He crouched over Genaddon's corpse like some huge, metallic carrion bird, rummaging through the Marine's pouches. Krateron took what was needed, ammunition and grenades, and left everything else. Some of it was damaged, the corrosive bombardment having melted casings or set off rounds, and these he worked around gingerly, throwing them away into the rubble. Fires still crackled around his ankles, eating away at the ocean-green of his greaves. He grunted, radioactive winds howling against his armour, and turned his attentions back to the Emperor's Children. Three of you, one of me, he thought, smiling grimly. Piss poor odds for you.
Krateron stood, his business with Genaddon finished, and listened as the Emperor's Children responded. This Tiberius, this Decurion, could talk the talk - All of the Third Legion could - But, how capable of a warrior was he? He professed to fighting upon a hundred worlds, to being a champion of Murder - That was not how Krateron remembered One-Forty-Twenty - And to believing in the Imperial Truth, now that was interesting. The Iterators of Terra, those bastard preachers, offered the Imperial Truth to the masses. Most of the Sixteenth had undergone speeches from the Iterators, on behalf of Horus himself, and most of them detested it. Krateron, stoically loyal to Horus and the Emperor, had attended out of that loyalty, and that loyalty alone, rather than any actual belief or devotion.
'I would say,' Krateron transmitted, after Tiberius was done, the ghost of a smile on his lips. 'That considering our current circumstances, Decurion, we are friends.'
He began the long walk, trudging down the ruined, blasted street. Every footstep crunched glass, powdered bone, sent up tufts of ash and embers. Two of the Emperor's Children repositioned, clutching bolters in gold-chased gauntlets, taking aim at Krateron. Still he smiled, marching onwards, hands raised high, palms facing outwards. I'm unarmed, you painted fools, a friend.
Krateron walked between them, noting their ranks - One was a Legionary, standing to his left, something about his stance unsure, a lack of confidence, perhaps? Krateron snorted, Fulgrim's peacocks were always confident, arrogantly so. Even when they died, they did it with flair and grace, rather than the blood, guts and shit of everyone else. The other Marine was a Lieutenant, a Decurion, which made Krateron's brow raise. What kind of fun had these three been having, a pair of Decurions and their poor Legionary, when the sky started to burn?
'Akkad Krateron,' The Legionary growled, through his external speakers, lowering his arms. 'Seventh Company, Sons of Horus,' He looked around, surveying the destruction. Nothing had been spared, everything had collapsed or reeled, drunkenly, blackened by the firestorm. He whistled, and listened, as the sound bounced along the street, echoing, echoing, echoing. 'So, Tiberius,' He looked at the Decurion, hoping that it was the right one. Krateron's friend-or-foe tags were malfunctioning, radioactive interference was torturing his armour. This one, the one with that fancy Phoenician helmet that the Third favoured so lovingly, looked right. 'The Emperor's Children championed Murder, did they? Funny that,' He barked a laugh, shaking his helmet. 'I remember it remarkably different.'
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; 08-02-14 at 02:41 PM.