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+++In Memoriam: Update+++

Marshal Rohr

By Marshal Rohr
in + WORKS IN PROGRESS +

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Hyaenidae Venerable Brother

Hyaenidae

Posted
Posted

gallery_37532_8712_11117.png

http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e8ZQd22BcII/UFsY_KuiJNI/AAAAAAAALEE/KldPrso3eO0/s400/421px-Blood_Gorgons_Marine.png

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jv3uYzT0wfA&feature=player_detailpage

+ Part II (Continued)+

+ OD-Day (Terra), Minus 3 +

Lifeguard Kalkida walked before his liege, his boarding shield braced against his shoulder, Combi-Bolter resting in it's firing slot, as the Bravo boarding team approched the blast doors of the Grace of Angel's bridge, it's beautiful filgree across it's surface cratered by boltrounds and splattered in IX Legion blood. One Angel, seated with his back against the door, a streaked stain leading down the door to his shattered body, was weakly trying to lift his bolt pistol with his broken arm, defiant to the end. Kalkida pulled the trigger on his bucking combi-bolter, hammering a half dozen shells into the CVIII Azvarian, pulling apart what was left of his frame with the flashing strobes of mass reactive detonation. No threat, no matter how slight, would pass his gaze and harm Dragoon-Captain Mahdra. A quick sweep of the area revealed no other targets capable of breathing. Over the vox, Kalkida listened as Captain Mahdra signaled Veteran Sergeant Mayov, leading Bravo's Sapper team. “We're clear, Sergeant. Ready when you are.” The supporting Breacher squads covered the left and right corridors, while Kalkida and the other members of the captains' command squad supported the hulking form of Ancient Levan, The Spire-Breaker's life-supporting combat chassis almost taking up the entire centre corridor, surrounding and protecting the Sapper team and their commander. None expected the Blood Angels to be a bother at this point, the surviving Angels occupied with protecting the engine room and magazine bays, but there was a greater concern aboard.

Less than thrity minutes ago, vox reports of a foreign boarding team in the new wine-red heraldry of the XVII had been made, along with fleeting descriptions of “monsters” and “abberitions” attached to their forms. Despite this, the Old Man had decided that it would be prudent not to kill their allies by detonating the magazines of the Grace of Angels, and had ordered Bravo to take the bridge of the ship, as that seemed to be where the Word Bearers direction of travel seemed to be taking them. As the Sappers attached melta breaching charges to the blast door, Mahdra continued to make wide-band vox calls to their cousins to find out their purpose, and continued to receive only empty static and disturbing vox-ghosts in reply. It was utterly strange, to say the least, and slightly insulting, but their cousins had always been an odd breed. Finally, Sergeant Mayov and his team moved away from the door, their charges set, and called out a warning over vox and voice-caster. “Fire in the hole, fire in the hole, fire in the hole!”, he yelled, a warning to his brethren to prepare for breach. The main body of Bravo team turned towards the door and made ready, leaving only a small firewatch to maintain vigilance over the corridors. With a tap-tap of the detonator clacker in his hand, Sergeant Mayov illuminated the corridors in magnesium white light, the wave of superheated air from the detonation rushing past Kalkida. As the light died down, though, the blast doors were still there. Glowing orange, and a great bite taken out of the now-bare adamantium slabs, but still there.

“I used twice the amount needed! What in the hell?”, Mayov cursed. Ancient Levan made a crunching sound from his vox-caster, the best he could do to chuckle. “The Azvarian are... were... ship-to-ship combat experts, son. It goes to reason that they would modify their home to match this ethic. Captain Mahdra, with your permission..?”

Mahdra made a chuckle of his own behind his Mk. II helm, and swept his hand out theatrically. “Be my guest, youngling.”

Ancient Levan stomped forward, shaking every Legionary in their plate. “The polite thing to do,” growled Levan's vox, “is to knock first before entering.” With a high pitched whirr of enormous servos and pistons, Levan drew back his massive claw that made up his left arm, then cannoned it forward into the still-bubbling door. With a mighty clash, the blast door shattered inward, falling to the deck with a loud clang. Bravo team, supported by the Ancient, swept into the dark and smoking bridge.

And straight into a vision of Hell.

Giant wine-dark forms crouched about the darkened, blood splattered room, over the shredded remains of dead Angels, the air choked with cordite and burning plastics, most of the overhead lumelights either shattered or flickering. Shattered consoles spat sparks at random intervals, casting the room with strange light patterns, though Kalkida saw things that he hoped were tricks of the light. Horns, crests, teeth where there should be none, exposed muscles that rippled with unnatural life atop ceramite. He could hear a crunching, slurping sound that he could not place, until he realized with revulsion that it was chewing. “Sir,” Kalkida voxed to Captain Mahdra. “I think they're... eating the dead.”

Though he was helmed, Kalkida had been Captain Mahdra's Lifeguard long enough to know that his liege was seething with disgust and anger. “Identify and show yourselves!”, Mahdra yelled, his voice shaking with rage at this sacrilege. One of the red forms half-stood, still hunched and bestial, and stepped into the light streaming from the corridor behind. The ceramite of his plate looked to be living tissue, seamlessly fused together; a gore-choked maw sat where a vox-grill once had, full of rows of needle like teeth. Worse, it had three sets of eyes winking and moving in it's face, resembling an arachnid. All six eyes turned on Mahdra, lit with hellish life and amusement. Shoulderplates marked with a leering daemon skull wreathed in flames gnashed and spat warp-fire from it's living mouth, gargling words that made Kalkida's head hurt and his eyes throb. From the first horrifying orifice in it's living helm, it spoke. “Welcome, cousins.” It's words were hashed together with more of the daemonic mumbling emanating from its' shoulders. “Care for a light snack? There is plenty to share.” The rest of it's squad.... no, pack.... gurgled with laughter though mouthfuls of Angelic meat and gristle. The Iron Warriors were dead silent as their eyes took in the disgusting levels a brother Legion could fall, waiting for the Old man's next move.

All except Levan, who snarled one word in the ancient tongue of his homeland. “Maldito.”

That was all Captain Mahdra needed. His archeotech revolver already in hand, the Old Man snapped it level with the monstrous creature before him, shooting it in the face. The ultra rare Negative Fusion round struck the former Legionary just below the cheek and imploded, drawing it's evil flesh with it, caving in half it's face and most of it's upper torso. The rest of Bravo team opened fire, emptying entire magazines into the aberrations, before the creatures could react. Kalkida hammered the closest Word Bearer with full-auto fire from his combi-bolter resting atop his shield, shattering the vast antlers cresting it's head and blowing off all three of it's upper limbs. Repulsed by it's appearance, Kalkida kept firing until he had expended the entire drum, erasing the monster from existence the old-fashioned way. Even so, he recited the Litany of Iron over and over, doing anything he could to block out the hissing half-words he could still hear in his head.

The hammer of bolters quieted, leaving behind the chiming sound of expended shells finishing their dance across the deck, and the ticking of super-heated metals. Only one creature still moved, it's lower half sheared away explosively, dragging itself with one good arm. The hell light that once filled it's' eyes had faded, it's shattered teeth grinding together in pain. Kalkida moved to terminate the … thing, but Mahdra motioned him away, approaching it's ruined form. The Old Man held his arm over it's head, letting the odd icon hanging from his wrist on wood beads dangle before it's face. The creature made a sound like a wounded animal, hissing smoke coming from it's eyes, as it tried to look away. “The... old faith? We... we thought it was dead...”, the creature said, it's voice oddly twined with another, deeper voice.

Kalkida watched as his liege unsealed his helm, and attached it to his belt, so that he could stare the monster straight in the eye. “Indeed it is not,” Mahdra's scarred lip curled as he spoke. “You can let the Morningstar know that when you go before him, fallen one.” Before the creature could speak again, Mahdra fired the revolver again.

Looking up from the monster's headless corpse, Mahdra turned to Kalkida, and the rest of the still dazed Dragoons. “Behead them all, Kal, just to be sure. Levan, burn the bridge. Our worst fears have come true, and we need to prepare for a second war.” Turning away, Mahdra resealed his helm, clicking his vox open. “Breachmaster Lowell, change of plans again. Plant the charges and withdraw; we need to burn this place and return to The Blade of Khamael quickly; we have much to do.” He drew close to one of the dead monsters, and unsheathed his gladius. Lifting the creature's head up with his free hand, he scissored the blade through it's neck. “And somebody raise Voxmaster Caradak, I need some encoded messages sent out to some old friends.” Kalkida joined the Old Man in taking heads, attempting not to vomit in his helm the whole time.

::::Recovered recording:::Data-Stack 762-4::::Noospheric interface complete:::::processing request::::::Granted:::::

gallery_37532_8712_438322.pnggallery_37532_8712_863714.pnggallery_37532_8712_67117.png

[Pict Capture DX/822-2-04] Venerable Levan, The Spirebreaker (Forlorn Hope)

Nomus Sardauk Venerable Brother

Nomus Sardauk

Posted
Posted

gallery_37532_8712_11117.png

http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e8ZQd22BcII/UFsY_KuiJNI/AAAAAAAALEE/KldPrso3eO0/s400/421px-Blood_Gorgons_Marine.png

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jv3uYzT0wfA&feature=player_detailpage

+ Part II (Continued)+

+ OD-Day (Terra), Minus 3 +

Lifeguard Kalkida walked before his liege, his boarding shield braced against his shoulder, Combi-Bolter resting in it's firing slot, as the Bravo boarding team approched the blast doors of the Grace of Angel's bridge, it's beautiful filgree across it's surface cratered by boltrounds and splattered in IX Legion blood. One Angel, seated with his back against the door, a streaked stain leading down the door to his shattered body, was weakly trying to lift his bolt pistol with his broken arm, defiant to the end. Kalkida pulled the trigger on his bucking combi-bolter, hammering a half dozen shells into the CVIII Azvarian, pulling apart what was left of his frame with the flashing strobes of mass reactive detonation. No threat, no matter how slight, would pass his gaze and harm Dragoon-Captain Mahdra. A quick sweep of the area revealed no other targets capable of breathing. Over the vox, Kalkida listened as Captain Mahdra signaled Veteran Sergeant Mayov, leading Bravo's Sapper team. “We're clear, Sergeant. Ready when you are.” The supporting Breacher squads covered the left and right corridors, while Kalkida and the other members of the captains' command squad supported the hulking form of Ancient Levan, The Spire-Breaker's life-supporting combat chassis almost taking up the entire centre corridor, surrounding and protecting the Sapper team and their commander. None expected the Blood Angels to be a bother at this point, the surviving Angels occupied with protecting the engine room and magazine bays, but there was a greater concern aboard.

Less than thrity minutes ago, vox reports of a foreign boarding team in the new wine-red heraldry of the XVII had been made, along with fleeting descriptions of “monsters” and “abberitions” attached to their forms. Despite this, the Old Man had decided that it would be prudent not to kill their allies by detonating the magazines of the Grace of Angels, and had ordered Bravo to take the bridge of the ship, as that seemed to be where the Word Bearers direction of travel seemed to be taking them. As the Sappers attached melta breaching charges to the blast door, Mahdra continued to make wide-band vox calls to their cousins to find out their purpose, and continued to receive only empty static and disturbing vox-ghosts in reply. It was utterly strange, to say the least, and slightly insulting, but their cousins had always been an odd breed. Finally, Sergeant Mayov and his team moved away from the door, their charges set, and called out a warning over vox and voice-caster. “Fire in the hole, fire in the hole, fire in the hole!”, he yelled, a warning to his brethren to prepare for breach. The main body of Bravo team turned towards the door and made ready, leaving only a small firewatch to maintain vigilance over the corridors. With a tap-tap of the detonator clacker in his hand, Sergeant Mayov illuminated the corridors in magnesium white light, the wave of superheated air from the detonation rushing past Kalkida. As the light died down, though, the blast doors were still there. Glowing orange, and a great bite taken out of the now-bare adamantium slabs, but still there.

“I used twice the amount needed! What in the hell?”, Mayov cursed. Ancient Levan made a crunching sound from his vox-caster, the best he could do to chuckle. “The Azvarian are... were... ship-to-ship combat experts, son. It goes to reason that they would modify their home to match this ethic. Captain Mahdra, with your permission..?”

Mahdra made a chuckle of his own behind his Mk. II helm, and swept his hand out theatrically. “Be my guest, youngling.”

Ancient Levan stomped forward, shaking every Legionary in their plate. “The polite thing to do,” growled Levan's vox, “is to knock first before entering.” With a high pitched whirr of enormous servos and pistons, Levan drew back his massive claw that made up his left arm, then cannoned it forward into the still-bubbling door. With a mighty clash, the blast door shattered inward, falling to the deck with a loud clang. Bravo team, supported by the Ancient, swept into the dark and smoking bridge.

And straight into a vision of Hell.

Giant wine-dark forms crouched about the darkened, blood splattered room, over the shredded remains of dead Angels, the air choked with cordite and burning plastics, most of the overhead lumelights either shattered or flickering. Shattered consoles spat sparks at random intervals, casting the room with strange light patterns, though Kalkida saw things that he hoped were tricks of the light. Horns, crests, teeth where there should be none, exposed muscles that rippled with unnatural life atop ceramite. He could hear a crunching, slurping sound that he could not place, until he realized with revulsion that it was chewing. “Sir,” Kalkida voxed to Captain Mahdra. “I think they're... eating the dead.”

Though he was helmed, Kalkida had been Captain Mahdra's Lifeguard long enough to know that his liege was seething with disgust and anger. “Identify and show yourselves!”, Mahdra yelled, his voice shaking with rage at this sacrilege. One of the red forms half-stood, still hunched and bestial, and stepped into the light streaming from the corridor behind. The ceramite of his plate looked to be living tissue, seamlessly fused together; a gore-choked maw sat where a vox-grill once had, full of rows of needle like teeth. Worse, it had three sets of eyes winking and moving in it's face, resembling an arachnid. All six eyes turned on Mahdra, lit with hellish life and amusement. Shoulderplates marked with a leering daemon skull wreathed in flames gnashed and spat warp-fire from it's living mouth, gargling words that made Kalkida's head hurt and his eyes throb. From the first horrifying orifice in it's living helm, it spoke. “Welcome, cousins.” It's words were hashed together with more of the daemonic mumbling emanating from its' shoulders. “Care for a light snack? There is plenty to share.” The rest of it's squad.... no, pack.... gurgled with laughter though mouthfuls of Angelic meat and gristle. The Iron Warriors were dead silent as their eyes took in the disgusting levels a brother Legion could fall, waiting for the Old man's next move.

All except Levan, who snarled one word in the ancient tongue of his homeland. “Maldito.”

That was all Captain Mahdra needed. His archeotech revolver already in hand, the Old Man snapped it level with the monstrous creature before him, shooting it in the face. The ultra rare Negative Fusion round struck the former Legionary just below the cheek and imploded, drawing it's evil flesh with it, caving in half it's face and most of it's upper torso. The rest of Bravo team opened fire, emptying entire magazines into the aberrations, before the creatures could react. Kalkida hammered the closest Word Bearer with full-auto fire from his combi-bolter resting atop his shield, shattering the vast antlers cresting it's head and blowing off all three of it's upper limbs. Repulsed by it's appearance, Kalkida kept firing until he had expended the entire drum, erasing the monster from existence the old-fashioned way. Even so, he recited the Litany of Iron over and over, doing anything he could to block out the hissing half-words he could still hear in his head.

The hammer of bolters quieted, leaving behind the chiming sound of expended shells finishing their dance across the deck, and the ticking of super-heated metals. Only one creature still moved, it's lower half sheared away explosively, dragging itself with one good arm. The hell light that once filled it's' eyes had faded, it's shattered teeth grinding together in pain. Kalkida moved to terminate the … thing, but Mahdra motioned him away, approaching it's ruined form. The Old Man held his arm over it's head, letting the odd icon hanging from his wrist on wood beads dangle before it's face. The creature made a sound like a wounded animal, hissing smoke coming from it's eyes, as it tried to look away. “The... old faith? We... we thought it was dead...”, the creature said, it's voice oddly twined with another, deeper voice.

Kalkida watched as his liege unsealed his helm, and attached it to his belt, so that he could stare the monster straight in the eye. “Indeed it is not,” Mahdra's scarred lip curled as he spoke. “You can let the Morningstar know that when you go before him, fallen one.” Before the creature could speak again, Mahdra fired the revolver again.

Looking up from the monster's headless corpse, Mahdra turned to Kalkida, and the rest of the still dazed Dragoons. “Behead them all, Kal, just to be sure. Levan, burn the bridge. Our worst fears have come true, and we need to prepare for a second war.” Turning away, Mahdra resealed his helm, clicking his vox open. “Breachmaster Lowell, change of plans again. Plant the charges and withdraw; we need to burn this place and return to The Blade of Khamael quickly; we have much to do.” He drew close to one of the dead monsters, and unsheathed his gladius. Lifting the creature's head up with his free hand, he scissored the blade through it's neck. “And somebody raise Voxmaster Caradak, I need some encoded messages sent out to some old friends.” Kalkida joined the Old Man in taking heads, attempting not to vomit in his helm the whole time.

::::Recovered recording:::Data-Stack 762-4::::Noospheric interface complete:::::processing request::::::Granted:::::

gallery_37532_8712_438322.pnggallery_37532_8712_863714.pnggallery_37532_8712_67117.png

[Pict Capture DX/822-2-04] Venerable Levan, The Spirebreaker (Forlorn Hope)

Although they are still filthy traitors, I must grudgingly thank Mahda and his men for (albeit coincidentally) avenging the desecration of the Grace's bridge crew. *spits in disgust* This is why I despise the Word Bearers more than any other Traitor Legion.

Wade Garrett Veteran

Wade Garrett

Posted
Posted

Bah!

 

I did not expect those doddering relics senility would lead them to gun down their own allies on the

battlefield, but then, fear and hatred has ever been the response of the dullard unwilling exposed to the truth.

 

This treason will not go unrepaid, Mahdra! Your name is in our mouths. Your face is in our sight. All come to us in the end, and we forget nothing.

Noctus Cornix Venerable Brother

Noctus Cornix

Posted
Posted

And this is why heathens is one of the best.

 

Now I'm feeling an urge to defend the innocent whilst still killing the emperors lapdogs

 

You are playing Death Guard. Mutated and corrupted or not, they still believed originally in defending the weak and overthrowing the Tyrant Emperor.

Noctus Cornix Venerable Brother

Noctus Cornix

Posted
Posted

Did the Iron Warriors actually have an Old Faith, or is that a flourish by heathens?

 

Or is Mahdra a Terran (though I doubt that particular religion would really be limited to Terra)?

 

Its only Mahdra. He is an old Terran born in a Cathoric (Catholic) society before The Emperor decided to trash all over Religions. Its mentioned in one of his previous stories.

Disruptor_fe404 Veteran

Disruptor_fe404

Posted
Posted

Its only Mahdra. He is an old Terran born in a Cathoric (Catholic) society before The Emperor decided to trash all over Religions. Its mentioned in one of his previous stories.

 

Right-o. I had actually associated the 'Cathoric' from that with two things: the Cathars (which is reasonably close in theme, so it was what I was actually going with) and a really stereotypical Asian accent (kind of repulsive, so I quickly figured it wasn't this).

 

Also, I totally forgot that.

 

EDIT: It was a whole seven pages ago! Practically a whole month...

Dragonkin Arenis Veteran

Dragonkin Arenis

Posted
Posted

I sense some linkage between heathens' Iron Warriors and his Imperial Fists...

 

Awesome update, heathens! The combination of Mk.IV (Black Templars!) Dread and Contemptor Heavy Bolter arm is... unusual. But I like it! The Spirebreaker is excellent!

Incidentally, is Ancient Levan a Spaniard, or of Hispanic persuasion?

KBA Veteran

KBA

Posted
Posted

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gallery_37532_5424_25119.jpg

+ Part I +

+ OD-Day (Terra), Minus 15 +

The Old Man was already waiting for us. He was always first. Always.

The briefing hall at the heart of the Tarasque Class Battleship "Blade of Khamael" was a plain and unornamented room, much like the rest of the ship, it's low hanging ceiling laced with cabling and iron girders, the walls peppered with screens showing the disposition of every first line and support element under the Old Man's command in dimmed scrolling green lettering. The lights were simple, industrial glow-globes, grated like the Iron Mask that sat upon all our shoulders. A large steel table took up the center of the room, riveted to the floor, and covered in large scrolls, depicting the upcoming orbital drop, and the assault lanes to be carved out of the Throneworld's heart. At the far end of the table, his scarred hands stretched across one of the scrolls, hazel eyes drinking in every detail, was the Old Man himself.

Dragoon-Captain Phelan Mahdra, the Wolfhound of Old Earth.

I knew very little of his past, very few did, though many had tried to pry. He was rumored to have been born in an oasis-city in the heart of the rad-choked deserts of Nord Merica. It was said this city had refused Unification, had struck out against the warlord who called himself Emperor, with waves of disciplined armour squadrons. The Tyrant of Terra had let loose his most terrible weapon upon this small fortress, the Thunder Warriors who carried his banner, who had shattered the resistance to his faulty dream. The Oasis had burned, and the few blood-covered orphans who had survived had been torn from the limp grasp of their lifeless parents to be used as test subjects for the newborn Astartes program. Here, the myths surrounding Mahdra wound into truth, and a battle record long and violent enough to shame any Legionary. The Siege of Gatinieau. The Alyeskan Decimation. The Lattenim Raids. The Saturnine Compliance. The Dirge of Tybalt Hive. Mahdra's armour and flesh were scarred alike, from hundreds of thousands of conflicts. But, no matter the war, no matter the wound, one group of scars stood out more than any other upon his flesh. Thick, vicious scars that surrounded every black carapace induction port, trails of perfectly straight and symmetrical gouges carving up his spine and down his arms. They were recognizable as surgical in design, but were far deeper than any other legionary carried upon him.

The oldest of the IV I had spoken to, mostly those who now served a half-life cast in Iron, referred to these scars as the Stigmata of the Firstborn. First-generation Astartes, most who died during the rough and unpracticed implantation of the various organs that turned a man into a demi-god, by scientists and vivisectors who used the youth of Terra as expendable test subjects, rending and killing children as they learned the art of Transhuman Induction. That Mahdra had survived this rough and invasive malpractice was incredible. That he still stood to this day, improbable. I could not take my eyes from those old scars every time I saw the Captain outside his plate, as he was this day. They always reminded me that, no matter the color of his heraldry, or the symbol upon his shoulder, he was a son of Old Earth, first and foremost. IV Legion, not Iron Warrior. His hate for the Emperor was far purer than any of ours, his grievances against the Lord of Mankind far greater. He fought against the tyranny, because he knew long before any of us, that the Emperor was a monster, a rabid dog who needed to be put down. Mahdra had lost everything, and had held his enmity just below the surface, until he had finally found a way to strike back at the man who had murdered his family, and had tried to do the same to his faith. The icon that hung from his wrist on scented rosewood beads was proof of his defiance. We may not have believed in whatever faith he generally kept to himself, but we respected him for hanging onto it. If it gave him the strength to live long enough to see the Emperor brought low, such tenacity was good enough for us. He had never failed us, so we would not fail him, no matter his faults.

I filed into the room, followed by the rest of the XIV Dragoon command team, and we took our usual spots, to the sound of legionary warplate clacking and buzzing. Mahdra, despite wearing nothing more than a set of leather boots, battle dress trousers, and a sleeveless shirt, still dominated the room. His short grey hair was slicked back away from his broken and weathered face, showing the scars where six service studs once sat. Old and faded honour tattoos overlapped, or were broken by, thousands of scars, sat upon his shoulders and arms, along with the Raptor Imperialis upon his neck. His beloved archeotech revolver sat under his left arm, in an old and battered leather holster. I can't ever remember him without it, even during hand to hand combative training. Those sharp hazel eyes, always aflame with controlled aggression, scanned our faces as we settled in. His gravelly voice, the sound of a man who spent his entire life breathing in cordite-laced smoke, filled the small room. That voice always enthralled me, despite having heard the voices of gods made flesh all my life. When angered, Captain Mahdra's growling inflection frightened me more than my Fathers'; which, considering who my Father was, was one hell of a compliment.

"Greetings.", Mahdra welcomed us with a rumble and crossed arms, "You know why I've called you here. In two weeks' time, we will finally make landfall upon Terra, and engage in the most important conflict in human history. Our designated objective is the Dhwalaghiri Redoubt, Sections III through IX, including the Hindou Kaush's Safah and Pamir Scar. We take that area, and we can shell the Palace interior into oblivion with impunity. We don't, and we die in shallow graves at the steppes, forgotten. This is the endgame, little brothers. Either we win here, or we fail. There are no other alternatives, no fallback plans, no Omega Orders, no taking even one damn step back. This is The End. Questions?" We had none. We knew what was to be expected of us. We knew we rode on to our deaths, like true Dragoons; and we would die in our mounts the same. My hearts soared with cold honour; proud to fight, proud to die. The Captain nodded, the glimmer of the pride he felt in his men flickering in his eyes, for just a moment.

I knew I was going to die. We all did. We did not care. Nothing was going to stop us, because nothing could kill Captain Mahdra. Every fist slammed into their brestplates with a clatter, my own knuckles thumping against the ident-plate on my chest that read 'Mayov'. The Old Man raised his hand, and there was silence. Eyes the color of Terra's long dead forests locked onto me suddenly, and I felt frozen in place. "Sergeant, You're with me on the drop, along with every Sapper you got. We need the revetments built before we can land the armour; you'll have less than an hour to build one large enough to protect the Troop. You tracking?"

"Like a Hunter Missile, sir." I've never been more proud in my life. First of the Dragoons to land on Terra.

I didn't even care that the analytical part of my brain was howling that this was a suicide mission.

-Memoirs of Veteran Sergeant Mayov, Sapper Platoon (I), XIV Dragoon, Deceased

　

IV Legion Organization

XIV Dragoon, LXV Grand Company, IV Legion

Born during the early days of the Unification War, the Dragoon Squadrons were composed of massed heavy armour, with mounted infantry who would deploy in the heart of enemy formations and shatter their main body through overwhelming superior firepower. Over the centuries, as the IV Legion began fighting in more and more sieges and trench wars, the Dragoons were augmented heavily with artillery batteries, adding to their already significant firepower, leaving the armour dug in behind revetments for breakthroughs, or blunting enemy formations attempting the same. Engineers were used in vast numbers, to break enemy walls and redoubts, in a constant effort to force a breakthrough as swiftly as possible, so as to allow the Dragoons to play to their strengths.

As such, most Dragoon formations, including the XIV, were severly depleted in arms and men by the time of the Great Siege, due to their use in Forlorn Hope breaching. Through the vast resuppliy efforts of the Warmaster-aligned Mechanicum, the XIV were able to re-arm and re-armour their men prior to initial orbital drop with some of the more recent weapon and armour designs, such as the Mk. VI warplate. Absorbing three seperate Dragoon formations that had been left broken and leaderless over the seven year long war, replenished their ranks with hardened veterans who had survived everything the Imperium had thrown against them, bringing the elite XIV Dragoon Squadron to over 150% MTO&E strength.

Less than sixty days later, the XIV Dragoon were a total loss.

::::Recovered recording:::Data-Stack 767::::Noospheric interface complete:::::processing request::::::Granted:::::

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[Pict Capture DX/997-76-031] - Veteran Sergeant Mayov

OD-Day plus 1

　

The Senior Non-Commissioned Officer of the XIV Dragoon's Sappers, Sergeant Mayov was the master of explosives, and their proper placement to both create, and destroy. His expertise was used extensively during the initial day of landings, creating vast revetments to protect and defend the Dragoons inbound vehicles. Again and again, his experience came into being during the Great Siege, bringing down the heavily fortified Safah Ravelin through a practical application of heavy melta charges, breaking through the Dhawalagiri Gap, and the Breach of XX / 767 Bastion. It was here, on OD +37, that Sergeant Mayov was finally laid low. Broken and bleeding, standing atop the hammer-crushed corpses within the Bastion's crumbled wall, Mayov was confronted by an Imperial Fist tactical squad marked in I Airborne unit signifiers, and was gunned down by sixteen separate bolters.

　

Heathens, you're an amazing talent. You probably get that a lot, but you should get that a lot make no mistake about it. The above fluff was better reading than the last two black library books I've picked up. While I'm not a huge fan of your militaristic dialogue style for the far future, your structure, timing, and voice are up there with the pros. Don't ever leave us lol

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