Joined
·
2,996 Posts
Iapatus's smile was absolute. To some, it would have been terrifying, to others, electrifying. The Space Wolves' vessel was floundering, her shields were dead. The Shipmaster ordered a spread of torpedoes, as he marched through the hallways of his vessel, a wrist-mounted communicator and hololithic display showing him the battle in real-time.
'Assault boats are ready to launch,' One of his bridge officers chimed. Iapetus reevaluated the range, ran a series of theoretical failures and victories through his head, and then decided upon his course of action.
'Target the Fist of Russ,' He purred, languidly. 'One last strike - Target the engines,' He entered a large, cathedral like chamber. A host of his Terminators, thirty in total, awaited. They wore cloaks of mail, carried axes and mauls and shields, some with lightning claws, some with thunder hammers, all warriors unrivaled. When they saw Iapetus, they bowed, striking a fist over their hearts. 'I want the assault boats launched, before the fires end, bridge.'
He killed the communicator. 'My brothers, my glorious Seventh,' He said, to his Terminators. These were his elite, at least, those not aboard the Lonesome Queen. 'The Sons of Fenris, the Wolves, await us. They are cornered, they are alone, they are desperate. They are dead,' His Terminators remained silent, unmoving, if Iapetus didn't know better - He might have mistook them for statues. 'But we must not underestimate our foes. An injured wolf is a fierce wolf, we know this well. We are going into their den, they know the decks, they know where to hide and ambush. We are, in comparison, blind. Lucian and his Third,' He spat on the deck. His Marines rumbled. 'Will be supporting us..'
He slammed the haft of his spear into the deck. There was a flash, as metal met stone. Olympian stone, harvested from the world before her destruction, a lifetime ago. Iapetus remembered overseeing the quarrying, towering over the mortals, issuing orders with deft flicks of his hand. He had been a God, then, spirited away from the Great Crusade to build his chariots, his prized possessions. Around the rooms, generators started to power up.
'If we are lucky, the Space Wolves will drive them into the dirt, and tear their throats out,' Iapetus lowered his helmet over his head, bathing everything in teal. 'If we are unlucky, Lucian and his brood of shadow-dancers will live, and when the time comes, we shall end them.'
His Marines began to form up around him, locking their shields together. To his left, came Argon, carrying a long, cruelly-hooked polearm. To his left, with his thunder-hammer and flamer, was Veros. Two of his oldest, truest friends, two of the greatest Marines that Iapetus had ever served besides. The room started to stink, of charred meat and ozone. Lightning crackled around them, and then-
A flash. Disorientation, disassembling, reassembling.
-Iapetus and his escort reappeared, thousands of kilometres away, aboard the Fist of Russ. His spear found the throat of a thrall, blood jetting over him, and then they were moving. Into the heart of the ship, towards their prey.
'Assault boats are ready to launch,' One of his bridge officers chimed. Iapetus reevaluated the range, ran a series of theoretical failures and victories through his head, and then decided upon his course of action.
'Target the Fist of Russ,' He purred, languidly. 'One last strike - Target the engines,' He entered a large, cathedral like chamber. A host of his Terminators, thirty in total, awaited. They wore cloaks of mail, carried axes and mauls and shields, some with lightning claws, some with thunder hammers, all warriors unrivaled. When they saw Iapetus, they bowed, striking a fist over their hearts. 'I want the assault boats launched, before the fires end, bridge.'
He killed the communicator. 'My brothers, my glorious Seventh,' He said, to his Terminators. These were his elite, at least, those not aboard the Lonesome Queen. 'The Sons of Fenris, the Wolves, await us. They are cornered, they are alone, they are desperate. They are dead,' His Terminators remained silent, unmoving, if Iapetus didn't know better - He might have mistook them for statues. 'But we must not underestimate our foes. An injured wolf is a fierce wolf, we know this well. We are going into their den, they know the decks, they know where to hide and ambush. We are, in comparison, blind. Lucian and his Third,' He spat on the deck. His Marines rumbled. 'Will be supporting us..'
He slammed the haft of his spear into the deck. There was a flash, as metal met stone. Olympian stone, harvested from the world before her destruction, a lifetime ago. Iapetus remembered overseeing the quarrying, towering over the mortals, issuing orders with deft flicks of his hand. He had been a God, then, spirited away from the Great Crusade to build his chariots, his prized possessions. Around the rooms, generators started to power up.
'If we are lucky, the Space Wolves will drive them into the dirt, and tear their throats out,' Iapetus lowered his helmet over his head, bathing everything in teal. 'If we are unlucky, Lucian and his brood of shadow-dancers will live, and when the time comes, we shall end them.'
His Marines began to form up around him, locking their shields together. To his left, came Argon, carrying a long, cruelly-hooked polearm. To his left, with his thunder-hammer and flamer, was Veros. Two of his oldest, truest friends, two of the greatest Marines that Iapetus had ever served besides. The room started to stink, of charred meat and ozone. Lightning crackled around them, and then-
A flash. Disorientation, disassembling, reassembling.
-Iapetus and his escort reappeared, thousands of kilometres away, aboard the Fist of Russ. His spear found the throat of a thrall, blood jetting over him, and then they were moving. Into the heart of the ship, towards their prey.