense between them and the Golden Throne. Romin raises his power fist and swings it down, signalling the attack to commence. The traitor marines charge forwards, knowing full well that the day has come for the destruction of the Imperium. Once again, the second future is taken from his eyes by a river of blood.
In the third one, Agemon and Romin are broken and bloodied at the feet of an Ultramarine sergeant, his form is glowing like a beacon as his faith shines through the darkness of the galaxy, repelling the darkness of the warp. This future is the shortest and the fleetest, and the most unlikely to happen, he realises as it is also taken away on a river of blood.
Rising and walking, in a trancelike state as he is barely coming out of the warp, he reaches a cultist and pulls his head back, revealing the jugular vein. Drawing a ceremonial knife from a sheath on his utility belt, he pulls it along the cultist's throat, the skin puttingg up only slight resistance to the serrated blade edge as it slices across the vein. As it cuts deep enough, blood spurts out into the air and lands in an intricate carving on the floor, filling it up rapidly as his sorcerors follow suit with the other twelve cultists in the room.
Looking down, he sees that the carving is full and even along the entire design. Nodding his sorcerors begin chanting in a long forgotten languagem that should never have been brought back to the ken of mortal tongue. Their bodies sway in an unseen breeze as the cold, repressive feeling of the warp feels the room. Agemon's breath mists in front of his face as the tempature in the room plummets, though, through arcane sorcery, the blood in the carving begins to boil. Moving his hands in intricate patters faster than the eye can see, the blood slowly raises into the air and forms a slowly rotating sphere that hovers in the air.
He begins to chant, promising deamons his soul for the completion of the ritual. The blood orb rapidly begins forming into a man shape, and stretches till it looks like an eight foot tall marine clad in his power armor. Slowly the form gets more and more detail till it falls and lands on its feet with a loud thud. Looking around, black eyes survey the room as the sorcerors fall to their knees before Chaos Lord Romin. 'The pawns have fallen in place and the deals have been struck. In one month time I shall ascend to deamonhood and the galaxy shall run red with the blood of the Imperium!
Sergeant Catern follows his captain up the main thorough way through the war torn city around them, gunshots echo from nearby alleyways as the Imperial Guard fight, trying to hold the city against the forces of Chaos. Raising his lasgun as he sees movement in one of the windows, he aims through the sights and scans along the windows, waiting to see if there is any more movement to give away a possible heretical ambush.
The rest of the company is standing in a column, the worst formation to be in in an urban warzone as all the enemy has to do is one volley to nearly wipe out the entire company. Damn Captain Jarom, the fool is gonna get us all killed, Catern thinks, his thoughts mirroring those of nearly the entire company. As those thoughts leave his mind, a heretic fires an autogun out the window, killing the captain instantly. The company instantly spreads out, returning fire as more and more heretics begin firing out of the windows, killing more of the guardsmen, their bodies jerking as the slugs soar through the air and slam into their chest, they then collapse like puppets with their strings cut.
Catern fires a burst of lasbolts from his weapon, killing off one of the heretics. Grat charges forward, his flamer held at the ready, as he gets to the building he aims his flamer up and sends a burning gout of promethium up into it, causing the cultists to shriek in pain and agony as their flesh blackens, and boils, falling off in large chunks.
A chimera roars forward, the treads churning up chunks of rokcrete, throwing them up into the air. The hull heavy bolter is chattering, tearing great gouges out of the walls that the heretics are taking cover behind. Puffs of pink blood tell the gunner that he is hitting his targets. The smoke launchers on the chimera fires the canisters, and smoke fills the road, giving the surrounded guardsmen a chance to get away. Catern and the rest of the guardsmen rush forwards towards the idling chimera.A group of guardsmen clamber aboard and force the ramp closed, stranding Catern and the other thirty guardsmen in a deathtrap. 'Damn you! Open up in the name of the Emperor!' Catern yells through the vox bead in his ear.
'Frak you! Me and my boys are gettin' out of here alive!' Yells Lieutenant Siegfried back through the vox, rapidly followed by him ordering the driver to backup, even if it means hitting other guardsmen. Catern dives out of the way of the chimera as it drives backwards, hitting two guardsmen who were to slow to get away in time. The chimera turns around and begins driving off, but a missile streaks out of a window and slams into the side and detonates the gas tank. The multi-laser on the turret is blown up into the air on a greasy pillar of flame.
'Damn them to the warp!,' Catern curses as a lasbolt slams into his shoulder, jerking him backwards. 'Guardsmen, fall back! We cannot hold!' As he says that, a squad of traitor marines appear at either end of the street and open fire with a withering volley of bolter fire. The bolters roar and guardsmen scream in pain and terror as their limbs are torn off by the rocket propelled rounds as they sail through the air.
Looking around, his eyes wide with fear, his ears ringing from the volume of bolter fire, he sees a side alley just about ten meters away. He sprints, the fifteen surviving guardsmen running alongside him for all their worth, praying to the God-Emperor to be able to make it out of there alive and unharmed so that they can see a few more years of life before it is time for them to arrive at his right hand. As he gets through the alley and continues sprinting, taking turns at random, praying to the emperor that he can lose the traitor marines in the ruined city of Sipheuys, capital city of Carron IV. Stopping, his breath ragged, he looks behind him and sees only about nine guardsmen behind him, their clothes torn and bloody from their comrades vital fluids.