'Incoming transmission,' The communications officer called. 'From the Shade Wraith, sire.'
Iapetus sighed. His forced cooperation with the Third Company was feeling like a heavier and heavier burden. They were distinctly different Companies - Their doctrines clashed rather than melded - And Iapetus wasn't overly fond of the Dark Angel; who, he knew, had largely deprived the Third of Iron Warriors. It was a melting pot of renegades and cutthroats, shadow-dancers and assassins.
'Very well,' He said, and stood, entering the hololithic chamber. It darkened, and then Lucan flickered into shape before him, clad in his armour and robes. 'Lucian,' He addressed, coldly.
The Dark Angel talked, and the Iron Warrior listened. Lucian jested with him, offered a challenge, but it drew no brotherly response from the Shipwright. He could never feel one - The Dark Angels were, and always would be, loyal to the Throne. How could Iapetus trust someone who, by right, should have been on the opposing front? He couldn't.
'You and the Third are welcome to the bridge,' Iapetus answered. 'We have to secure the armoury and the enginarium, to prevent the Wolves from scuttling, or destroying, the ship. If we cannot take the nerve-points, the Fist of Russ will not be taken.'
He looked away and smiled. 'If the Third can secure the armoury and bridge, then the Seventh will take the enginarium and Apothecarium,' He offered, gently. 'You shall have the honour of presenting the Fist of Russ to Pelegon,' He turned, to step out of the hololithic chamber. 'Do not disappoint me, Captain.'
And with that, he was gone.
Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.
"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"
'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'