Deus ex Machina, or The Demise of Konor Ruinclaw
Here ya go, a random story I wrote last night when I was really, really tired. I dunno, I think it has too many commas for my liking, but my brother said i should post it. Bear in mind the title. I think it describes this short very well. WARNING: strong language at the end. So yeah, review it, please, per favore, por favor, yeah.
Konor Ruinclaw ripped the helmeted head of the Black Templar off of his mangled body, savoring the spurt of rich blood gushing out of the neck. He cast the head away as he felt three impacts on his pauldron, spinning as the bolts detonated. Another Astartes was standing behind him, brass streaming out of the ejection port on his bolter while mass-reactive warheads spewed from its barrel. Nimbly, the Warsmith dodged out of the way, no mean feat in Terminator armor, and lashed out with his right lightning claw. The Templar slid to the ground with a series of wet slaps, hacked into eight pieces by the brutal force of the Warsmith’s blow. Konor laughed, flicking the warm gore off of his claw.
This was an enemy worth fighting, a foe that Konor knew would kill and be killed until their last breaths. He relished combat with the Templars, knowing that they would not retreat, as so many other enemies would. Almost absentmindedly, he backhanded a neophyte, whose whirring chainblade fell and buried itself in the bloody soil. The Warsmith lifted his gaze to the heavens, seeing his ships among the stars, and flexed his claws, from whom he had taken his name. His Iron Warrior bodyguards sprayed bolts in precise bursts, each detonating in a loyalist Marine’s chest plastron or helm. The Templars were being scythed down by the Chaos Marines, but still they fought on.
Konor charged into the center of the fighting, lashing out left and right with his power-hazed claws, misted in the deep red vitae gushing out of the wounds he inflicted. Coming face-to-face with a Templar in much more ornate armor than the rest, wielding a power axe with great fury, the Warsmith surmised he had found the Castellan who led the small force.
Ruinclaw strode into combat, his cape swirling behind him, lending him a nightmarish appearance. The Castellan finally noticed this specter of terror and tore off his helm, casting it to the ground in a cloud of dust. The Templar really had stunning eyes, blue with shining flecks in them, Konor noted as he closed in. They matched the exact hue of the crackling lightning playing over his axe.
The Castellan gave a great cry as he swung out with the axe, biting into the reinforced ceramite of the Warsmith’s Terminator plate, but this stroke would be the last he would give that day, and, indeed, the last he would give for all time. Konor Ruinclaw swiped out with both his claws over the shaft of the axe, literally liquefying most of the Castellan’s body with the dreaded weapons.
“NO!” screamed the Chaplain along with the force, rushing towards the Warsmith, his crackling crozius at the ready. It might have done some damage if he had managed to close with Konor, but the Iron Warrior squad behind him gunned him down, firing bolts into his armored body even after he fell and after he had stopped trying to drag himself forward. Konor Ruinclaw laughed, the evil utterance booming across the battleground.
“Sons of Perturabo! This day is ours!” he shouted, still laughing maniacally, surveying his warriors finish off the last of the Templar skirmish force.
“DAY IS YOURS? F***-A-DAEMON, THIS S*** AIN’T NEARLY OVER YET, MOTHERF***ERS!"
The Warsmith was flattened by a huge yellow-and-red powerfist on the hand of what can only be described as an embodiment of pure rage and brutality encased in ceramite. Captain SHITF*** MAXIMUS of the Angry Marines followed through with a hard left straight to the groin. Konor Ruinclaw shrieked in agony, his voice an octave higher than it should have been.
Captain MAXIMUS ripped his fist out of the ruin that had been the Warsmith’s groin armor and kicked him directly in the nose, shattering the Traitor Astartes’ skull and bashing directly through the ceramite behind the crushed ruin of a head. Finally coming to a stop, MAXIMUS’ boot protruded out of the back of the warped Terminator armor. Shouting other unprintable obscenities, the whirlwind of rage and brutality gestured wildly with both his powerfists as more Angry Marines dropped onto the field. He tore his boot out of the f***ed-up ruin that had been an Iron Warriors Warsmith. The Angry Marine captain spun, his cloak flapping behind him and the middle fingers of his powerfists raised.
“YOUR SPLEENS ARE GONNA GET RIPPED OUT OF YOUR PISS-HOLES IN FIVE SECONDS IF YOU DON'T START RUNNING!" MAXIMUS yelled, ripping an Iron Warrior’s spine out of his mouth in the same instant.
“CAPTAIN SHITF***, SIR, ALL IRON MOTHERF***ERS HAVE BEEN SHOT AND SUMMARILY SHOT AGAIN AND BLUDGEONED, SIR!” shouted Sergeant TESTESMASH, cleaning off his power bat and surveying the gory field. Two squads of Black Templars were left, and all the Chaos Marines were either dead or shrieking in pain as they were beaten by various blunt and/or sharp instruments. Only the Iron Warriors with Slaaneshi leanings looked like they were having any fun, until Chaplain BRAZZERSACK strode up and planted his power feet so deep in their rears that they were vomiting charged yellow ceramite.
Captain SHITF*** MAXIMUS walked over to the surviving Templars and looked them over with disgust, seething with so much rage that his power armor was actually boiling off the blood splattered all over it.
“THESE ARE BLACK F***ING TEMPLARS? YOU F***ERS CAN’T HAVE MORE THAN THIRTY YEARS ON YOU!” he screamed, pointing to the Neophytes in the crusader squad. “WHAT SORRY S***HOLE ARE YOU F***FACES FROM?”
The Neophyte was obviously intimidated by the rage in front of him, and, flustered, stuttered “ um…. Gerondan, sir?”
The captain indulged in many more colorful oaths at high volume, nearly blowingout the eardrums of all those within one hundred feet. Again, the majority of the tirade is considered unprintable, especially the part about the neophyte's mother, but let it suffice to say that it ended with an Angry Marine shouting at a certain neophyte to shoot himself.
“Captain! I must protest!” interjected a Templar, whose war-plate named him as Agaravel. “Forthar here has done nothing wrong!”
“ARE YOU TRYING TO PISS ME OFF MORE?” thundered the captain.
“No, no…. no I am not….” muttered Agaravel as he got right back into his squad. He nodded to Forthar, motioning him to do as MAXIMUS said.
The neophyte looked at his bolt pistol, wondering if the Captain was serious, and also wondering whether he really had f***ed his mother, or had just f***ed the entire female population of Gerondan, as Angry Marines were wont to do.
“DO IT, B****!”
He was serious.
The neophyte looked down the .75 caliber barrel, gulped, said a quick prayer to the Emperor, and pulled the trigger.
Anything was better than really pissing off an Angry Marine.
"You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honorable man."
Last edited by Dave T Hobbit; 04-28-12 at 08:07 PM.