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post #71 of 173 (permalink) Old 04-24-14, 06:55 PM
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The pain was blinding, and Vettal grimaced as he tried to pull himself to his feet. Despite his superhuman abilities, and the painkillers flooding his bloodstream, Vettal already knew he couldn’t walk. Suddenly, the figure of Veptus dropped from above, where he had been perched on the wreck of the Thunderhawk. Dropping to a crouch without a word, Vettal allowed himself to slump against the wreckage as the Corpsemaster looked over Vettal’s wound. Watching the medic work, it was almost as if he had been born with a scalpel in his hand, he moved with fluency that few could boast. Two needles pierced Vettal’s skin, pumping yet more drugs into his blood. Vettal watched as Veptus raised his head to address him, although he could barely concentrate on the words.

“This will hurt a lot, and you can scream if you like. But if you let orks swarm us while I’m helping you, I’ll kill you myself.”

Before Vettal could even comprehend what the medic had said, he could only watch as, with one motion, Veptus pulled the jagged shard of metal free from his leg. The pain was white-hot, burning, intense, more than any Vettal had ever experienced. Nearly biting through his own tongue in an attempt to stop himself from screaming, Vettal groaned and nearly fell to the ground. Yet with the determination that only the Emperor’s Finest can show, Vettal steeled himself and stayed on his feet.

In an instant, Vettal’s leg armour was gone, discarded by Veptus as the las-scalpel on his sleeve whirred to life and cut into the Space Marines flesh. By now, the pain was a single ringing note inside Vettal’s head, deafening any kind of thoughts he could have, only trusting entirely in the Corpsemaster’s renowned ability. Vettal clenched his fists as Veptus continued to work on his leg, cutting deep into his flesh, pushing his bones into place once more. Vettal groaned again as a loud crunch rang out, but again stayed on his feet and fought through the pain. Vettal felt the cold touch of medical concrete flowing into his joint, and knew he would have no time to allow his bones to rest.

Veptus rose to his feet, and for a fleeting moment Vettal believed the procedure to be complete, although the searing pain remained. But all thoughts of this were gone as Veptus tore off Vettals’s chest-plate and the laser lit up once more. As the burning pain cut through his skin and muscle, Vettal nearly fell to his knees, but somehow remained on his feet.

Somewhere, seemingly far off in the distance although Vettal knew the voice was coming from right beside him, came the sound of the Chaplain, Jaekal approaching, although he could make out no words of the short exchange between the Chaplain and Corpsemaster though the pain.

As Vettal felt his flesh once more being cut, his conscience retreated into some dark corner of his mind where the pain was gone, and nothing but silence remained. However this perfect isolation was shattered as the roaring voice of Veptus cut through the silence.

“Time to go.”

Coming back to reality with a rush, the looming helmet of Veptus came into his vision.

Nodding slightly, Vettal could only watch as the medic drew his twin weapons and set off at a run away from Vettal.

Despite the still roaring pain from his leg, Vettal knew he had to move and so, with a titanic effort, he pushed himself off the wreck, and slowly, one agonising step after the other, set off after the rapidly disappearing Apocethary. However, thanks to the work of that same Apocethary, the pain slowly dulls to a numb throbbing, and Vettal manages to push himself into a sprint, keeping up with the rest of the First Claw.

After a few metres, Vettal slowed, raising his Autocannon and firing a spray of bullets
into the Ork charging towards his brothers. Satisfied by the screams of pain, Vettal set off again, only to stop again after around twenty metres in order to bring his heavy weapon to bear against a Transport that roared past. The stream of high calibre rounds shredded the Trukks tracks and sent it swerving away from the Frist Claw, despite the protesting roars of the Ork passengers. Vettal turned back to watch as his brothers slammed into the group of Orks like a whirlwind of blades and bolters. Vettal set off at a run, or as close to one as the pain coursing through his body would allow, and followed Veptus and Jaekal as they cut a path through the Orks.

Vettal had almost caught up with the pair when suddenly a figure burst from the smoke and chaos of battle all around him. The Ork roared at the injured Space Marine, but this only gave Vettal time to swing his heavy Autocannon into the Ork’s face, shattering his nose with a crunch and snapping his tusk, silencing the aliens roars. Vettal ducked beneath the Ork’s flailing arms, placed his weapons barrel against the Ork’s chest and shredded the alien, splattering Vettal with crimson spray. Turning as the remains of the Ork fell to the ground in a mangled heap, Vettal had no time to block as another Ork swung his battered axe towards the injured Space Marine. Through some bizarre fluke, the weapon made contact with a seam in the armour and cut through, digging deep into the bone and crunching into the knee that Veptus had worked on just moments before. Unable to bear any more pain, Vettal fell to his knees on the hard ground.

Vettal could only watch as the Ork wrenched it’s axe free and prepared to strike the killing blow, lifting his weapon above its head, it’s eyes red with hatred and bloodlust. Yet as the axe blade fell and Vettal steeled himself for death, the axe was spun aside by a dark blade, etched with Nostraman runes. In a split second, that same blade pushed the axe blade away before driving itself through the Ork’s throat. Vettal didn’t even need to look up to know it was Xandrek himself who stood above him, but the distinctive tones confirmed it.

“Leave the canon Vettal or you get left behind. And yes I know I’m breaking my own orders but you should know I break them all the time.”

Vettal didn’t waste any time in shedding his harness, nearly tearing off the straps as he let his Autocannon fall to the floor, knowing that, although the weapon had served him well through countless engagements, Xandrek did not make empty threats. As the Autocannon came to rest, Vettal watched as Xandrek sheathed his iconic blade, before hoisting Vettal up onto his shoulders. Through the chaos and roar of the battle all around him, Vettal could have sworn he head Xandrek say.

“Today is going to be a long day.”

But before Vettal could be sure, Xandrek set off at a sprint up the hill. Vettal didn’t waste any time, raising his bolt pistol and dropping a pursuing Ork with a round between the eyes.


Var had retreated into what little remained of his mind, when he was pulled back to reality by the heavy ring of boots on metal. Looking around him, Var saw the distinctive figure of Xandrek moving towards the rest of the First Claw. Var moved silently with the rest of the First Claw as they gathered in a semicircle around Xandrek. The Captain looked around the group, before he turned to regard Var himself and finally spoke.

“While you ladies have been seemingly day dreaming from what Sergeant Xhing tells me, we have translated from the warp into the Isstvan system with the rest of the fleet despite earlier warnings from our Librarians telling us that we would be early.”

As Xandrek began pacing back and forth lightly, he continued.

“I have recently just finished a conversation with the First-Captain and all captains and their Command squads are to report to the flagship for briefing. And before any of you ask a certain pointless question: Yes, we are heading over to the Nightfall where I shall meet with our Father and the other captains while the rest of you try to behave yourselves is that understood?”

Xandrek turned to look straight at Var as he said his final statement, and even an idiot, which Var was far from being, could have been able to detect the underlying threat, and warning. Yet before Var could respond Xandrek had turned on his heel and stalked up the ramp into the belly of the Revenant, as the deep voice of Tyberus rang out,

"So Captain it's finally happening? We're finally being called to most glorious war. Woe betides any who stand against the Night Lords in the coming war."

The other members of the First Claw followed Xandrek into the Stormbird, and Var followed closely. As the other Space Marines settled into their restraint harnesses, Var made to move into the transport’s cockpit, only for Xandrek to physically bar his way.

“Techmarine Malak, is our best pilot which you no doubt remember Var, and I have order him that he will pilot us to the Nightfall and then down onto Isstvan so return to your restraint harness.”

Var forced his twisted and mechanical jaw to contort his face into a grimacing smile as he bowed deeply before Xandrek, before turning away and dropping onto a seat. At the sound of Tyberus speaking again, Var raised his eyes and smiled as the Veteran finished. The Vox was a curious thing, and yet it was a strangely simple thing to crossover the “private” vox channels until they really weren’t private at all.

As the Stormbird slowly rose into the air as Var felt Malak engage the engine, Var sank back into his mind. The Night Haunter meant nothing to him, he had never been there when Var had been cut open, and in Var’s mind he was no leader of his. For Var only followed two masters, the great Machine-God, and his own twisted and insane mind, and neither had ever failed him.

The Silent Lions Chapter

Winter Falls


Give a man a match and he will be warm for a day.
Set a man on fire and he will be warm for the rest of his life.
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post #72 of 173 (permalink) Old 04-26-14, 01:51 PM Thread Starter
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Everyone: The flight to from the ‘Maiden of Sorrow’ to the ‘Nightfall’ is a rather uneventful one as Malak is the best pilot in all of fourth company and he easily weaves the ‘Revenant’ between all of the other Storm eagles and Thunderhawk transports leaving the other ships of the Eighth legion as you make your way to the legions flagship. You have time to talk on private channels with each other if you wish or you may contemplate the up coming battle and what it means for each of you, for awhile now the Night Lords legion have been Renegade in all but name but with the acts that will be committed on Isstvan V all the universe will know where your loyalties truly lie. As you start there talking with each other or remaining silent you can see Xandrek standing with his back towards the bulkhead that leads to the cockpit of the ‘Revenant’ with his crimson lens locked firmly on Var though what is going on through your Captain’s mind you do not know and it is unlikely that you will find out even if you asked him, though perhaps Azrael or Veptus would gain some answer if they asked?

As Malak brings the ‘Revenant’ down on the decking of one of the ‘Nightfalls’ landing bays you remove your restraint harnesses and following Xandrek down the descending ramp and you are confronted a sight similar to what you yourselves are doing with the captains of all companies with their own ships leaving their transports at the head of their command squads. Like Xandrek you may be looking be looking about to see who exactly has arrived or if Captains have been replaced during transit through murder or honor duels, while looking you can easily pick out the forms of such infamous Nightlords (I am unable to find the list of them which I had written so when I do I shall edit it in, among them that I remember you will see: Malcharion, Talos, and those listed at the start of the novel: Prince of Crows). Walking with Xandrek you see at the far end of the embarkation deck are twelve figures waiting for the captains, ten of them stand in terminator armour each bedecked in their own grisly trophies and you know that ten warriors are members of the first company: The Atrementar.

The eleventh figure is one you all know by reputation and name even though you may never of met him in person or had a conversation with him: First Captain Jago ‘Sevetar’ Sevetarion, Master of the Atrementar, The Prince of Crows. While Sevetar presence alone could bring the captains of other companies to being on their ‘best behavior’ it is infact the presence of the twelfth and final figure that has made the entire room fall silent save for the pounding of ceramite boots on the steel deck. Standing in full armour with skulls dangling from rusted chains, bare helmed revealing his corpse white pale skin, lank midnight black hair and eyes, bearing two monstrously sized power claws known by all Night Lords as: ‘Mercy and Forgiveness’, emitting a savage majesty as he towers over even his terminator armoured bodyguard stands: The Night Haunter, Primarch of the Eighth Legion, Progenitor and Father of the Night Lords themselves. Konrad Curze.

Standing with Xandrek you look over your Gene-Sire in awe or with pride (Though Var you will likely feel nothing you heartless machine xD) he inturn sweeps his black eyes over the gathered squads of each company as does Sevetar before the Night Haunter turns away and leaves through the bulkhead door with Sevetar himself addressing you all. “All Captains will follow myself and the Primarch for a meeting about how we will deploy and deal with out brothers down on the surface, the rest of you may move about the flagship to go to the training and sparring halls, the Apocatherion, the armory or you may remain here. You are all to gather back here on the embarkation deck in three hours for briefing from your Captains.” With that Sevetar and Atrementar leaving with all of the captains issuing orders to their squads before moving on.

Xandrek turns his helmeted head towards all of you before inclining it slightly “It will be good to speak with the Primarch again, Azrael until I return ensure that you and the other ‘children’ do not embarrass Fourth Company in anyway or form is that understood? Var for once im asking you Brother to Brother to not antagonize any of our brothers from the other companies.” Xandrek says as he turns to fully face the Tech-Marine with a slight sigh in his voice before he once again turns it into a threat. “Or you will find that I will be returning to the ‘Maiden’ with a new Master of the Forge, with all of your bionics being used as spares for servitors.” With that Xandrek turns and strides off with a flourish of his black cloak and ends up walking in step with Halaskar of Third Company and Malcharion the War-Sage of Tenth Company. You have a choice of those four locations in where you wish to go and depending on where you will go depends on who you will meet and what will happen, so you may choose to either stay as a group and go somewhere together or split up and so I will list those locations again you may go to: The Training and Sparring halls, The Apocatherion, The Armory or you may stay here on the Embarkation deck other areas you may try to get to but for that pm me before hand and I will let you know if the Atrementar guards would allow you access to there.
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post #73 of 173 (permalink) Old 05-03-14, 01:47 PM
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What a curious legion; their movements were not as synchronised and unified as those of his own, or others such as the Imperial Fists, Ultramarines or Iron Hands, yet nor were they as fluid and nonchalant as those of the Raven Guard or Alpha Legion. The Night Lords struck Pelegon as being somewhat akin to predatory birds, strutting and loping between each other, little keeping them from baring their talons. Yet no rage was present; this was not combat stayed by willpower, but more calculated acknowledgement of each others' combat abilities, with an unpleasant undercurrent of self-preservation. So they huddled in their squads and companies, casting suspicious glares at each other and, sometimes, at him.

He was an oddity here, the Iron Warrior; the Night Lords had armour adorned mostly with grisly trophies, with fine paintwork displaying, Pelegon assumed, their squad or company, while Pelegon's was as plain as a worked sheet of steel. Where they were finely carved alabaster sculptures of mortal fear incarnate, Pelegon was a brick. That they moved, adjusted their equipment and socialised did not aid Pelegon with regards to blending in...not that the Iron Warrior, who stood stock-still and did not so much as twitch, attempted to, but being less prominent would not have hurt. He had to ask himself; what use were these symbols against those who did not know fear? The Eighth would not fare well against the Sons of Angron, Pelegon suspected, or the grim-faced XIVth legion, or his own IVth, but kept this thought to himself. They were carrion crows, fit only to prey on the weak, and were, perhaps, painfully aware of this fact. Or Pelegon was reading too much into their body language and external appearance; he knew that they had been selected from the basest criminals that Nostramo could offer, that they employed stealth and terror tactics, but precious little else. More information was not something that his Warsmith, Vhalen, had deigned to furnish him with.

It had been less than a standard Terran hour since his commander had taken his leave of the Nightfall, and already Pelegon intensely regretted taking this assignment. However, it was what his Primarch expected of him, and Pelegon knew that he would rather die than be found wanting in any aspect of his conduct. But how he would fight with this...this rabble...of course he was operating on little actual knowledge. He would witness first hand their combat abilities and to this end he had been assigned to a supposed "First Claw", their own linguistic for a command unit. The First Claw of the Fourth Company, under a certain Xandrek, of whom he knew nothing. All he knew was the insignias to watch out for, and after that turned out to fend for himself. So it had always been; self-sufficiency, however, was something that Pelegon was more than adept at.

Having scanned the flocks of midnight-clad legionnaires, the Olympian found what he was searching for. First Claw of the Fourth Company. One detached himself from the rest and slipped away in the direction that the other captains had gone; presumably Xandrek. Pelegon failed to get a good look at him, but at least he knew where his new commander could be found.

Striding through the rabble, Pelegon approached First Claw, shoving aside any Night Lords who stood in his path, a few giving him dirty looks but deciding, wisely, not to do anything about it other than slink away. The men who constituted his objective did not fail to notice him, turning to look at the ironclad stranger, who ground to a halt a few metres away from them. Pelegon had not been patched into their vox-net, so he had no displays for them, knew not which of them was named what; the hulking brute of a techmarine and his unusual harness intrigued the Iron Warrior, but that could wait. For now, introductions had to be made.

"Greetings" the Olympian's voice came out in his usual vox-altered, semi-mechanical growl as the burning blue of his helmet's eye-pieces gazed over each of them. He assumed that they spoke, or at least understood, High Gothic.

"My name is Pelegon, of the 2nd Company of the 77th Grand Battalion of the Iron Warriors, and I have been assigned to your unit"

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post #74 of 173 (permalink) Old 05-04-14, 04:01 AM
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His eyes swept over the assemblage of the Atrementar with a nod of respect, the First Company were renowned for their skill in combat. Lead by Captain Sevetar, they were truly what the other Night Lords aspired to become. The Night Haunter himself was lost to Tyberus' vision, but he heard their gene-sire speak, albeit briefly, even that short exposure to their Primarch filled him with great pride.

"Greetings," The unknown voice rang out in High Gothic, "My name is Pelegon, of the 2nd Company of the 77th Grand Battalion of the Iron Warriors, and I have been assigned to your unit." The language was melodic and fluid in tone, but it grated Tyberus' ears. It was a language that he hoped he would not have to hear again after they emerged victorious from the coming war. His response was measured in tone, but he did not bother to hide his distaste.

He stood up as he began to speak, the discrepancy in height quite clear as Pelegon was on the tall side even by Astartes standards, Tyberus himself stood seven feet, though his armor was broader from shoulder to shoulder than the Iron Warrior. "You are assigned to our squadron as we embark on the greatest war any of us have ever known to free ourselves from the shackles of this False Imperium, yet you would still speak in their chosen, antiquated tongue? The tongue of the False Emperor." Tyberus low voice rattled through the vox comm, his tone could not be mistaken as inviting, nor was he outright hostile, suspicious with a hint of malevolence creeping as he continued in Low Gothic, "My name is Tyberus of First Claw," the chains that adorned his armor clanked as he took a step forward, now other Night Lords began to take notice, like scavengers several other squadrons began to edge closer to what they believed could be an explosion of violence at any moment. Perhaps Tyberus of First Claw would act where others had simply turned the shoulders and slinked away from the Iron Warrior. The other Night Lords eyed Pelegon and then one another, as if weighing up what would happen if this escalated, looking amongst each other to see who would scavenge the choicest pieces of equipment from the Iron Warrior, or Tyberus, whoever fell didn't matter, there would be a secondary skirmish to see who could add to their own personal collection of armor and weaponry by picking the bones of the deceased. The tension was quickly cut as Tyberus continued in Low Gothic, "If you fight with us with the reputation of your Legion against those still loyal to the Imperium, then you are welcome among us. He took another step forward with his hand extended in a formal greeting that was somewhat uncommon for the Night Lords.

Tyberus' actions were not without forethought however, if Pelegon could prove himself to be a worthy combatant and a battle brother who was loyal to their cause then he could perhaps enlist him in a special agenda of his own. He no longer trusted Var, but moreso he was unsure who could be trusted within the Legion or even the Fourth Company. Var must have had allies to get along this far, he also began to wonder what it was that stayed the Captain's hand when he could simply kill Var and be done with the headaches the tech marine caused. Granted, he was skilled in his duties, but to Tyberus, Var was too much of a liability at this point and he would look to gain help, even from this outsider, perhaps the fact that Pelegon was an outsider made him a more appropriate candidate. Soon they were to be fighting their once battle brothers, and Tyberus was not about to be taken by surprise from some plot from within at the hands of that damned Tech Marine.

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post #75 of 173 (permalink) Old 05-04-14, 10:56 AM
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Pelegon took in the information, displeased that he had, seemingly, insulted at least one member of the First Claw; this was not the desired effect, yet what other language could he use? How dare this lowly marine, this Tyberus, question his desire to see the Emperor slaughtered and those foolish enough to remain loyal to him put to the sword? It was true that Pelegon and his kin had no great loyalty to the Warmaster, but that they wanted to see their erstwhile brethren utterly annihilated was beyond question.

A more garrulous character would have roared back at the Night Lord and waxed lyrical about how much the IVth had given, had taken on the most back-breaking and thankless engagements in the Crusade, had lost more men yet achieved more than any other single legion. A more impassioned character would have drawn his weapon and shot down the astartes, regardless of the consequences that he would suffer as a result. Pelegon, however, did not move a muscle as Tyberus approached him, merely stared balefully at the legionnaire and prepared an answer. The marine was short, but not lacking in physical impressiveness for it, with an unusual blend of armour; Mark IV on his limbs, with Mark III on his torso and head. An impressive blend, keeping the vitals more heavily protected while retaining the mobility of lighter armour. However, the Olympian also knew that it would require no small amount of strength and stamina to wear such a suit, as the Mark IV's greaves were not designed to carry the weight of a Mark III breastplate. Pelegon did not approve of the chains and decor, but at least Tyberus was not debased enough to wear the human skin so favoured by some of his more degenerate fellows. A favourable impression, at least compared to the other Nostramans.

The other marine continued to speak, and held out a hand, and Pelegon internally lauded himself for his restraint; it had been but a greeting, perhaps one that the other marine wanted to use to establish Pelegon as bottom of the pecking order in his new squad. Then again, it was not inconceivable that this had been a test of the Iron Warrior's diplomatic ability, or his restraint, or perhaps just honest critique.

The proffered hand, however...Pelegon knew what to do, having seen the human commanders with who he had served greet each other this way. With a single smooth motion, the Iron Warrior took Tyberus' smaller hand in his own, squeezing firmly (but not too hard; inflicting injury at this point to a squad mate would likely prove lethal for him) and pumped it up and down twice, before releasing his grip and standing back to attention. What a strange custom; it served no purpose, for neither of them had interface ports in their wrists with which to exchange information, yet neither did it allow one to subdue the other and assert his dominance. The latter was not a concern that Pelegon would have ever thought he would need to have with fellow astartes, yet having seen the Night Lords of other squads fall silent and eye the pair of them in a manner not dissimilar to that of an ancient Terran predator-cum-scavenger known as a hyena, the Iron Warrior suspected that showing weakness here might be more detrimental to his health than in even his own legion.

"I incorrectly assumed that so slight a miscalculation would not cause offence" Pelegon replied in Low Gothic, his mechanised growl its usual even tone, giving nothing away "I thank you for your warm welcome, Tyberus, and look forward to fighting alongside you and your brothers. I must inform you that regrettably I am not versed in your own language, though I would be more than willing to learn it should a suitable tutor present himself"

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post #76 of 173 (permalink) Old 05-07-14, 10:20 PM
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There were twelve of them, clad in midnight blue like the rest of them but somehow other. The first ten were set apart by their bulky frames. Veptus has seen terminator armour, both Cataphractii and Indomidus pattern, worn by other legions before the Thirteenth legion had ever received them, and he had wondered briefly if they would integrate as effectively with the Trophies of Judgement that most of the veterans maintained. But anyone looking at the terrifying majesty of the Atramentar could attest that the Night Lords could take anything and mould it to their liking.

The eleventh figure was Sevatar. From out of his pale cragged face his merciless black orbs picked and gnawed at each of them as he inspected them. Sevatar held whatever measure of respect a Nostraman could muster, for he was renowned as an agent of terror and death. The First Captain was a man esteemed and respected by all those gathered, and most would followed if asked. But he was not the one that all their eyes were drawn too, as much as they tried to pull away. The twelfth was the man, if such a towering presence cast from dread, despair and terror could be called a man, was the one they all stared at. No one dared make a sound.

They all stared in silence at the Primarch wreathed in cold death and shadows. If Sevatar was death’s agent, then their Father was death itself. His very aura made one want to prostrate oneself, confessing every sin and begging for mercy, but also knowing that the only mercy to be had was one of a quick death. He was judgement incarnate. He was the cosmic sense of justice given form and voice. His frame was magnificent to behold and equally terrifying. He was their Gene-sire, their Father, their Primarch. His name was a by-word for bloody retribution and swift vengeance. His name was

“Night Haunter.” The words escaped Veptus’s mouth with a reckless abandon that he could not stop, only suppress into the smallest whisper that wouldn’t have made it more than a few millimetres past his lips before the crushing silence destroyed it. At that moment Konrad Curze’s eyes swept over Veptus. He knew that their Father was judging all of them with the same scales and that he had heard his whisper of awe, even if no one else had. Under the fleeting gaze of their Gene-sire, Veptus felt the compulsion to bow, but given that no one else around him was prostrating themselves before Konrad Curze, Veptus resolved to remain standing. Even that was a trial.

Without a word to confirm if they had been found wanting or not, their Father left them, disappearing into the void between the ceremite archway. Abruptly the inspiring presence of dread was gone and Veptus was as glad to be rid of its omniscient glare as he longed for it to return. Now Sevatar spoke, instructing those in authority to follow and dictating where their servants could and could not go. Xandrek turned and asked them all to be civil, like a parent cautious of leaving two siblings together. He was worried they would take their brothers into a corn field with a rock behind their backs and enact one of the oldest story ever told.

And like that, they were all left. Veptus stood near Raskreia and Azrael, they formed the trinity of the First Claw. Veptus had almost been tempted to ask if he could accompany Xandrek to the briefing, but even for one as favoured as he was, such a bone-idle request would carry the highest censure. But the longing to see the man that did not merely wield terror but became it was undeniable, except maybe for the cold shell of a creature Var.

Suddenly, a foreign voice broke the distinct muttering of Nostraman. This intruder spoke in Low Gothic, at tone not commonly heard amongst the Night Lord cohorts gathered here. Veptus turned to look at this outsider, and noticed that several others had paused there conversations to look at the man too. His unfurnished iron marked him out amongst the sea of midnight blue gathered here. The emblem on his shoulder wasn’t a winged skull, but an armoured one furnished or pig iron and sheer bloody-mindedness. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Veptus muttered in Nostraman, half to himself and half to Raskreia and Azrael.

The Iron Warrior said his name was Pelegon and he had been assigned to their unit. “Oh yeah, because I was just saying, wasn’t I Azrael, how much I wished we had a bloody Olympian to drag around with us!” Veptus still spoke in the gutter language of Nostraman. His burning red eye lenses met this Pelegon’s, so he could be certain he was talking about him, but unable to understand. Tyberus responded the same way a white blood cell does to a micro-organism. He looked him up and down, inspecting him, trying to determine whether to let him pass or devour him and save the body from infection.

The Iron Warrior apologised for not being versed in their language but professed a desire to learn if a tutor presented themselves. “Do you know what we did to the children of Nostramo, Olympian?” Veptus addressed Pelegon, but only the last word was in Low Gothic, for there was no Nostraman word for Olympia. Veptus made his way toward the Iron Warrior, the skulls on his knees chattering and his charnel cape swaying gently from side to side. “We employ them as our runners, our front line troops. They are the ones in the most danger. Those who are weak perish. Only the strong survive long enough to make anything of themselves. Which will you be I wonder?”
The crass Nostraman rolled off Veptus’s tongue as he cocked his head slightly and wondered whether the Iron Warrior beneath that helm was wearing an expression of confusion or fury. Perhaps a mixture of both.

For his part, Veptus smiled underneath his helm at the thought of infuriating and bemusing this unwanted, unasked-for and unwelcome Astartes with all the personality and usefulness as a sledgehammer. When he next spoke, Veptus spoke for the first time in many years in Low Gothic. Despite his fluency in the official Imperial language, all the syllables still had a Nostraman edge to them that Veptus had neither the time nor the desire to erase. “Better learn fast, Olympian.” Veptus walked past the Iron Warrior, slapping his Legion emblem as he did so. He was not one of them, and that symbol attested to that fact. Veptus had more important things to do than tutor some wanderer from another Legion. Such as store Zhasal’s geneseed in the gene-vaults of the Nightfall, where he was now headed...

My contribution to the Renegades saga. Check it out

My growing IIIrd legion stuff:

17th Millenial (Homebrew Fluff) - "Children of the Emperor, death to his foes!" (Project Log)

Also my 30k tacticas, for those of you interested:

Crusade Army List tactica - Individual Legion tactica

Originally Posted by Angel of Blood View Post
And for two fucking grand, I could buy enough rum and hookers to 'artistically' recreate the better part of Pirates of the Caribbean.

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post #77 of 173 (permalink) Old 05-09-14, 07:11 AM
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Tyberus couldn't help but laugh at the Iron Warrior's comment on receiving a warm welcome, to which he responded, "You will find no such pleasantries here Olympian."

He couldn't help but grin underneath his helmet, seeing that Veptus was laying into the Iron Warrior and Pelegon was likely only partially aware. Tyberus spoke in Nostraman as he addressed Veptus "We can only use him as cannon fodder if he makes it to the battle Brother Veptus. For the time being we're stuck with him so we might as well make sure he doesn't get his bones picked clean by the other squadron's before we drop planetside." With his low, bassy voice Nostraman sounded especially savage, though his chuckling at the Olympians expense somewhat lessened the harshness of the language.

"As we are stuck with you Iron Warrior, and you with us, I suggest you stick with First Claw. And Veptus is right, you'd better learn fast and stay out of our way." He spoke as he walked back to sit next to Jaekal, the closest thing he could consider a 'friend' within the First Claw. Likewise, while he and Veptus were not really friends, not that Nostraman's typically had bonds like that for the most part, but they both certainly agreed upon the Nostraman way. This Iron Warrior would either learn quickly or be cut down, it was that simple.
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post #78 of 173 (permalink) Old 05-10-14, 09:27 AM
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As Agrippa steps off the ramp of the now landed stormbird he looks down into the slowly increasing crowd of Nightlord battle brothers and can not help but let a smile escape his face. looking through the crowd he notices the towering figures that stand at the main bulkhead, The First Company, the terminator armor making them much larger than the rest of the legion and in the middle the Primarch himself,The Night Haunter, he had heard rumor on Nostramo of the hunting down of criminals that the Primarch did but to see him with his own eyes was glorious, the man who gave Agrippa purpose again stood just across the room. The Primarch turned away and one of the First Company Marines, Sevetar, another one of legend, spoke to all the gathered Nightlords.

After Sevetar boomed his message across the gathered brothers Agrippa turned towards the rest of the First Claw "I am heading towards the Armory..."he was interrupted by something catching his eye, a shining stain in the middle of the glorious Midnight blue, he was marching towards them "Greetings" his voice bringing pain to Agrippa's ears that language was of those who thought themselves better than him and his brothers, the laughter told him to rip the tongue out but Agrippa controlled himself with steely resolve as he had done since becoming a Nightlord. He looked upon the silver face of the Iron warrior as he spoke
"My name is Pelegon, of the 2nd Company of the 77th Grand Battalion of the Iron Warriors, and I have been assigned to your unit"

"Why would an Iron Warrior be assigned to us, does someone think us incompetent?" Agrippa scoffed and Marched past the towering Olympian "Who is with me to the Armory?" not looking back as he spoke to see if anyone responded, he would not be someone's chaperone. He disappeared into the now dispersing sea of Midnight Blue
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post #79 of 173 (permalink) Old 05-10-14, 08:45 PM
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Their language grated against his ears, even vox-filtered as it was. It was one designed to be muttered or whispered in the dead of night, for subtle communication between criminals in a holding facility - filled with nuances and suggestions that came across to Pelegon as nothing more than semi-articulate snarls. A far cry from Olympian, a language forged in the crucible of war; a booming roar by comparison, appropriated for bellowing over the thunder of mortars and the screams of the dying. Straightfoward direction and logical communication not couched in implication.

Of course they were speaking about him; the mentioning of Olympia was clear enough, and after their gruesome apothecary slapped him on the shoulder with a metallic clang, Pelegon had to resist the urge to wipe himself clean. At that moment the Olympian vowed that he would never allow that butcher to practice his wicked art on him; that narthecium had looked filthy and poorly-maintained, in the Iron Warrior's eyes barely fit even as a decorative piece, even less as a medical instrument. The fetish for body parts as an addition to his armour struck him as unnecessarily superficial, even by the standards of what he had seen of the Night Lords. Were he to get injured in the line of duty, Pelegon would patch himself up. Thus it had always been; Pelegon had never relied on an apothecary, as all in his company had been too busy arranging the logistics of medical supplies or attending to the gene-seed of the fallen to ever work on living patients. Most Iron Warriors could self-medicate; failing this they could replace the damaged body part with a bionic, or turn their bolters on themselves so that their gene-seed might be available to the next generation.

"Better learn fast, Olympian"

"As we are stuck with you Iron Warrior, and you with us, I suggest you stick with First Claw. And Veptus is right, you'd better learn fast and stay out of our way."

Pelegon was unsure how he could both stick with them and stay out of their way, but strongly suspected that him pointing out the logical fallacy would not be well-received. Or it had been a misinterpretation on his part; likely they did not want the newcomer disrupting their squad co-ordination, of which he had seen very little. A clash of tactics and approach was almost inevitable. The Iron Warrior somehow doubted that the VIIIth would employ the same remorseless grinding war machine that his own legion did, nor be so willing to lay down their lives, especially now that they had burned their own homeworld. Or he could be wrong; the lack of intelligence that he had was irking him much more than the pathetic attempts of these degenerates to cow him.

Moving from his statue-like state, Pelegon raised both shoulders and clasped both huge gauntleted hands behind the small of his back, showing all the emotional response of a slab of concrete. Like children once the schoolmaster had left the class, without their Xandrek they were barely held together. Nothing could be done until their captain returned; doubtless Xandrek would have been briefed on Pelegon's presence, and he might attempt to reign his charges in. This brief encounter had already told him a fair amount about the VIII's habits, and it was not pleasing.

"I will return once I have better acquainted myself with your customs" the Olympian rumbled, casting a sweeping gaze across the assembled First Claw. Without another word, Pelegon turned smoothly on his heel, the faint hiss of well-oiled hydraulics the only sound to accompany him, and left to seek the Nightfall's Librarium.
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post #80 of 173 (permalink) Old 05-12-14, 08:39 PM
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Vandread stood stock still as he took in the Magesty that was his gene-sire Konrad Curze. It had been so long since he had last seen his father that he had almost forgotten the feeling of pure fear that he excluded. Oh how Vandread adored this feeling of pure dread, despair, and death. Letting a sickening grin spread across his face, his dry lips cracking as they spread, he hopes that in this upcoming battle upon Isstavan he would find an opportunity to impress his father.

Vandread then cast his gaze over to Captain Sevetar. Sevetar was by far, by his standards anyway, the most feared fighter in the galaxy besides the primarchs of course. Vandread modeled his whole fighting style based off of tales of Sevetars fighting prowess, and his reputation for dirty fighting. He had never been given the grace of fighting along side Captain Sevetar but he hoped, as well as with his father, that he would be given the chance to impress him.

"Greetings, My name is Pelegon, of the 2nd Company of the 77th Grand Battalion of the Iron Warriors, and I have been assigned to your unit." A voice said in High Gothic. Turning around Vandread came upon the sight of a Astartes of Legion he himself had not had the privelege of fighting with yet. An Iron Warrior Pelegon if what he said of himself was true. Ah the Iron Warriors a Legion that Vandread could respect, even if they spoke in a form of High Gothic. Just like the Night Lords the Iron Warriors in Vandread's eyes were betrayed for no just or good reason. He heard of there exploits along with that of the Death Guard. Having to sacrifice countless numbers of men in long seiges of planets that surely no other Legions could have hoped to Conquer yet were they ever given praise, were they ever congradulated and had tales of there deeds written down by Imperial Scribes. No they were merely told that they were doing what they were meant to do and even looked down upon for taking so long in sieges. Another thing in common between there two Legions is there hate for the Imperial fists and there Primarch Regal Dorn. He had also heard of how the Iron Hands primarch Ferrus Manus belittled Pertuabo whenever they came in contact.

Through his reminsing on things in common between there two Legions Vandread didnt realize his brothers gave the Iron Warrior not the most warming welcome. "I will return once I have better acquainted myself with you customs." Pelegon said as he turned and started leaving tords the Librarium . 'Fools!' Vandread cursed in his mind, how could they just turn away a fellow brother even if he was from another Legion. With that in mind Vandread set off to get to know the Olympian and show him that not all of his Legion were short minded.
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