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post #48 of (permalink) Old 10-05-14, 07:04 PM
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One final push. One punch. One blow. That would be all that was needed to end the taint of a feeble mind within the company. The damned wretch was still living among the Primarch's in his thoughts during the so called Golden Age of the Imperium! And this soul was entrusted with the care of their precious gene seed!? He had been denied his proper destiny and the path of the Primarch by THIS office!?

He remembered countless years before, the original apothecary that had gifted him the curse of impurity. He couldn't recall the specific soul now long since forgotten. The final honor of being an Iron Warrior after such hardships that most couldn't begin to imagine and his final crowning moment of induction into the 4th legion and he received second rate seed. The captured seed of a lesser chapter was forced into him and forever altered his path. Thousands of years in the past and seemingly an eternity of remarks and snipes and he was the Exterminatus of worlds- he was the Centurion heading the greatest company ever to eclipse the galaxy in the shade of firepower.

"My crucible yields only the strongest Iron you senile fool! Did you truly see taint or did you see a Dusk Raider under your blade???"

A cocked fist twitched and he could feel tendons pulling as his hips opened that would bring a swift end to the rusted blade only to be interrupted by the young blood in the Forge. What his point was in this was negligible. Close to six thousand years in the materium and a choice that was not his own was ready to yield closure. There was taint in the company, but not by chaos or warp but by the tides of time wearing down at rusted Iron and bringing it to languish.

The small pause caused by Adruin now past- his resolve was firmed only to find himself sprawled across the floor like so much discarded rubbish. His skin felt cold and his mind hummed bringing a swimming world that lasted only a moment until a dominant willpower brought everything back into focus. It was obvious now, the hushed conversations, the darting glances, the conspiratorial group with spines too weak to bring forth their complaints. The group of purists would seek to end all non-Olympians and likely the Warsmith himself for his weakness in allowing 'half breeds'. Everything came into focus all at once and he was the first step on their path.

The twisted voice barked at him with the augmentation of warp energies seeking to bolster a weak figure like a weakling using a vox screamer to make their voice more menacing. The axe pompously named like some trinket owned by Fulgrim's twisted transsexuals crackled with energy in the air pointed directly at him in a threatening manner not unlike his own power fist should it crackle to life. It wouldn't be obvious to others with his helmet secured in place but there was faint pleasure at the show of authority as Kunzhardt forced whatever discomfort from the warp touched mind away from his conscious thoughts. He felt muscle twitches in his hand and for a brief moment entertained conflict. He would prime a phosphex grenade and let the librarian drink in the aura of the Destroyers who brought obliteration to planets with ease. There would be damage to his own body but he would enjoy watching the warp twisted witch melt into a puddle of nothing. There would be no need for that. He would have to fight both the psyker and likely the Forge Lord. He would take the time to explain his remarks but clearly the 'purist' was so blinded by his inflated sense of self-worth and his absolute blood lust for 'impurity' that it would fall on deaf ears.

Realizing an overall disadvantage he forced his own rage to leave him, now would not be his time. There was nothing but black hate in his hearts for the conspirators and even a non-psyker could likely sense it but he would not allow it to overtake him like a berserker. Adruin would be safe the pup likely just trying to steady the boat more than anything else but those conspirators would not.

"No we both know where your crosshairs lie, pure blood. I wonder why the Primarch purged Olympia?"

He stormed from the room intent on returning to his own quarters to exact much needed punishment. His mercy had extinguished and his standards had not been met. The hall echoed in silence and it seemed like even the servitors scattered from his path of destruction. Immediately upon entering the quarters there was silence. The soldiers within had been paused by the investigation and that seemed to only further his frustration. Vhalos came forth immediately and for his own punishment like a fly to the web. A strong hissing blow flew out sending the adjutant tumbling across the room with a dented chest plate.

"You were trusted with ensuring the absolute superiority of the Mechanized Fist, Vhalos! You have failed!"

His thoughts drifted to stories of Perturabo Decimating the legion upon taking command ensuring only the strongest purity and discipline; were they not in the midst of a campaign he would put the order down and send the blood bucket by bucket to the Librarium to satisfy their inquisition but he needed to make an example to show that even a more favored from the Immovable was still not above reproach.

"What!? What are you doing!?"

"Making an example of a disappointment. Assemble the men."

Even with the helmet secured Vhalos oozed frustration and to a degree worry but would carry out the order. He barked it out and the men that weren't currently being directly examined came forth and stood before him at attention. He paced back and forth like a Lion pronouncing dominance. There was a mighty assembly of flesh and metal before him all in flawless lines. The Iron Havocs, his downpour of munitions stood some with barrels still smoking and fresh blood stained on their otherwise pristine armour. Each one uniform but with a level of customization to impose their own preferred method of battle from targeting systems articulated in the helmets of the more precise within his company to horns and chains for those that would bring their devastating firepower closer to hear the cries of the bloodied. Each set of power armour shined brilliantly despite the unpainted iron. The vehicle crews were present too. They drilled incessantly with blank rounds to bring the pause between shots to a point that would bring the finest artillery of other company to tears. Their undecorated armour carried a slight sheen to it from the oil; they tended to eschew trophies and decorations in favor of superior mobility and dexterity. Each one of them could easily perform any task in their station and could take over should one of the others expire and many could operate a vehicle independent of other crew members albeit not as efficiently. His eyes turned finally to the blackened corpses within his command the Destroyers. Soldiers whose dedication to bringing absolute oblivion to enemies in lieu of their own wellbeing. They would die and they knew this and yet they carried themselves with untouchable pride and would not complain and they would never falter until their body collapsed. He favored them and it was known. He had been a Destroyer himself and felt a kindred spirit towards those condemned souls. They all stood perfectly at attention and the line went so far he could not even see the end of it; he was prepared for campaign and would bring the Fist down like a battlebarge on whatever forsaken soul they were matched against. They were superior to every army that would bring guns to bare and they had disappointed him.

"I have pushed you all. Pushed to the brink, broken you, and forged you into more than you are. You are to be the finest company ever witnessed in the age of man and you have been found tainted! There is a black mark of corruption upon the Fist on the eve of campaign! Hadrius and Rorke have already been found and exterminated! Let their existence be wipe forever from the records of the XIXth their very names are abominable and will be expunged from all history! Now I break my Adjutant the same way I broke you all."

The last line rolled with the threat as he moved towards his failed subordinate who had righted himself only to be struck again this time with a swinging elbow from his left arm into his rib cage. Vhalos would not attempt to retaliate such was the discipline with which he instilled his men.

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