He was soaked with the blood of his kin, stinking like a abattoir, his nostrils clogged with the ashes of a dying world. The wound on his cheek was healing, the flesh knitting together as he turned his attentions to the next target - A rumbling, rolling Rapier that was headed towards them. Surrounding it, veiled in shadows, were the Sons of Horus - Unlatching hooks, swords and cudgels, axes and firearms. Shots filled the air, buzzing like hornets, and Krateron darted into cover - Behind Dillinger and Vultus.
Their cover was a piece of building, blackened and scorched, having been dislodged from one of the surrounding starscrapers - A cracked gargoyle remained, leering at Krateron.
'What are you looking at?' He said, grinned, and took the head in his hands. With a pitifully soft squeeze, the rock crumbled and fell away.
And then the next enemy had vaulted their cover, swinging an axe. Krateron shot him in the stomach and away he tumbled, but not before one of Dillinger blew away his faceplate.
Dillinger were outnumbered and outgunned, as they had been all day, Krateron realised. Nonetheless, they rose bravely to their would-be killers, hate upon their lips and steel in their gauntlets. Krateron came face-to-face with the Sergeant, the Eye of Horus shining proudly upon his chest, a long, curving Chainsword held in both his hands. He was issuing his orders in Cthonic, and Krateron felt a pang of guilt - He was about to kill another of his brothers.
'Sergeant,' He called, mockingly. 'There is no dishonour in fleeing,' He holstered his bolt-pistol and drew Oathkeeper, the blade tarnished with gore and dust. 'I have done it often, today.'
The Sergeant replied with something filthy. Krateron laughed sadly.
They went together. It was blindingly fast, cruel punches being thrown whilst blades kissed and twisted, ash swirling up around them. One of them was going to die, Krateron realised, and it wasn't going to be him.
He sidestepped, caught the Chainsword with his hilt, and twisted. Disarmed, the Sergeant reached for his bolt-pistol - But Krateron was quicker. Oathkeeper cut through armour, muscle and bone - Through the wrist, and then up, into ribs and across - Through the torso. Bisected, dead, the Sergeant fell away and Krateron was left with a brief moment. Dillinger battled with their brothers around him, gutting them, robbing them of limbs, firing at point blank range. It was exhilarating and terrifying, transhuman dread seeping into Krateron's very soul. The longer he stayed here - In this quagmire - The longer he risked death.
When the last body fell, steaming and hissing, all attentions were turned towards the Rapier. Gretivalus fired, slew the operators, and the Squad moved up from cover - Krateron at their rear, eyes scanning. The Stormbird had been chased off, but Krateron knew the Sons well - More would return, at some point. And from where? He was in a ruinscape, a twisted labyrinth of broken splendour, with a thousand alleys - All bearing butchery.
And then, it fired. Vultus, the brave standard bearer of the Second, was annihilated - Turned into dancing motes of light. Krateron would mourn little, if at all - Vultus had been a stranger, another face that went amiss in the crowd - But still charged forth, with Dillinger, at the Rapier.
A sword was sheathed in the gun's metal, a purple gauntlet wrapped around the hilt.
'Burning Hells,' Krateron muttered beneath his breath, locking eyes with Sebastian. 'I had hoped you dead.'
Sebastian addressed him, and Krateron grinned darkly.
'Oh, such a lovely city, Decurion,' He said, encompassing the surrounding area with a swipe of his free hand. 'I am still running, I merely found myself sightseeing.'
When the one called Xaren came stumbling from the Rhino, Krateron's lips twisted. He had never thought highly of the Tenth Captain - Nor his Company - But he inclined his head, nonetheless, in greetings.
When the World Eater came, frothing and bellowing, Krateron grinned again.
'I have put down enough of your rabid breed today,' He pointed Oathkeeper at the Twelfth Legionary. 'One more doesn't bother me - Lower your weapons, or I'll bury mine in your heart.'
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?'