Flufficus, Chaoticus.

[Roultox]

Here are the rules:

 

~Its a battlefield, and its one army versus another. Chaos versus, lets say (since its a PA board) Ultramarines. For the sake of diversity we'll call it a Red Corsair force with various units from battle barges dropping in, for the sake of anyone's chapter/legion/warhost playing this game. (even add your B&C painter to show your scheme if you like)

 

~We write the fluff of one individual each, nothing game-ending. It helps if you do portions.

~Nobody can be the HQ, however greater daemons are fine and lesser commanders like Chaplains, etc are ok.

~No flame war style, and dont go killing someones character, everyone must kill their own character eventually.

~You can be goofy, and some people may miss posts both were writing at the same time, thats fine. (Read the dates they're posted!)

~Nothing too crazy, and remember you can pull a necron scout out, or a tyranid genestealer host out of some forgotten cave if you want just for the drama.

~The battlefield is an entire planet, you can fight anywhere, so it would be a rarity if several player characters would actually meet, so be creative.

 

Mods: Permission to move this to AA if it gets popular.

 

The eve of battle.

 

Archrius 4, planet Marc

 

Insurgency forces have wreaked havoc on supply lines to an ork invaded outpost, suspected ork Kommando forces to blame, several detachments of Imperial Guard sent to cease the disruption have not upheld their dated reports and have stopped entirely as of 17 days ago. Space Marine request lines are being used by the top command, it is time for war.

 

Atmoshpere landing drop pods whistling sounds could be heard inside the shut down suits in landing mode. Silent and peaceful, the calm before the storm. The whistle deafens as it breaks the stratosphere, and the bloom of fire explodes scorching the outer shell, heating the hyper-cooled chamber inside. Cooling systems activate and creates a musky, misty haze inside. Still the warriors breathe calmly. One recalls their first drop, speaking nervously, recalling of his green days of nostalgia, and then the thought just like then. "This is where I'll die at duty's end." The difference for the meaning of that sentence from then and now, leagues apart. Fear is not an option, fear has no taste, the color of it so bland its barely visible. The crack of defense lasers skimming and barking at the hull disrupts his nostalgia, and he smiles. The ever familiar return velocity generators spur to life and pitch the pod to meet the surface. At this point, he knows its a mere 7 seconds. Two seconds to power up the suit from landing mode, he counts to five. They say a marine risks injury powering up the suit right before landing, but this man has it down to an art. As if practiced thousands of times, he knows it like the crack of his bolter. A weapon of war, that is what he thinks of himself, his bolter is merely deliverance. The slip of chaos enters his mind, and he tastes blood in his mouth. Shaking his head, he knows of this heresy all too well and spits it out. Thoughts of rending an enemy apart at the shoulders trickles into his mind and he starts to pray. He knows what lies before his feet, and he grips his bolter. It is time, five seconds pass, he powers up and the pound of the landing, the gyros and pressure clasps release as his suit spurs to life half a second before his bretheren. Risking himself for that precious half second, its worth it. The hatches burst open, and he fires before the first red laser cracks his armour. Ultramarines brother sergeant Dramulic fires the first round for his side of the entire war. His rounds swathe a horde of glowy eyed creatures all firing from different shoulder heights, some of them towering over him. These creatures, black and swaying in the dusk light of this planets weird twilight hue. Screams that could be heard past his earpieces, vibrating his helmet causing nausia and aches everywhere, he just stares at his targets pulling the trigger. Subconciously he knows when he hits down to a single round left, leaving that round in for easier reload because of an anti-dirt clot device inside will activate. He takes two fingers, of this clumsy power armor gauntlet and pulls the clip as it ejects and spins the second clip already in his pinkey and palm grasp spinning both clips around for half second reload time. His nostrels breathe as he was taught to, his lips silent under fire moving to word the prayers he concentrates inside his mind. For this foe does not attack his voice, he must think it. Multitasking is not a problem, he points with his free arm, his bretheren of nine advance. Grabbing the clasp of his bolter, he advances into the dark horde. Twitching bodyparts, every shot like a crack of lightening showing the landscape near his pluming clouds of bolter discharge smoke. The land twitching around him as his heavy boots pierce the flesh of this pulsating heresy, only throughts of purity encircle his mind. The eight of them keep a delta pattern advance, firing a consistant volley, Dramulic realises from his squad analysis device that ammo is down to half, yet only two minutes have passed in hell. A few words catches his attention in the ever silent communication channel reserved for reinforcements. He smiles, knowing the sound of six hundred voices, this one he knows the best. Six Speeders reak the dark clouds to reveal one of the two moons peeking through, and as lightening spurs from the clouds so shall retribution reap the hordes from the skies above. Blasts and screams happen for just a second, in the shower of bodyparts the marines stop firing and advance before the rocks return to rest. The seven of them advance further, a few of them with severed hands and jaws gnawing at the corners of their shoulderpads and joints. Presumed to not be a threat, they leave them there to demoralise the enemy. The dark hordes ever fearful and on the run, they walk for a day, pushing back the enemy, firing yet a few rounds to the unweary. Without fear, without remorse, they continue and pray, purifying the land one boot print at a time. Three days pass and nothing changes, the hordes are scattered, minor reports spoken over various channels. Orbital Lasers have decapitated their production and supply, its just a deerhunt now.

 

Dramulic hears the casualty report, however for them they do not say they died, because no marine ever dies through extraction of their chapter gene-seed. Instead, they tell how many of each unit remains, he reports his unit remains seven strong. A few moments after reporting, one of his youngest brothers starts screaming, clawing at his helmet, begging for mercy for heretical thoughts. One of his hands starts deactivating his suit, and pulling off his helmet while his other hand shakes and claws the ground. His brothers surround him, bolters drawn. He ejects his clip, with one round in the chamber, swinging the bolters aim under his chin, not even the base of the skull remains. Dramulic's reports six remain, and with a stutter in his lips as to refuse to report further, the first real marine death of the war.

 

(I will continue my character later, you guys go on now)

 

 

 

Edit: If I had known this would be stickied I would have proofread it better. Thanks for the sticky, I'll continue Dram's storyline in another post, to keep it simple for people knowing the updates I'll double post.

[Roultox]

Alright, continuing, and double posting so people are aware that this has been updated for the continual read.

 

Insanity clawing at the back of his skull, feeling his guts twist tasting blood, and a sense of satisfaction from his bootprints causing the land to bleed. He feels his madness slipping into his rational thoughts. Praying fervously to the one who can save him, he stops to pray. A hand grasps his helmet, pushing him back for a cleaving blow in his absent minded prayer. A shot rings out and an explosion perforating the creature goes unnoticed. He knows if he slips here, any death he brings will be pointless. If he falters, his seed will be irrecoverable and the seventh true death will be announced. Ignoring the blood trickling from his exposed elbow joint, he drops his bolter and joins hands in prayer. His armor is bullied from various directions with fire and laser, yet he remains oblivious. Locked in prayer, his second in command notices and calls for a temporary withdrawl back to the regrouping line for another advance. Monsters fickle and grin at him, noticing that he's failing seem to ignore him as they pass by. His mind torn between bloodshed and prayer he cannot regain himself as before. For a moment, he feels a pulse, focusing attention to his eyes he stares up. A dark figure, where light seems to vanish in its presence holds out a hand. A dire temptation to reach for it overwhelms him, and he reaches forward with his left hand. Tears of sorrow wet his cheeks, knowing what he is doing utterly shatters all he knows. This is a new beginning, the creature whispers to him. Lowering his head in shame, he cannot bear to watch, the creature takes his hand and raises him to his feet. Before he comes to a full stance, he hears his own heartbeat begin to change, this seemed so wrong. Looking up at this manifest of trechery, without taking a second thought he sends a message to his black carapace. His left shoulderpad ejects, and a rare set of words leaves his lips as his right hand tears into his left arms elbow joint. "If this hand reaches for you, then it no longer belongs to me, for the emperor!". As his words come to a scream, his arm rips from the socket, and as the blood squirts start to seal he rips his former left hand from the creature, and slams the bloody end across its face. It staggers back to its feet to meet a bolter's barrel staring it straight in the eye. Dramulic could have picked a word of prayer as the last thing for this abomination to hear, but he said something from the heart instead, "Just die". The hard bodied creature crumples to a rest, his bolter drawn he marches forward ignoring those that advanced behind him. Firing until his clip empties the last rounds, no savoring a last round now, his bolter collects blood as he wildly swings it at the hordes. Swinging not to save his life, but out of pure hatred of what these things almost made him do. If not for the barks, howls and squeals of the terrible things around him you could almost hear him screaming his hatred and foul language in dire glee.

 

An explosion rattles his shell, his armor torn and twisted he limps on his remaining leg, still swinging his bolter wildly at his enemies. Going so far as to finish off those blown in half a few seconds sooner, just to praise his loyalty. Unable to advance after the creatures with a proper set of legs, and no ammo to fire, he comes to a rest. So tired, he fades away, gripping his bolter tightly as if being comforted by an old friend. Tears once again for a second time wetting the cheeks of this warrior, out of relief that he died for the emperor and all of mankind.

 

"For our Primarch, for the Emperor, for all that is and should be....."

 

 

(More to come later, in a hurry, sorry guys)

[Roultox]

Seventeenth day and twenty second hour into the Marc war. Reports confirmed that the Ninety-Eight and Seventy-Eight Imperial Guard regiment detachments have been compromised to the madness of chaos and became Traitoris Extremis. The underestimation of the problem has spent too many lives, the detachment of an Inquisitor and retinue of psycho-drilled Storm Trooper regiment to diminish this chaos filth and if required, execute a holy Exterminatus. The war drags on.

 

The endless warcries resonate through the land like a broken record. Wisecracks about the words of war shouted lighten the mood as thoughts remind them of fallen comrades. A few lucky men have seen ten or more squads perish around them, reassignment marking them as black luck drifters to another squad to die. Truth be told, they were not lucky, but slipping. Their psycho treatments holes becoming more of a void for bloodlust. Biting their tongues, lips and inner cheeks to taste a constant quench of blood. The inquisitor has not sent word of order since the first order of advance shortly after planetfall. The advance is slowing, no matter how few defenders remain.

 

Active Squad Drer-V advance their piecemeal units forward. No orders to confirm a unity of seven squad remnants, no sergeants to give orders so the only advancement to be held leads all fourteen men. Making things up as he goes without thinking ahead, he makes his way to bring his squads into contact with more units. They advanced too far earlier under orders from their Sergeant in command that met his end by a bolter round to the shoulder. They had sent confirmation that the Red Corsairs are behind the chaos insurgency. Deep behind enemy lines to confirm such a dire mission, they are now scrambling to meet their comrades. Two bicker over where the next dropzone would be the easiest and safest course. Their lead makes the choice, one of his own. To head to the nearest one that was rumoured to have lost contact. Believing it to be a safe zone because of the advance, he places his trust in it. They move without question, even as they all sneer at the thought. Twitching and groaning quietly, they feel as if any one of them could turn at any moment. Gripping their holsters feeling uneasy to have any man behind him. This seemingly close held brotherhood of shattered men as willing to turn on each other as enemies.

 

A short skirmish where a wounded denzien of darkness leaps from under a corpse and swallows a man's arm, tearing it loose from just under the shoulder. He doesnt scream, calmly drawing his Hellpistol and pulls the trigger, holding it until the beast sizzles and the heat gauge turns red before releasing the trigger. As if to threaten the command of his superior with his cool attitude by setting an example. A short rustle on the ground and its decided by a thrust with a combat knife, they will change course. The one armed man claims that another course is best, that the front lines must have been compromised. Its either the degraded morale, or the madness inside that denies their first order of action given to them in case of such an occurance. To head to the nearest dropzone is that order, which now is avoided. The thirteen walk on. Another drops from exhaustion from an untreated wound that festered at an alarming rate. They continue still, with the drawn city of Murdiph just in view. Guns held low as they keep their heads down, advancing street to street cautiously. Their eyes meet a few dark figures, hesitant to start a battle unknowing if another horde would be nearby, it would be suicide. The least combat-able one arm acts as the scout, making his way up the building they hunker down within. With a birds eye view, he sees a battle mustering in the distance very close to the dropzone. He barks his orders to advance. There must be artillery nearby, and he wants to find it. Giving the order to keep quiet, lowering their power systems and going radio silent. "Its time to get busy, my friends."

 

Spotting several boobytraps as they come along, they pull out their spraycan illuminescent that their visors pick up easily but invisible to the naked eye and spray all the lines, hatches and grenades set along their way. Unknowing if a friendly passes by, or making it a fallback route where they could use these against the enemy. They push on. It is one thing if they were alone, its entirely another when their comrades at home base are in jeapordy. The mind set is clear, they will die. Explosions from detonated long arms artillery systems could be heard in the distance, advancing at a faster pace to close the gap. They pull closer, and a bent manhole comes into view where rattling guns spit in the distance almost in view. They shuffle into the hole quickly, to find a few stragglers caught offguard inside the murk and musk. The shots ring out like clockwork, three advance, three watch the rear, three keep an eye on the front while the rest watch the ceiling. A grumble and a whirl sound echoes in the sewer. Thump, thump. The sound is too familiar to deny, a new order rings out. "Get the kraks ready, we'll seal the tube on them". Of course, knowing what that order meant, the least able runner must act as the bait. A pistol, and a single krak grenade, he waits until his men have set the trap. Creeping up ever slow and calmly he finds the defiler clawing at the wall. Pondering for a second if he should krak it there when its turned around, or to get its attention and have a good head start. Feeling cowardice inside he spits, and grins. Creeping slowly up on the defiler in the dark, all the noise and grinding of concrete and re-bar. He sets a krak on its right side, knowing two right turns and one left to lure it, would slow it down the best. Not gambling on a krak at the bouncing gyro, he feels this is his best chance. Stringing the kraks extend-det cord, he round the first corner and pulls the trigger. Before the Defiler knows what happened he sprints down the hallway and waits at the next corner, careful not to lose it. The raging machine roars as it tries to spin itself around, the claws pounding the ground to move towards its prey. The man spits a few rounds at it, and without warning the wall expands behind him. Flung to the ground he underestimated the tenacity of this thing, using rounds down here is suicide. If not for his years of training, a normal man would have laid there, his vision blurred and his senses spinning he drags his hand along the wall for guidance. Running to the next corner he almost makes it. He's bashed by the clumsy machine down the hall. His mind filled with fear of failure, he screams into his squad com-link for another to maintain its lure. One brave man steps out from the final corner and hollars at the machine clawing at the skewered trooper, his dimly visible helmet lights flinging around in the dark. The thing stops, and looks his way. Weary and now wise, it turns to fire. Barely ducking around the corner in time, the objective is lost. the creature continues down the same path to pull around the corner further down to get a long shot on him. Without advisement they all retreat back to the manhole, but one remains behind. Heavy breathing heard from the com-link turns to a scream thats silenced quickly. They clamor out the manhole and along the destined fallback route. Whirring and roaring, the Defiler shrieks its anger before returning to its hole. "For the emperor!" spoken from a quivering voice, shortly before an explosion could be heard. "Dead end duty." spoken by all nine men at once, a tradition among brothers at arms for a suicide attack. Bowing their heads for a moment, they regain their bearings and slowly make their way to the bellowing artillery guns. There is no command now, just the objective. They break up into three even teams and head at the objective in various directions. Radio silent, they nod at each other before breaking visual contact. As if to wish eachother luck, and to say goodbye, it was an honor to serve with you.

 

Team A shuffles north to reach just under the guns firing line, hoping to slip between the front line and the guns, and to draw fire for another team if they need to buy time. Team B pulls to the rear of the guns, hoping for an oppertunity to cause a distraction or catch a target of oppertunity. Team C heads straight for the guns at the side. A few shouts could be heard, and silence, team A lost. They must hurry now, they've been discovered. Team C breaks radio silence and speaks in code, "Lamure rest vautulus". Or, in normal words it would mean, "Enemy Headquarters located in rest direction", rest direction being a number on the clock with 12-north from the direction adjacent from home base. Radio silence gone, a request for the distance to target, that artillery support is available. Team B, having lost a man already takes the mission. Splitting up they hurry behind the artillery, one gives the artillery position, the second gives Headquarters location, failure means countless death hanging on their shoulders. A few minutes pass, a scared soldier hiding near the bloodied rubble of a sacraficial chamber. Unclothing himself, and taking nothing but his com-link and a loincloth, hoping to pass as a cultist. He blades and claws himself mercilessly and wipes the blood everywhere, passing this heresy as quickly as possible he hopes. Twitching and shivering in the cold he wanders out, acting as he moves with irregular steps and shivering his jaw. He manages to wander close to the artillery, close enough to read the road signs at the cross-section. As soon as its spoken, a bolter round shreds his belly, and he falls to his knees. A hand grasps his hair, without a moment passing his vision stutters and he's pulled up high, feeling cold below his jaw. Before he passes, he smiles as the familiar explosions of Basilisk fire envelopes his slayer with dust.

 

The last man standing. Shivering, and keeping an eye out for the home base. Wandering ever closer he is too scared to call in the order, for when he does the triangulation systems will alert them to his location. All he does for more then ten minutes is sit and watch. Pulling his com device close, hesitating, and pulling it away. Growing tired with himself, he ponders acting as a friendly, keeping the com-link on. Knowing it wont work, he sits there helpless and in fear. Watching the pulsating buildings fester the ground they rest, sick emotions and thoughts claim his mind. He pulls the com to his lips a final time, "repetus 104 vie 128, spar 912", the location the building before him sits. As the hordes start to rush towards the hill he sits, he just sits there shivering among the high reeds. Shots sizzle and sever the plants around him, yet he just prays. "Please save me", he whispers into the com-link. A strong voice breaks his attention, the words ring his ears as he recognises a marines voice. "Provide no coward to the wicked, stand and fight!". With his resolve renewed, he stands firm and fires. Blowing down four of his adversaries before they pull him to a kneel as a shot blows out his knee. He remains palm on grip, holding down the trigger swinging his rifle left and right, for there is no spot he could miss such a horde. Blazing down half a dozen more, a sound faintly heard for just a second, and then a lound thump bounces everyone around him including himself. Its not an explosion, what was it? Cursing through his teeth he tries to wipe the dirt from his visor. Loud whirring sounds and machinery buzzing to his right side, too scared to look knowing those sounds all too well. A few screams and footsteps that fade confuse him. "Stand up soldier", its that marine's voice again. Wiping the rest from his visual, his fears fade as a shiny, new looking blue figure with a white Hoof emblem shines amidst the rustled dirt cloud. Opening fire the deafening Assault Cannon spins for a moment before the bullets begin to fly, but this soldier doesnt care. Finding his rifle at the end of his powerpack cord, he takes aim. Watching as more drop pods crush and find critical spots to land, the devil clouds can hide them no more. It is time for war!

 

Being unable to move properly with a busted knee, all he could do is watch the Dreadnought advance. Catching the name of his saviour, wording it out loud he thanks him properly. "Thank you, sir Dramulic".

[Roultox]

(You do realize fellas you CAN post your stories here! Dramulic is starting to feel like the main character in this war, maybe I should turn him into a rambo?)

 

Continuing.........

 

Day seventy nine, the Marc war has turned for the worse. From dark figures and pulsating landscape turned to decayed negligence and headless warriors returning from the dead using their skulls as breeding containers for their noxious bio-weapons. Ingesting the expanding filth inside these skulls through their gaping neck, they spray our warriors with acidic toxins with disease side effects. Casualties booming near the millionth mark, it is time to call upon reinforcements in our last effort to reclaim this world before exacting Exterminatus by order of Grand Inquisitor Naruth Von Savert sanctioned by holy Terra and the high lords themselves. Such a high mineral rich planet would not be expended so lightly in Ultramar territory. The Grey Knights shall arrive soon for the last coming before the storms end.

 

"Dramulic... Dramulic Sir! We have incoming on our front and to the east, what are your orders?" The naggy bionic legged sergeant hounded the tall figure in battle worn dreadnought armor. A minute of silence drifted as he surveyed the landscape with his many sensors attempting to scan prime locations to advance. Before the sergeant could repeat his request for orders, Dramulic stomps forward, and the sergeant orders his troop forward in his shadow. Raining fire-hot shells on the right side, the men duck their heads startled by his sudden burst of fire. Advancing on the left, avoiding the searing shell shower they support him firing at barely visible targets in the dusking horizon where the sun in their face sleeps and the ever familiar twilight resumes the cracks of Hellguns lighting the land. Each shot and minor explosion from guns fire lighting their way as clear as day, allowing other enemies become visible as the advance catches them off guard. Little return fire came in return, but they knew this was just a false sense of security. That is when Dramulic came to a halt, and the sergeant beside him knew that only a grave threat would make him stand his ground. As the heat dissipated from the corpses, their bodies rose once more, broken and batterd they raised their barrels aimed clumsily at the ten Storm Troopers, ignoring the Dreadnought entirely. The sensors hardly pick up the heat signitures of the walking dead, yet they open fire, each shot fired revealing them coming ever closer. Phased not, and the strobe light of gunfire erupting their fears inside. They notice that Dramulic had not fired once since their return, perhaps confident as he scans further or waiting for something. The first scream heard from the rear, a corpse had slmost bitten one of them as the Trooper bashed it into the ground. Hellgun cracks turned to screaming, and then at the height of their fear, it appears. One of the groaning creatures in the background that had stood still the entire time, directly in front of Dramulic's visor, it starts bloating as the gastric juices and ichor from the land slip into the thing and it begins to bloat rapidly. Dramulic opens fire, of which he was reloading an entire drum to do the creature is pelted rapidly and shivers but does not drop as it continues to expand.

 

A few men are dragged down by the horde, but remain vigilant as Dramulic calmly heats his Assault cannon to extreme temperatures wounding the abomination metamorphisizing before him. As the men learn to deal with the threat, opening a little ground from between the dead and their guns, the shaken sergeant turns to notice Dramulic's dreadnought fist pull open, poised for using. In Dramulic's view the creature started clamoring forward towards them, and before the last span could be cleared Dramulic strides forward in a bull rush to meet the thing and rams it to a halt, grounding the creature on its back. The assault cannon drills into the creature once more before his powerful fist of rage raises, and with a slight spin of the torso he slams the staggering creature back into the ground. But, as it seems to have lost, its internals slip for its torn belly like tentacles of something horrid entangle and wrap around the seemingly perfect dreadnought. The acids eating away the paint to reveal the shiny metal beneath, and then turning that metal to a rust brown, then black in almost an instant. Dramulic tries to pull away, but his Assault Cannon is in a reloading cycle and cannot sever the tongues clinging to him. Swinging madly side to side, shaking loose as more knots of fester and rot cling to his decaying left arm. Right before his next reload, something grabs his left leg and with a hard tug he's spun onto his back and more of his shell is enveloped with the unmentionable. He hears cracks of Hellgun fire, with this he orders them. "Retreat little brothers, I am lost, get distance and finish it off." A moment after his orders a krak charge detonates on his left shoulder girdle severing his arm. He catches onto the idea instantly and returns to a stance as Hellgun fire frees his left leg. The reload cycle long passed, Dramulic finishes it off effortlessly. With the grotesque fester laid to waste around them and safe once more, the sergeant cracks a wise one. "Now we're even Sir Dramulic." Of course no self respecting space marine would let that go un-answered, being saved by anyone that isn't of marine status is a little pride softening. "Indeed." Dramulic responds in a snappy tone.

 

The loss of three troopers disheartening the troop, Dramulic recites openly in sacred prayer to keep their minds clear of the despair. He of which knows too well the workings of the plague father and how he claims a humans mind. The night advance seeing no more death until the twilight dissipates and the morning squints the eyes of the troop while they stagger to close their visor blinds. Returning from their night patrol to home camp the present notice of the dogtag pile increasing steadily each passing day. If the denziens of blood were not bad enough, now the rotting carcases continue in their wake. A techpriest assigned to the tending of Dramulic consults with him on how much time it would take to repair his arm, he settles for a missile launcher replacement to be ready for the next patrol pushing his dread arm's construction till later. The next evening after a long days rest, it is now their shift once again. With casualties ripping further, two of the sergeant's troops were assigned flamers to balance the loss of the dreadnought close combat arm and the loss of three the night before. This night their patrol is of the northern front where reports of the northern camps have been compromised and retreated the battle line further west. There was a high chance of an encounter, and the orders that no patrol wants to hear were given. "Return if you engage the enemy", such an order means the main battleforce could bear down on you before you handle a retreat and most patrols don't return after such an encounter. The men shivering in their carapace sarcophagi shells record their last words into their recorders before setting off into the sunset. Having started their patrol after sunset is common when a night patrol must scour a changing battle line in the bad direction. The men certain of their death approaching, tonight Dramulic asks for their names. Surprised, no marine asks the names of the low ranking. One by one the seven speak their full names, and with having such an honor they stand a little more upright then before. Sergeant Grizen takes to the field in front of their now ranged dreadnought companion, its time. Dramulic hears the encoded radio channels buzzing the decoder systems to try and obtain enemy intelligence. A few words are decoded and he orders the men to halt, and take firing positions. In the distance the roars of something unfamilar technology can be heard closing fast. Dramulic orders their silence, and maintain gun attendance, which means they dont fire until Dramulic fires. A tactic where ambush is the main course of action. Anticipating the first shots, the roaring engines and screeching sounds from chaos engines buzz by their position and fade. They didnt catch this batch, the marine must be waiting for something else. Now, a familiar sound does approach. In confusion, they cant tell if its a friendly vehicle. But, they look at their Dreadnought, he is in a firing stance and aiming at the sound. They know it to be an enemy Rhino incoming. It perks the hill, he doesn't fire. It comes closer, yet he remains still. The twilight sparkles off the blood red and black hull, and he remains silent. As it closes in on their left before it can gain any distance away from their position, Dramulic opens fire on its left hull and the fire catches the tanks pilot in a surprise as he veers left and right before coming to a halt. The machine can still move, but Dramulic knows all too well its their doctrine to return fire. They spill out of the rhinos hatch on the other side, and before all of them exit, the chewed remnants of the rhinos left hull opens up something vital and a round sparks it, the explosion knocks them to the ground and stuns them. The troopers charge forward on Dramulic's right side hoping to push for a chance to use their flamers. Dramulic advances to the left, to make the rhino's wreckage a no block zone. The marines stand to reveal something special, eight guns rise and four of them are bigger then a man. The darkness and chaos versions make it hard to recognize them but before they could bear them at Dramulic they are enveloped in fire and Hellgun bites. Three of the marines fall and they turn to open up on the troopers, but when they fire Dramulic has full view of them and brings another two down. With this they tear down four of the seven, and turn to fire at Dramulic. Another burst of fire washes their power armor, it is a slaughter. The ammunition of the heavy weapons and a second detonation inside the rhino, perhaps additional ammunition within ends the lives of all near it. Dramulic stands over the groaning men, staring down at the sergeant that he had saved when he landed over fifty days earlier. The dying man holds out his hand, and then pulls his hand down to his forehead, saluting Dramulic. In prayer, he includes the name of the seven, speaking the sergeants name first.

 

The ending of his prayer, and maintaining radio silence Dramulic advances the direction of where the chaos bikers rode. Following their tracks and guessing where they would be, and between them and the rhino that would have sent a distress call, he aims to meet them head on before returning. Assuming a night engagement to harass scrambling retraters gone to vain, they will look for revenge. He knows them too well he thought, that revenge is their mainstay. Kill one of their nearby comrades, and give them the chance to face you, they will take the chance even if the objective is in their grasp. He comes to a full stride, the familiar encoded words with more familiarized sentences from his decoder tells him what he already knows. He stops near a hill, ready to take them on at any moment. A minute passes, the silence turns to a faded roar of engines, then as they grow they come into view. He powers down and kneels his machine behind the hill, he knows they will be scanning for him. They wouldnt expect him to have advanced closer however, and thats his ticket. They pass by him without notice, and with him facing in their direction before powering down, he powers up. They come to notice the power up and start to slow down, but again these marines are also caught off guard. Before turning around, they are slow and in the loose terrain it takes time to aim at the dreadnought spitting missiles at them. Two are taken down before they aim their wheels at the dreadnought, they spurr forward weaving side to side to avoid the next missile. Then the rain comes upon them, taking another down. Four left and enraged, they hold their icon high. He knows now what this is. He backsteps firing wildly spreading his shots to catch the weaving bikers but they are already on top of him. A shot rings out and jams his assault cannon. They circle him in close proximity, using the hill behind him to break sight, and with the limited view he desperately fires controlled bursts. Wounding one but not stopping, he hears whirling sounds of metal splitting air. Flail-Krak grenades tell him of their next move and he charges in the path of one biker and he cant stop in time, and he ploughs straight into the knee of the dreadnought. As roadkill in reverse, like a tree to a small vehicle. The corpse falls like a ragdoll off his hull, he fires his last missile before his missile pod is blown from a sticky flail-krak grenade. The last three bikes toy with him as he tries to kick at them and bull rush. To no avail they exact their frusteration of losing twelve of their comrades to an ever hated loyalist. Barking their contempt in an unkown language, he spits his prayer and loyalty in return. Almost comical, they argue for several minutes as they swing their next volley of kraks onto the armless machine. Every flail hits its mark, and being fully disabled he lays there as helpless salvage. He reports until his communication system is disabled by hand. Now whats to come, should be torture. "A wonderful end." The words leave his lips, to fall to silence as a rhino attaches chains to his shell and drags him away.

[Roultox]

The slings hooked onto his mangled coffin unravel and slip away, the sickly pulse of the land under him could be heard like an echo. Staring up at the sky, the clouds seem still but the vibrant colors sway through the clouds like waves. A dark figure leaps onto his metal belly and stares down at him. It takes Dramulic a moment to recognize the figure, and he speaks with a smirk. "Blunting you with my left arm and blowing your head off wasn't enough for you, you came back for more." The dark figure seemed to laugh, and he begins to chant its incantations of reaping. Dramulic pays no heed to the devils words, countering with his own prayer of purity and solitude giving the dark figure his best ignore. This seems to annoy the creature, but it continues to chant. As the heresy flows around them, other out of view creatures start picking and clawing at his coffin. He hears drills, saws, welding, feeling the tugging and pushing of his joints and machinery. The powered down Machine Spirit cries in its sleep, making Dramulic stutter in his prayer. This chance is sealed by the dark figure standing on top of him, the words splitting the marines ears loudly and clearly, deafening the sound of his voice in prayer. This makes it hard to keep track, the littany he speaks gets garbled and he keeps losing his place without concentration. Yet he remains firm without fear, continuing to counter the suit-like figure above him. A moment when he blinks, his sight leaves his body to stare down at his shell right above the dark figures head. The out of body experience stops his prayer, and he now has full view of the corruption to his precious dreadnought. A pair of hideous bladed weapons attached to each shoulder, and the legs repaired hap-hazardly that included a double jointed leg. They now began painting his coffin red and black, leaving the shoulder panels that showed his chapter was a heresy beyond fathom to this veteran. As they continue to defile his shell, something starts tingling at the back of his neck and it spreads. Unable to move he struggles to claw at it, but like a dream where your underwater, struggling to breathe and immobile, such was his will to break free and rip out the corruption. A sick feeling gripped his stomach, shivering and beaten, he lets out one last groan of rage filled growling. His out of body experience lasts no longer as he is sucked back into his body to find himself changed. He's angry, agitated, and hearing voices, he struggles against himself and his morals. The better part of him trying to think of ways to commit suicide, while the voices inside copy the tone of his thoughts and derail them part way through, telling him to fight and live. Contrary to his training, the voices seemed as familiar as the voice that would say fire on the enemy, as easy to say kill your comrades. He rages and roars but his deactivated dreadnought just lays there. He tries to contact the machine spirit, yet no signal can be given. The dark figure places his hand on the shell once more, and whispers one final word. The creatures within tug at Dramulic's body like muscles tugging at the bone to stand, and in the blinding pain he barely notices he stood upright. The faint cry of the machine spirit could still be heard in the back of his mind. His rational thought disrupted and his mind kept in a constant state of disarray and distraction, he cant contain himself any longer. Half blinded, rage induced and in agonizing pain he whips his new arms around trying to attack anything in range. The maddening chuckle of the dark figure echoing in his mind as clear as a loudspeaker scattering his thoughts with every cackle. Feeling nothing but loss. A twisted revenge indeed.

 

The immobile setting inside his coffin, coupled with the madness and the mind scattering pain, this was not enough. After his last clean and paint jobs, they do one last adjustment to his shell, perhaps the worst one yet. They make the pain go away, he couldn't notice the syringes stabbing into his back, with the feel of it all fading away numbing his senses, he knows what this is. Be a good boy, and it will all go away. Those words need not be spoken to be known to him, the dark figure refrains from explaining, as if to let Dramulic know their minds are linked to warn him of any betrayal. He tries to speak and mutter words of prayer, but his tongue is missing, and his lips have been ripped away. He couldn't tell when this happened, the pain was too intense, after pondering how this could've happened without him noticing he only slips deeper into the pit of despair and loss. The familar roar of chaos bikes surround him, but he pays no attention. Someone taps the glass with an armored finger tip, the gnarling grin of grizzled teeth smiling at him, licking the lens and dancing in glee around him. Like an indian dancing around a beaten enemy tied to a tree. So was this noble marine beaten in every way but one. He keeps telling himself, what he's forced to think and what he actually does are two different things, so long as he performs no heresy, they can take his mind. The thoughts resonate back to his master, then the pain he so easily forgot returns as the drugs stop flowing. Anguish and agony grip him for a few minutes before its released, the madness makes him black out. While he regains himself, he stares in awe of what he just did to a batch of salvaged debree and a building near him. He doesn't remember doing this, and that, is his final defeat when he realizes he has no control. This is what it means to be chaos he thinks. Giving up on self will, he surrenders.

 

For the next few days, laughter and joyful incantations to devil gods and demon icons makes the sickening feeling inside pulse rapidly. Yet, something inside maintains his despair, he believes if he was truly lost, he wouldn't feel so bad. There has to be something to set him free. A new evening approaches, he can walk around but cannot fight. The drug injectors activate the safety device that disables his running and arm mobility. While painless, he is in despair, while in pain he is enraged, the embodiment of both the deities he has fought until now, enhanced tenfold. The more the voiced scatter his thoughts, the quicker he learns how to manipulate his thoughts through memory instead of rational thinking. Constantly remembering fact to be his choice maker rather then thinking for himself. A clever ploy that his master wouldn't detect. This would be his hidden card, walking towards his master. He thinks of all the things he hated about his chapter, his memory of what he detests being harmless suspicion and bias as fuel for the rage his master believes him ready for war. Patting his shell, Dramulic acts accordingly, playing coy pretending to be docile. He lets himself get excited, going against his training to remain calm and level headed. He now lets loose with anticipation to bloody his new weapons. Thoughts enter his mind of how fable it is to kill the enemy from afar, when you can enjoy it up close. Why give a machine legs and remove its hands. The voices inside calm as he submits to emotional irrational thought. His head in the clouds of thinking deep, he removes his concentration of directing his rage anywhere. Distant and slow to respond to his orders, he strides at full speed next to a rhino. The rhino keeping his pace, he narrowly avoids tripping rocks and rubble, shouldering into the rhinos port side. The driver cusses into his reciever yet he doesn't hear them. Re-rationalizing his priorities to his new way of thinking is his first goal. A round flickers in the distance zipping too close for comfort pecking the rhinos hull near the top and ricochets away harmlessly. Failing to notice the battle only the waking sounds of a blast vibrating his hull and the ringing sounds of the concussion brings his attention to the present. Smiling inside, he charges forward. Seeing blue figures in the distance, he stops for nothing. Rounds spill death around him as the dark figures of fallen guardsmen and storm troopers leap and crawl with his advance. The rage wells up inside, spilling over he loses control and rages recklessly forward. The battle line is almost before me, the words echo in his mind from the repeating voices inside. He brings his cheeks to a smile, yet he was always smiling with no lips, he smiles now. A short distance now to his former brethren in blue littered with U's. Something like lightening cracks the ground with a bang, in the blinding light the towering figures with long halberds emerge cackling with energy. Their wash of bolter fire drops all around him, and he slows his pace. This changes his plan. He has no memory of these figures, so he can't tell himself they're comrades of his chapter. He tries to think of a connection, quickly he ponders and meanwhile he slows his run to a walk. Slowly stomping forward, the Grey knights pay no heed to him as their storm bolters drop countless denziens around him. Before he realizes what he's doing, he's already raised his great right arm full of energy riddled blades and claws, swinging down he thinks quick, and he remembers his comrade sporting a gray left deathwatch arm and shoulderpad. The Inquisitorial sanctioning Insignia focused deep inside as if he could see nothing else, his blades stop short of cleaving the marine in twenty, barely scraping his helmet as his slow movements step back. The Justicar in the unit acts out of standard reaction order, the blades of the Grey Knights seem to miss every vital point. Dramulic catches on and powers down his blades, battering the durable pale armor to barely scratching them, their feign fighting convinces those far behind him. Seems they know what I've been through, thats good, he thinks quietly to himself. His master far from sensing range, he knows who must die to be free of this and points at the thing in the distance when the dark figure isn't looking as if to give an order to the knights. The Justicar stops to scan the distance, and in another flash of light even larger figures stand around the dark figure in the distance. A loud screech impales Dramulic's mind and senses, his master struggles yet he refuses to look at it. Fearing that he could feel pity or remorse for his master, to stop any heresy before it starts in his weakened mind. At this point they pause their fake fight, and turn to the real enemy. The Justicar has one last present for this battered marine, placing one hand on the back of the machine he speaks a short prayer of service and brings the machine spirit back to full power. The dark tendrils that eclipses him with maddening whispers now fade to the comfort buzzing and sounds of the machine around him. Roaring forward faster then the marines can follow, he ploughs into the horde and loses himself in the glee of battle. Grinning happily and laughing without a tongue. When the battle is over, and he regains some of his focus he looks at his foot steps to follow where they lead back. Viewing the destructive power he's never unleashed before, he's satisfied of his vengeance reaped. Even so he doesn't remember, somehow the three bikes of his previous encounter lay near his path, and the marines that sat on them were nowhere to be found. One marine in blue stands near him, trying to communicate, then points above his dreadnought shell. Linking visual devices, he see's what his comrade see's, the three impaled head first onto the trophy rack above him dangling like chimes in the wind. He then looks at the dangle of blades that would be his left arm, powered down blades and gently holding a Grey Knight Terminator that had fallen earlier. Later he learns in his black out he stormed towards his nemesis and former master, the terminators having problems killing it and one of their own fell by trying. In the blind rage he picked up the fallen and fought the rest of the battle with his right arm alone. The terminator thanks Dramulic as the Apothicary takes him away.

 

The servitors and techmarine work tirelessly to undo the damage to the communications system. They revive it, but he doesn't respond. In their curiosity they open the never to be opened hull to find him speechless. They order the initiation of the black carapace com system installation, effective immediately. Restored legs, and his proud blue restored, the Chaplain consults him tirelessly for three days of the corruption, and restoring prayers. They deemed his heresy an act of outside sources that did not damage his training, but rather bypassed his training on impulses he couldn't control. Such as the black out rage-in-agony, and that his encounter and new found tactics against such corruption to be kept within the books of purity. Given the approval of their company Chaplain, and a final survey by their company Librarian, he is given battle rights once more.

 

He chooses to keep his twin combat weapons, and the only words to violate his chapter colors written across his front shell to remember his encounter; GRIN. Notably, he requested to keep his exposed front jaw and teeth, forever smiling at his enemies.

 

 

(By the way, the fella/gal who moderates here, its fine if I keep bump-posting to keep my updates in the front page? I know multi-posting is against the rules but my posts are a bit long and continuing, along with the rules I set in the first post of this thread. PM me your details. Oh, and un-sticking this to get people to post seems a better choice, I didn't expect to get this stickied! Thanks in advance. - I update in small chapters, hard for me to type and update live in much larger portions.)

[krispy the klown]

uhh it looks like your the only one posting so i guess ill give it a shot too

 

seargent tetrax sat in the back of his squads land raider watching as his men prepared for combat. soon enough they would reach there drop off point and then they would proceed to the ambush point where they would spring a trap on two imperial gaurd platoons.

tetrax's massivley mutated left arm flexed closed at the thought of the blood letting to come. next to him his second in command crom arctirus clicked the safty off of his bolter and wracked the slide. across from him ninagal ordog reverd the motors on the twin chain swords that replaced his hands after a plasma weapon had misfired and blown them off.he looked up and growled "when are we gonna get there i want to kill some loyalist scum". "soon enough were 10 minutes out from the insertion point" tetrax replied.

he looked over at the rest of the squad, morant corval primed his plasma pistol and expirementely flicked on his power sword. nicard musa loaded bolts int extra clips for his bolter. the last member of his squad lobo ektera stood up and laughed hartily "ha i dont see why the warlord saw the need to send us all i could kill all 80 of these loyalisst pigs with my bare hands". all of the squad laughed at this statement knowing that most likely it was true. the land raider ground to a halt ans they all diembarked with 10000 years of skill and precision. as soon as they were all off the land raiders engines roared back to life and lest them alone in the forest.

the war had been going on for a little over a month now and the imperials were sending reinforcments through these woods and it was seargent tetrax's job to stop them. they quickly headed to there designated ambush point all wondering why an entire squad had been sent to elimanate such a poultry group of reinforcments. the ambush site was less then 3 kilometres away and they were making good time. they would have more then enough time to prepare a deadly ambush. the entire thing would be over in less then 5 minutes, if that. they soon arrived and prepared for the coming battle. tetrax watched as they placed grenades at points where they could do the most damage to any force followning the path. crom walked over to his seargent " sir are you well you look tense"crom asked. "yes crom something about this is not right. why would the warlord send one of his elite squads to deal with so few toops"? suddenly from out of the woods came a wave of bolter fire. all of tetraxs troops dropped into cover and returned fire.

"kill them all and show no mercy" yelled tetrax. he leaped from cover and charged at the enemy bolter shells pounded into him but his massivley mutated form absorbed the impacts with ease. finally he closed with the enemy and found out why he had such fealings of uncertinty. thses were chaos space marines of his own force sent by the warlord to kill him and his men for some unkown purpose.

he reached the first of his attackers and grabed him picking him up easily with the mutated muscles of his left arm and crushed the life out of him. his men followed him into the fray drwing there swords and knives. ninagal ordog charged into combt with a brutal war cry carving through armour with his twin chain blades. crom unloaded an entire clip into the face of his enemy at point blank range. lobo engaged in a duel of blades with his opponent and slowly pushed him back with his superior skill. nickard used his bolter as a club to beat his enemy into a bloody pulp.morant korraval shot a plasma bolt into the chest of his enemy kiling him instantly. as lobo finished off his opponet with a quick downward slash the battle ended. in all they killed 8 attackers. "ha these did even worse than the gaurds men we were supposed to fight" muttered ninagal. "qiuckly gather you equipment" bellowed tetrax "we have a long march back to the warlords camp". "what shall we do when we arrive there" asked crom. "well i think that ill be drinking wine from the skull of our former master" ansewerd tetrax as he marched toward his new objective his men following closely behind.