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2nd attempt at writing some 40k fiction. Trying to make this into a story this is the rough draft of the prologue.

The ritual was almost complete, Bial, the most trusted servant of Nurgle could feel himself becoming one with his festering god. He grinned maniacally as he was lifted into the air, the raw power of chaos surging through his body. He marvelled as his armour merged with his green disease riddled skin, his arms growing to many times their own size, his body expanding rapidly.

And then nothing.

The hand-crafted hellfire round, from an Exitus class 409-A2 sniper rifle, exited Bial's skull in a spray of brain matter, showering the surprised cultists. As well trained and disciplined as he was, Aren let a faint smile touch his lips, he still relished the picture made from a prefect shot.

From his vantage point, 5km/s away, Aren made one small silent movement, he tapped his vox and whispered, “Go”. He slid back the bolt lever, a used .75 caliber shell sailing out as he did so. A fresh round sliding from the magazine and into the barrel as the lever was slid back into place. He smiled again as he scoped out the cultists, panicking and ducking for cover, not knowing where the shot had come from. He sighted one such individual poking his head out from behind a table. He braced and fired, the bolt passed clean through the targets head, the corpse going limp as its headless form collapsed back under the table.

As if on cue, fire lit up the sky, a pitch black pod descended from the sky leaving a trail of smoke and fire in its wake. The pod crashed with earth shaking force into the middle of the cultists ritual. The airlock door flew off as the pod's inside decompressed.

A large howl was heard before a dark figure raced out at near in-human speeds. His lunged at the first cultist, his Neuro Gauntlet ripping out his insides in one swift slash. The next cultist dived at him and managed to parry his first blow, only to receive a bolt to the face from his Executioner Pistol. A third cultist ran at him, he caught the cultist by the throat lifting him up into mid air, laughing maniacally as he crushed his head between his hands.

And as quickly as it began, the revolt was finished. Borgan, the Eversor Assassin, barely remained in control, his immune system had been boosted, past the level of other Eversor assassins, to fight the ridiculous amount of chems he injected himself with. The trial antibodies he had been injected with, helped him fight the permanent blood rage, and drug induced psychosis. The not fully developed antibodies only having a partial effect, rendering him an unstable, but professional killer.

Aren arrived by his brothers side, they we're twins, they shared the same blood, a bond that could not be broken, and it pained Aren to see his brother in this light. As much as he knew it was wrong question the works of the Officio Assassinorum , he did so anyway, the drugs injected inside these men, made them, faster, stronger and more powerful than any human could dream of being, but at the price of loosing ones sanity and become a blood hungry psychopath. Good people had been lost this way, Aren didn't want his brother to fall down that same path.

“How are the trial antibodies going?” Aren asked
“I..m...alive.” Borgan managed in a pained tone

Aren pushed the emergency beacon, and observed as a small shuttle craft stealthily rushed through the atmosphere and landed besides them.

“Lets get off this rock.” Borgan managed before embarking the shuttle.
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