His hair whipped in the wind behind him as he knelt, examining the grim work he'd committed against a Son of Horus. Kyros spat on the dead marine's chest whilst relieving him of his bolter and the munitions he carried. "We must collect what we can," he spoke, as if defending himself from the unspoked questions. In any other time, it would be abhorent to 'steal' from a fallen battle brother. But these bastards were no Brothers, and their weapons deserved to be in hands loyal to Him on Terra.
Tyrus, the Death Guard spoke of attacking their pursuers, launching hit and run ambush strikes against his former Brothers. The force that was lead by his sire Angron. Kyros could not know fear, but he knew a sense of uncertainty, and that sensation was unfamiliar and uncomfortable, "If we stay, if we stand against Angron, we will all die." His hands carried on stowing his newly acquired bolter, mag locking the extra magazines to his plates. "To survive the crash of the wave we must dive below," he spoke in odd indirect statements, as if he were incapable of speaking his wish to avoid fighting Angron, his Father.
He hated the Primarch now, hated him with a seething broiling fire that burned in his hearts and flowed through every vessal in body...but he knew it would be for naught. "We must make for the catacombs," the voice of Tiberius, the newly arrived Emperor's Child.
Kyros was ready to move out, placing his helmet back on, locking the seals, his voice taking on the mechanized qualities of the vox "We do not have time for long winded arbitration or discussion, we must move out to the Catacombs at once," motioning for Tiberius and Sebastien to lead. He was a Sergeant, but in what force? for the time being he was a blade to be directed into his enemies.