The jet-bike purred between his legs, and beneath his helmet, Krateron smirked viciously. The jet-bike was eager, thirsty for blood, as monstrous and untamed as the World Eater who had rode it, and that made the Son of Horus uneasy. I am no beserker, he thought, as the vehicle trembled, I am a hunter, a cutter-of-throats. The World Eaters were a blunt instrument, an hammer, whereas Krateron was a precise blade, a scalpel. They were warriors, a slavering horde. Krateron, clad in his dusty, sticky plate, was a killer. He shared their barbarity, that Krateron acknowledged, but utilised it differently.
And, then, Krateron was spinning his jet-bike, as flames licked past, and the fighting began in earnest. I have killed myself, he sneered, as flames blackened the jet-bike's flank, danced along his leg and arm, and fizzled away. He and Tiberius were outnumbered, and surprisingly, outclassed. The Twelfth had spared no expenses, throwing their lot into the fray, and now Krateron was afraid. Not afraid of dying, oh no, but rather -- He was afraid of failing. He spun the jet-bike around, took the brunt of a hit upon its prow, and shot back down the street, towards Dillinger. More blows hammered into the engines, and then they sputtered and died, a hundred feet away. Krateron drove the jet-bike into the ground, crumpled-nose first, and leapt free of the carnage.
Perhaps, had he been of the Third Legion, or any other, it would have been a pretty maneuver. Tiberius was no doubt fawning about it, he grinned, as he charged down the street, the World Eaters circling behind him, like a pack of sharks. In the next few moments, the World Eaters, now six, dismounted. They were surrounded, though Krateron cared little. He drew Oathkeeper, taking it in both hands, and watched the butchers.
'Ugly bastards,' Krateron grunted. 'He fancies you, that one,' The Son of Horus said, to Tiberius - Though, he doubted the Decurion was even listening - As the largest World Eater, wearing a rack of helmets and dripping scarlet, approached his ally. 'Rather you than me, cousin.'
He will be wearing your skin around his shoulders, by the end of the day, if you aren't as good as you claim, Emperor's Child.
When the friend-or-foe tags returned, and Captain Torgaddon spoke, Krateron shook it off. Hope wasn't something he needed, right now. He needed fine steel in his hand, which he had, and determination. He also had that, though of the grim kind, the kind that the Sons of Horus were famous for. Tiberius and the World Eater, a Captain named Krejer, were facing off.
A grenade sailed through the hair, from the hand of Tiberius. Three World Eaters stumbled, and Krateron flew forwards. Oathkeeper swung upwards, lazily, and bit through chest-plate, chin and skull. The World Eater jerked backwards, from Krateron's blade, limbs twitching, blood spurting, and collapsed.
And then, he was between two World Eaters.
He cursed, crouching low, Oathkeeper held tightly.
I should have fled.
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?'
Last edited by dark angel; 02-27-15 at 09:03 AM.