Jump to content

The Rise of the Warmaster


Skirax

Recommended Posts

Angron was puzzled at this man's courage. He must have some stones, he thought.

'May i have pie?' whimpered the man, before his head slumped backwards, and his last gasp of breath wormed its way out of his cold lips.

Erm, mate are you sure your not hungry? ^^

 

thanks

antique_nova

The Red Angel and the Great Wolf

The edges of real space crackled, and with a flash of light, and the warping of reality, a vessel emerged from the Warp, tendrils of thought spilling out into real space, clinging to the hull of the vessel, reluctant to be severed from the tainted red ceramite. But ultimately, the wisps of conscience faded and drifted. It floated out to join others like it. They spanned a vast section of the black expanse between stars, their warped engines blinking in the darkness, glowing a bright purple. Their defiled hulls had symbols of the Blood God emblazoned upon them, and long pieces of parchment fluttered on the sides, long forgotten battle honours and oaths of moment. Now they were painted over, prayers to the patron god of Blood on them, the words seeming to shift about, rising and falling.

Twisted faces leered on the sides, making the hulls seem bigger than they really were. Truly an essence of their warp-home still lingered with them, tainting real space and spreading its corrupting reaches.

On the deck of the vessel shone words that glowed with light born of the warp. They spelt out, in cryptic runes, Godsplitter. On the deck stood a great hulking form, his flesh the colour of blood, long black coils extending from the back of his cranium to the great, bat-like wings that hung limp at his sides. The stretched membrane between the long pieces of bone fluttered, their black colour mixing with the insides of the command deck. Drool fell from his forever open mouth, landing on the floor of the deck, sizzling on contact, and burning a small hole into the permacrete in seconds. A long black blade, glowing with the runes of the Blood King hung in his left hand, the edges emanating the same eerie light of the rune lettering on the ship’s hull. In his other hand, a long, slowly whirring chain-axe was slung. The teeth turned slowly around in their casing, blood still fresh on them, some gore still occasionally dripping to the floor. It seemed to purr, casually awaiting the blood that it knew it would soon be whetted with, for it knew with unwavering faith that that moment would come soon. The beasts face twitched constantly, the long scars on it twisting as the skin was continually stretched.

A large marine came up to him, the symbol of two jaws clamped around a small orb emblazoned on the right shoulder pad. ‘We are ready for dissent, my Lord,’ he said, an impatient edge to his tone.

Angron turned to the waiting marine. He spoke, his voice gruff, like the turning of wheels on a gravelled surface. ‘Then what are you waiting for?!’ he roared, before lunging to his left, knocking a serf to the floor, his head severed.

 

A human peered over the Aegis defence line, watching the ethereal lightning strike the earth, transforming it and turning it sour. He licked his lips, and then turned to regard his leader. He stood towering above the platoon men, his muscles bulging and his chest rising calmly, his upturned nostrils flaring as he breathed in. His hands twitched at his sides, and his eyes darted from side to side, the eyelids fluttering, threatening to close over his ever active eyes.

He growled as he saw the first Daemon appear on the battlefield. The hundreds of Guardsmen stood to attention, simultaneously relieving their bowels of their contents. Hundreds of lasguns clicked to ‘on’, and not long after hundreds of magazines were slammed into place. Gritted determination roughed up the features of each soldier, and as more and more Daemons appeared on the plains. The soldier turned round to peer at the leader, only to find that he wasn’t there. Crap, he thought.

 

From the embarkation deck of the vessel, Angron stood, flanked by his one dozen Bloodthirsters all summoned prior to the attack, to ensure reliability when the attack began. He roared, the deck shaking, throwing his head back, the black coils of neuro-sensors dangling down loosely. The Bloodthirsters took up the roar as well, their wings snapping out to the side, the black membrane hanging loosely between the thin bones, like their leader.

Then as one, they leapt into the air, and hurtled out of the embarkation deck.

They rocketed through the atmosphere, fire catching around the ends of their wings. A flash of metal flew past him, and he instantly recognised it as a Dreadclaw, carrying one dozen Berserkers of his legion, all ready for battle, all chanting loud praises to the god of blood so loud they could be heard over even the roar of the thrusters. Angron laughed, a deranged, mad sound, and sped up so that he flew down, next to the Dreadclaw. He banged on huge fist on the side, before pulling up just before he impacted on the ground. Dozens more Dreadclaws thundered down into the earth, scorched rock flying high into the air, and ancient, damned pistons whining as the hatches to the Claw were released. Angron and his bodyguard flew across the ground, skimming the hard earth at lightning speed, homing in on the defence lines of the Imperial Guard. He growled, pure menace in his eyes and evil in his heart. Just as the growl howled into a roar, a large missile impacted his side, exploding and sending him careening off to the left. The Bloodthirsters, confused by the sudden explosion, stopped, and searched for their master. In the wake of their confusion, they were set upon by beasts of tooth and claw; chunks of their flesh ripped out by thrashing hands and clawed fingers. Howls filled the night, a bright moon shining brightly over the battlefield, watching over the scores of onrushing feral soldiers.

The Wulfen had come.

 

Angron landed upon the ground after flying for what seemed like a minute, skidding along until he came to firm rock which halted his immense bulk. He stood up, growling, anger filling him and all sense of reason leaving him. He saw that he was on the outskirts of the city, and stormed in.

 

Angron left an orgy of violence wherever he walked, slaughtered citizens and destroyed buildings they only thing left in his wake. He could hear soldiers converging on his position, so he took to the skies and flew across the city, regrettably leaving behind his playground. Once he saw the enemy, he bore down upon them like a predator, aiming straight for the command vehicle at the centre of a long column of armoured transports.

He hit it like a krak missile, a great explosion tearing up the vehicle as he hit and ignited the fuel tank. The embarked soldiers went flying, their broken forms dead before they hit the ground. He roared out, lashing out at troops disembarking from what looked like a standard pattern Chimera, killing several beneath his great fist. The survivors of his gruesome and merciless attack ran into the surrounding buildings, quickly setting up defences and heavy weapons.

Angron's chest rose and fell like ship caught in a tempest's rage. Blood dripped monotonously from his blade, collecting at his feet. He twiddled his naked toes, making soft splashing sounds. He bent down, cupping his one free hand and licking the blood. He purred softly as it ran down his throat, leaving a rich coppery taste in his mouth. He opened his milk white eyes, and turned his gaze at the annoying little humans shooting at him from the cover of a trench. A heavy stubber was mounted on the sand bags, and the hard shells were ripping small, if not irritating holes in his wings. He growled, and then let out a roar that shook the ground beneath his feet. As one the humans stopped their fire. Then they threw down their guns, turned tail, and sprinted back towards a large bastion that the rest of their platoon was held up in. Angron laughed, a deep throaty sound, then leapt forward, taking great strides across the ground, raised his black blade high, before bringing it down, smashing it into the ground. Seven humans were killed, and the rest were knocked off of their feet, landing with their backs to the sky. One raised his head, and looked Angron square in the eye. It raised a hand, as if reaching out to touch the Daemon Primarch. Angron was puzzled at this man's courage. He must have some stones, he thought.

'Why?' whimpered the man, before his head slumped backwards and his last gasp of breath wormed its way out of his cold lips. The man's last word gave Angron some pause for thought, a strange notion for a Daemon Primarch. Then he shrugged, and ran headlong at the bastion, crashing through the walls, roaring at the top of his lungs, before the mines below his feet exploded.

 

The Daemon Primarch groaned as he picked his way out of the heap of slag and collapsed building, his wings torn and his flesh punctured in many places. He looked up, expecting see the blackened sun bearing down on him mercilessly, but what he did see made him pause.

There stood Leman Russ, his sword pointed at the Daemon Primarchs throat. Angron stared at him for a long second, before laughing. It started softly, then rose to a crescendo of him roaring, doubling over in mirth.

Leman pressed the blade closer to his throat, and Angron just laughed more. In the end, he regained himself and managed to speak.

‘Mines and traps?’ he asked dubiously. ‘They’re not what you normally do, are they, Leman?’ he said to his estranged brother, as a teacher might talk to a student.

‘Then stand, and when can battle like real warriors,’ said Russ calmly.

At this, Angron raised himself up and activated Gorefather, the teeth roaring in anticipation, knowing that blood would very soon whet it. Then Angron threw himself at the Great Wolf, bringing his axe down in a sweeping arc. Leman dodged the blow easily, before following through and swinging his blade for the Daemon’s ribcage. Just as it neared the red flesh, a black blade swung round and met the oncoming Mjalnir, sparks flying between the two blades. Leman looked at the blade, confused.

Angron chuckled, ‘This is a gift, from my God,’ he said, swagger laying heavily in his voice. ‘Do you like it?’ he remarked, tauntingly.

Leman only growled, before breaking the blade-lock, and raising his blade high, aiming to bring it down on the head of his heretic brother. Gorefather came up to meet Mjalnir, the teeth groaning as they bit through the hard metal of the blade. Sparks flew, even more than when it met the Daemon blade. Angron heaved, using his all of his strength to force the blade away from him. As he did this, Leman brought his pistol round, before snapping off a shot from point blank into the face of Angron.

The Daemon leapt back, howling miserably, clutching his left hand to his face, his black blade lying, discarded, to the right. Leman growled furiously, and then brought Mjalnir back as far as possible, gathering all his strength for one final blow at Angron.

In blind fury, Angron roared, and swung madly with his chainaxe.

As Leman was bringing his blade round to severe Angron’s head, Gorefather slashed across his chest, cutting through the Black Carapace like paper and going so deep it racked several ribs and punctured his left heart, opening the cavity and letting the blood flow. He gasped, but his swing had gained too much momentum for it to stop. It wedged itself in Angron’s shoulder.

Both Primarchs fell backwards, their wounds too grievous for them.

When Leman awoke, Jorin Bloodhowl was standing over him, surrounded by other Wulfen. Medics of the Imperial Guard garrison were crowded round him, ready to step in and tend to him. He sat up quickly, looking around for his treacherous brother. But all he could see was Mjalnir lying on the ground, blood on its sharp edge. Russ rose, and then gasped as his chest erupted with pain. He looked down, seeing a long scar that ran the width of his chest. His ribs were still cracked, and his heart had only managed to form a thin layer over the puncture, leaving it tender and painful. He walked slowly, teeth gritted and face creased, over to Mjalnir.

The Wulfen watched in awe as Leman came to his sword, lifted it high above his head, and roared, at the top of his voice, ‘CADIA STANDS FOREVER!’

Lovely scene that :P Glad you called it by its proper name Gore father; where was Khârn? Also a little wound in his shoulder wouldn't be too much problem for Angron? Maybe change it to a huge gapin hole in his stomach? But i invisage his wounds healing up rather fast as he is Khornes most loved champion :lol:

 

But other than that, that was an awesome chapter! My story pales in to insignificance to yours :( Keep writing.

Well, I put earlier that his wings were torn and his flesh was punctured all over, so I think that gives him a decent amount of damage ;)

 

In my previous story, Khârn died. If you've read it, you'll understand (Link in sig)

 

Thanks for the great comment :P I really tried hard for this one, and I thought that the fight scene at the end wasn't as good as I hoped it would be.

Thats nothing really; a normal marine wouldn't do too badly against a rocket, a tanks nothing. Angron is a Primarch and a daemon one at that; there are only 3 maybe 4 beings capable of going up against him in combat in the entire galaxy and winning and those are gods...

The Fist and the Warrior.

 

Large battle cannons thundered across the defences, shells exploding amid the scattered the attackers, limbs flying across the field, blood flowing freely, rivers of gore and waterfalls of innards flowing through the trenches. Blood squellched underfoot as massive shod feet thundred through the kiling grounds. Golden yellow armour was stained with blood as sections of armour exploded and men were blown apart as they stepped on mines. Bodies littered the fields, discarded weaponry and cast aside blades sparse compared to the mass of dead Astartes. Perturabo smiled as he watched the Imperial Fists try and traverse a mile wide field of razor wire, only to come out on the bad end of a mounted Heavy Bolter. He laughed as Land Raiders were halted in their tracks, slewing to a halt before tank traps and pausing just long enough for a stray missile to catch them in a weak spot. As ceramite and rockrete flew threw the air, he roared with mirth...

 

He snapped back to the present day. The memory of the Eternal Fortress made him glow with warmth. A cold smile lit up his face, and his eyes shone a malicious gold. His armour was the same colour as the great walls of the Forever Bastion that he stood on. He smiled once more at his genius and taunting mimicry of the Eternal Fortress of old. Off in the distance, he watched as thrusters flared, bringing hundreds of Imperial FIst soldiers down to the field. Before them lay a labyrinthine maze of trenches, filled to the brims with Renegade Militia and disfigured servitor drones. Guns bristled, and the sound of a thousand weapons loading and clicking into 'ready' mode couldn't help but make him smile. Tonight, he thought, the Iron Warriors shall have their revenge, as he looked behind him at the thousands of gathered soldiers in their granite armour, hackles raised and eyes afire with vengeance.

Archived

This topic is now archived and is closed to further replies.

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    • No registered users viewing this page.
×
×
  • Create New...

Important Information

By using this site, you agree to our Terms of Use.