Jump to content

A Time of Reaving IC

Black Cohort

Recommended Posts

The black sands of Isstavan V burned with the fires of war at a level unseen perhaps ever in the history of the Galaxy.  Human cultures and traditions had many names for such a place, the 9th circle of Hell, Ragnarok, Armageddon.  Enough warriors to conquer a sector in weeks betrayed by those they called brothers fought for their lives, though truth they knew it was an unlikely end.  But the warriors of those three legions knew other truths; they were post-human Astartes and they would not cower in fear, shaking and waiting for the end, for they knew no fear, only vengeance.  They knew that only in death would their duty to the master of mankind end, and they would take as many oath breakers as they could before the last light faded from them.


Ad-hoc squads of survivors formed and died within hours; brothers forever in death.  Some claimed that the Gorgon and possibly the lord of the XVIII had fallen; and the berserker rage that had claimed many of the Iron Tenth suggested there was truth to that.  Still some lived and fought on, most in the north, where Lord Corax was last seen.  These were not noble and honourable clashes, but brutal and close; often settled with pistols, blades or even hands and teeth.  


It would become known as the Dropsite Massacre, but at this moment it raged on, for the doom of some Astartes did not lie on Isstvan’s forsaken sands.  In the chaos of the battle, which raged not just on the surface but in the sky above and space beyond, some craft were able to survive that perilous journey to the surface to save those they could, fewer still made it back to a ship in orbit.  But one craft, a black thunderhawk, Mons Nobilis, surprisingly in the colours of the first legion, had indeed survived and disgorged an understrength squad onto the sand.  As it descended it’s sponsons had cleared the immediate area, at least for a moment.  It’s pilot bound to the cockpit chair by his previous injuries and direct connection with the craft, warned that every moment they stayed was to chance death.


The craft would stay upon the sand for less than 90 seconds, and in that time most of the squad it discharged were lost.  But others came seeking the chance at salvation it offered...

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Ravyx Koloios


The scarp which screened him from above was made of blasted, black glass. An inky glacier that was as sheer black as coal, knapped into a broad arrowhead by the howling wind grating the remnants of the mountains which it was reduced from. Strange that it should remind Ravyx of the Legion, of the massed shield mountains of the Astartes as a whole, now ground into...this. Sand shifted under his boot, the significance of it all not lost on him.


And into dust we shall return.


Noise overhead, an impossibility as another blocky bolt came flying out of the blue.  A Thunderhawk gunship cut the tortured air above, streaking in with the forward troop bay glowing from rapid re-entry.  Chipped paint ran up the outer hull from debris strikes, the pitting and divots of old micro-meteorites and weapon impacts decorating this ungainly bird. Weapons swivelled, the sponsons seeking prey to slaughter. Even over the wind and scream of engines, which left burning contrails to scar the sky, the heavy bolters thundered, but Ravyx couldn't see the target.


Perhaps this was an airstrike on fellow survivors - a hammer blow to scour courage from the heart of any who would oppose the Warmaster.


He nearly spat.


More gunfire, battle cries. Unusual, but not so much that he would be foolish enough to look. He'd heard the dark laughter of the Cthonians, their barbarous tongue lashing, whiplike as they mowed down his Flight. No, such an obvious ruse would not trap him, not in this cage. For hours, he had escaped and evaded pursuit, capture, execution. He would do so again, even if he had to fly off the world by flapping his bloody arms. What was that?


An Iron Warrior moved to the lip of the cliff, passing close, in brilliant, reflective Mk II Crusade pattern armour.


Ravyx froze, a stillness even death would pass, systems within his broken shell running on minimal power, not by design, but by necessity. He held even his breath, stilled both hearts. Interested, distracted, the Iron Warrior stepped past him, looking towards this new bird. Bolter fire crashed out, and for a second Ravyx thought he'd been spotted, but no, the traitor had-




-had fired down at the Thunderhawk, and whomsoever it brought. That was good enough. He slipped from the shadow, crouched behind the...traitor, thankful of the shortcomings of the older armour his...enemy woreand snatched for the bolt pistol the warrior had carelessly left unfastened at his hip. Ravyx's boot went right into the man's armoured cul, the backside of the harness, and propelled him over a two-hundred metre drop to crumple into the ground. The Raven Guard Apothecary said nothing, no smart quip, no cruel barb.


Contempt was his his condemnation. He hoped the bastard never even knew what hit him.


Now. The Thunderhawk. If he could get there...maybe, just maybe he could find others, form a resistance, a rebellion. His armoured gauntlet cupped the sands, let them ply through his hands in a torrent.


Yes. Even sand remembers when it was a mountain.


He ran.


Edited by Mazer Rackham
Link to comment
Share on other sites



The escape pod had dropped Elvrit into what he could only describe as… chaos.


In the tumult of massed Legion combat, he hadn't been able to find any of his brethren, except for a few Terminator armoured corpses, which he noted with grim pride were surrounded by dozens of equally lifeless power armoured bodies. However, the majority of the Morlocks must have pressed onwards hours ago.


Instead, the Breacher managed to link up with a few battered squads of loyalists - Salamanders and Raven Guard - who had occupied a half decent defensive position in a rocky outcrop. He'd been here with them a few hours now, killed a few more of the traitorous scum that came too close. He was even getting a taste for it.


It wouldn't save them, though. The original renegade Legions were well dug in, and the advancing second wave of traitors was vast, overwhelming. That bastard Horus must have been planning this for years.


When the Thunderhawk passed overhead, for a moment he thought that his ironclad brethren had finally arrived in force. Then, a fraction of a second later, his eyes picked out the differences in colour and iconography that proclaimed the gunship as belonging to the First Legion, not the Tenth.


Elvrit didn't care why or how these Angels had come to be here on Istvaan V. He only cared that their guns devastated a column of traitor infantry - a demi-company of Iron Warriors - as they attempted to outflank and enfilade the ever-shrinking unit of loyalists. That… suggested… that the pilots were on his side.


When the ‘hawk dropped down moments later onto the black sand just outside the stony refuge they had been defending, Elvrit grunted bitterly. He wanted to stay here on the surface, to keep going forwards, to continue the search for his brethren and the Primarch, who he was sure must still be fighting somewhere ahead of this position…




That would be suicidal. Illogical. Any fool could see that the Emperor's forces had lost this battle. Now, they needed to retreat, to pull whatever assets they could out of this mess and take them back to join the loyalist Legions that were left. There was no way this was going to be the last battle to be fought, and every warrior would be needed.


Elvrit stumped aboard the Thunderhawk and took up a position maglocked against the deck just inside the assault ramp. He didn't sit or relinquish his weapons, however, instead maintaining combat readiness despite the terrible weariness that suddenly flooded even his heavily augmented form. Given the scale of this war, here and in orbit, he knew that this could prove to be only a momentary reprieve.




Edited by Lysimachus
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Rain on Black Sand



In one of the countless little crevasses and minor valleys that flowed from the hinterland into the greater Urgall Depression a spirit broken loyalist stumbled from cover to cover. His armour a scarred shadow of what had been, some scant hours ago, a proud warrior marching to bring the traitor and his conspirators to justice.


A slight bend in the path opened up an unseen hollow, an exposed rock face on the left descending into what could be the opening of a cave. A perfect spot for an ambush the Loyalist realises belatedly, as he saw the fallen scattered about, black sand already beginning to cover the remains as eddies of wind curled through the hinterlands. He should have notice, but he was to weary.


On the other side, back against stone, sat another marine. Armour scoured, where legion icons should stand they had been defaced. Only a singular Oath of Moment script adored the warrior.


As the Loyalist had rounded the corner the other had reflectively raised the autocannon he cradled, but stopped and let it rest once more within a split second, before it was even approaching being aimed.  Seeing the remains of the Loyalist heraldry the other called out.


“You have nothing to fear from me this day of doom.”


 “Rain,” and here he pattered the autocannon, “will only fall on these false kin, oath beakers.”


Having had a moment to take the scene in fully now the Loaylist saw that all the fallen had been of the fourth, and that they were less fallen, more so utterly shredded by heavy calibre fire at ludicrously close range.  



The seconds ticked by, the Loyalist standing still, like prey caught in a hunter’s sight, fearing that any movement will trigger a sudden death. That his words had been a ruse, a cruel trick, a mindset entirely understandable on this day.


Standing in an unhurried motion, taking care to keep the barrel pointed away from the Loyalist Hadad hoped down from his vantage point.


“I keep my word, see.”


After a few steps he glances at the other, tilts his head slightly.


“After today trust will be a hard earned coin, perhaps impossibly so, so let me spend mine freely, and hope I haven’t just paid Charon.”


“I am Utu Mot Hadad, oath keeper, Legionless as witnessed by the black sands.”


“Believe me or not, the choice is yours, and if that shall cost me then at least I will know that my rest is earned with honour, or at least vestiges of duty, who knows, do you?”


He shrugs and turns away, heading for the far side of this little nook.


“I saw a 1st Legion Hawk not long ago, somewhere yonder this way. I don’t recall any mention of those brothers in the briefings as we rode the droop ships down, but perhaps I was distracted as the kin turned false and breakers all around me.”


Having reached the end of the hollow, his next steps about to take him out of sight he turned to look back.


“Shall we spend the coin of trust once more and see if the 1st are keepers rather than breakers?”








Link to comment
Share on other sites

Ekene Sul


He was the last of twenty brothers. Cut off and whittled down by attrition, his tactical squad had left a trail of bodies - theirs and their betrayers - as they were driven further from the legion's landing zones and out onto the black sands. Now even their insignia was gone, scorched from Ekene's ravaged armour.


Further from the landing zones, and further from the primarch.


Vulkan lived, he knew. Wherever he was, though, it was impossible to rejoin him from here; impossible to fight through the traitor hosts and their roaming kill-packs alone. For a while Sul had joined a small band of fellow survivors from the other loyal legions, flotsam scattered on the black dunes by the tides of treachery. By chance and circumstance he had outlived them as he had his fallen squad brothers, but there were others - had to be others - and he would find them.


Perhaps you will outlast them too, if you find them. Perhaps you carry a curse to all you meet. The last loyal legionary on this screaming, bleeding world, wandering until you have seen all your kin fall.


He drove the thought from his mind. He would find more warriors who still held to their oaths, and they would fight. For now, that was all there was.


The roar of the gunship's engines didn't surprise him, but the sight of its black hull plates did. He had seen nothing in the air for hours that didn't belong to the Warmaster's

wretches. Was this a ship of the Iron Tenth? The Raven Guard? It was coming in low, trading fire with... yes, with Perturabo's butchers.
He broke into a pounding run, the servos of his armour snarling like wild beasts.


Into the fires of battle...

Link to comment
Share on other sites



The covenant was broken, the unthinkable betrayal, the Warmaster had turned upon the Emperor and with him uncounted astartes... no, traitors had broken the unbreakable oath and turned against the master of mankind.


There could be no forgiveness, and no bystanders in this fresh war. All were suspect but the Sons of Horus and any who stood with them were condemned, rage and every instinct of the warrior urged him into battle but as the thunderhawk screamed down from the sky it was clear even at this distance that the battle was lost.


But they were not here to win this war, no even to save those below as the Thunderhawk lurched and banked hard towards one of the countless firefights below. "Take them alive", he bellowed back at the scant few he commanded, "let their last sight be their confession before the Lion and the Emperor!" 


One final turn and the Thunderhawk landed heavily. They would have but moments to act.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Kraith Ordus


The black sands swirled in the plasma-burn wake of a dark Thunderhawk. A possible way out?


Kraith had fought for hours in the Depression, the 66th Assault Company launching lightning attacks as the traitors gunned down their brothers and their Primarch fought his way through the mass of enemy. The 66th was broken defending the Primarch's back, most of their members lying broken and dead in the umbral dust. Kraith knew of only a few still remaining- a sergeant that had been leading a forlorn hope, an apothecary that had managed to survive the brutal melee, himself. The pride of the XIXth's assault companies, destroyed by their cousins. 


He had seen brothers fighting brothers, legionnaires grappling with their squadmates as bolt rounds rained down on them from the traitors' lines. He had even seen members of the traitor legions fighting their own, scattered loyalists no longer able to stomach the betrayal that their gene-sires and brothers had committed. He was with one of them now, a marine with defaced heraldry that spoke in the rough ways of the IVth, the Iron Warriors. Kraith had seen the legionnaire in the company of a wounded Salamander, followed them, and then joined them as the former Iron Warrior's compatriots scoured the sands for survivors. 


The three ran toward the Thunderhawk, braving fire from the traitors who had turned their weapons on the gunship. The twin chainswords of Kraith rasped out their deadly roar, choked with sand, bone, and ceramite. The former Iron Warrior turned his autocannon on his traitor brethren, working the heavy weapon's fire into scattered groups and suppressing them. From multiple angles came ragged individuals that stumbled to the gunship, wounded and broken loyalists desperate for a way off of the bitter battlefield. Hoping against hope that they could make it.


Maybe we can.

Edited by Lord_Ikka
Link to comment
Share on other sites

The Passenger


He had been enjoying the freedom to slaughter in the Depression but he had dialled his actions back, especially when he saw the weakness of the veil and remembered past teachings.


He waited, his suit powered down to minimal power outputs and he initiated a calming psi-mantra whilst he imparted instructions to his armour.


He prayed to the Omnissiah of Mars.




Suddenly a hand thrust upwards out of the sands and grasped a rear landing strut of the Thunderhawk, before it extracted. The thing moved on near autonomous instincts of survival, pulled its form up the strut, through the strut retraction space and into the exterior thruster cowling.


Hands thrust inwards and clawed for purchase. Remora-like data jacks extruded from the armoured form and sought power to preserve its occupant.


The thing that was Codicier Ashmon slept on.






Edited by Machine God
Tidy up.
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Ravyx Koloios


And still the dark raven, never flitting,

Still is sitting - still is sitting!

Upon the blasted sands of Isstvan,

Casting shadows from the door,

And their eyes have all the gleaming,

Of a vengeful bastard's dreaming,

As each wrathful burning bolt shell,

Casts the traitors to the floor,

As as the engines turning,

Lifting from a world that's burning,

He throws himself in past them,

His soul a mote of shadow,

Hope left at Isstvan's door,

Left there, and lifted - 



Ravyx dodged as he could as the gun battle raged, the Primarch's verses corrupted, twisted in his mind. He drew his borrowed bolter and fired at the traitors, his actions and raiment hopefully providing enough pause that he might make the chance - he hurtled in past the others and took a kneeling position behind a stanchion, adding his firepower to his new Flight. Measured, aimed shots broke open casques, twisted heads, as the autocannon hammered down the drumbeat.


For a second, his hopes lifted, seeing another Raven, but there were only the two of them now.


Without thinking, he warbled the call for 'Gather', but this time there was no warmth. It was just a lament.

Link to comment
Share on other sites



Having reached the Hawk at a flat out run he stepped onto the ramp and turned, ready to provide covering fire for any other oathkeepers that might seek this opportunity to depart. So far everything he had assumed about the craft and intention seems to have played out. While he could not see the others face beneath their helmets no doubt a few were casting looks his way, whether mistrust, hate or confusion he could only guess.


Out on the sands he spotted the sea greeen of the Warmaster’s own as several moved out of cover to line up a shot at the hawk. Rain drove them to the ground again, and at least one had been caught by a full round, the armour shrapnel scattering over his fellows.


"We need to lift off in 30 seconds if we want to live." One of the 1st shouted.


The drum magazine of Rain clicked empty, and with a long practise move he knelt to reduce his profile on the open ramp as he swapped in a fresh set of rounds. In his head he was counting the seconds as he raised the autocannon once more and added its deluge to the Hawks heavy bolters.

Link to comment
Share on other sites



With a mechanised growl, Elvrit moved from his position at the side of the ramp. The edge of his heavy shield slammed down into the deck with an audible clang, providing cover for the kneeling gunner as he reloaded his cannon.


“Faster, corpse-grinder,” he grunted, even as he fired Toirneach over the curved lip of his shield, putting a pair of bolt shells into the shoulder plate of an advancing traitor. “Don't make me regret this.”



Link to comment
Share on other sites



Astartes fled towards the thunderhawk seeking only escape, not turning to face the enemy until safe upon the ramp so recently vacated by Arazakiels own squad.

To what end? To return without answers, to fight the same foes they faced now but spread across the Imperium unfocussed until Terra itself was sieged?


Shells exploded around him as the warning came, eyes darting about the corpses of the landing zone seeking the traitors colours. Astartes were not easily killed but nor were the dead so easily picked apart from those with still a spark of life. Hurling the closest back towards the ramp he gauged the risk of seeking a second as the life signals of his squad flickered out... the odds were not in their favour, so a second it would be.

Link to comment
Share on other sites



As the Hawk took off he kept his autocannon’s barrel trained on the ever shrinking gap as the ramp closed, spending the last few rounds in that magazine to make the oathbreakers duck back into cover. With the clunk of the ramps closure and the hiss of the atmospheric seals engaging he turned to the tenth breacher.


“Thank you, for the cover and the trust, it can’t have been easy on this day.”


“If I may ask a boon, please don’t use that name, that designation, again. There is no honour to it, bestowed by others for duty rendered, where those same others would not. And all at the command of Horus Oathbreaker and father who held us first sons as worthless. I do not wish to hear it again.”


Holding out a hand in greeting in the old Terran custom.


“Utu Mot Hadad.”

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Ravyx Koloios


He moved to the side as the sudden block of metal dropped into place. The warrior of the X Legion formed a bulwark to cover the...Warrior of Iron. For a second he was dislocated, then reality came crashing through in the spank of hard rounds near his head.


He leaned around the metal monster. The battle was getting difficult to read, smoke and debris thick in the air. With a blink click, Ravyx's helm switched vision modes, starlight giving way to heat signatures, some hot with rage, others cooling in death. He could see the last men of the First Legion hunkered down against the hail of fire, bolt shells flying in thick as the swathes of black grit - like carrion flies - swirling about, churned by engine wash.


He levelled his bolter at those who lurked without that ever-diminishing circle, double-tapping the armpits, elbows and knee seals. The bolts would blow the servos if they didn't penetrate, trapping fibre bundles below the armoured plates, seizing the enemy up for the heavier guns to slay the struggling foemen. Stunned nerve clusters would drop weapons, make hesitation greater.


He shot a Son of Horus in the throat, deliberately targeting the geneseed there. It gave him no pleasure, given his duty, but if they wanted to exterminate the XIX Legion, then he would make sure to drive his beak as deeply into their hearts as possible. He only hoped the legacies he carried within the armoured flasks currently stored inside his Narthecium would prove useful in the coming tumult.


Underneath him, he could feel the mechanisms, the hydraulics increase in power and noise. They were about to spread their wings and fly into a storm.

Edited by Mazer Rackham
Link to comment
Share on other sites



The Breacher looked down at the proffered hand. Examining. Weighing.


“Elvrit Sharr, Clan Borragar, Iron Tenth,” he replied finally, even as the Thunderhawk shuddered suddenly beneath their feet. He looked up to stare thoughtfully into the Iron Warrior's faceplate.


“You take offence where none was given… Hadad. I make no judgement about the strategies of your… old kindred. Brutal and effective. Efficient. Honour enough for me.”


He paused, considering.


“My advice? Words…? names…? meaningless now. Actions. They will prove the mettle of each man."


Elvrit gave a clanking shrug.


"Thus far, I like you better than any of your former brethren...”


He turned to stump away, still ignoring the gunner's outstretched hand.


“...and you'll be damn lucky if that's the worst thing you get called around here.”




Edited by Lysimachus
Link to comment
Share on other sites



Lowering his hand again, using it instead to grip a convenient handhold and steady himself. No doubt the ascent would be turbulent.  


It heartened him to hear Elvrit Sharr words, for while he was right and that actions would speak louder than words, his words were far from meaningless.  For too long had he only heard that name spoken with revulsion and such form the tongues of others that it had become a sign, a foci, of so much that was wrong. He had not taken offence, he just did not want to be reminded of that heritage. Shaking off these morose thoughts, for too long he had been an embittered old soul.


To be treated with dignity, well, that was a first in a very very long time.



Edited by Trokair
Autocorrect! Really? How did tongues become lounges . I know my spelling is weak but come on. I bet someone spots an even worse one now...
Link to comment
Share on other sites

OOC: I didn't want to run on too much, or steal thunder since other players are In Media Res, so I kept it to specialty.


Ravyx Koloios


Unexpected niceties in the face of barbarity. Surely all had gone mad. His eyes followed Sharr of the Xth, as he indomitably stomped further into the gunship, arresting on the two stasis caskets stacked in the far side of the bay. Without thinking, he approached them, a sure step light of foot, to kneel beside the Sarcophagae Vivem. Ravyx pulled a snaking cable free, drawing the connector to the vitals augur, and plugging in. Instantly, his gauntlet came alive, a haptic, phosphor red holoplaque monitoring the patients within.


One was vacant, but the other...


A Sus-An induced coma.


No great traumas were obvious, but he discovered within an Iron Hand, replete with Cybernesis. A row of up to eleven spinal comms taps, thoracic grafts, subdermal armour and cyber-mantle integration. The scar tissue was minimal, the Iron Tenth demonstrating their affinity for melding man and machine.


Ravyx studied the A Scion of Mars a moment more, then shut his connection off. Again, now was not the time to rouse these reinforcements. He wondered if there would be opportunity later. He envied them slightly, their ignorance of the terrible events besetting their gene-kin on the world trying so desperately to bring down this small craft, this desperate escape. The thought made him turn, head canting, beaked helm twitching, perplexed, as he studied the livery of the First Legion within the hull. Their presence odd, unexpected.


He wondered how much the other Legions knew, and more importantly, where they stood.


The truce between Hadad of the Iron Warriors, and Sharr suddenly seemed a very fragile thing.


Edited by Mazer Rackham
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Kraith Ordus


Kraith backed up the ramp, chainswords blurring. The mass of traitors were being held back by the ragged volleys of fire from the Thunderhawk squad and the remaining survivors clustered at his back. 


Elbow, knee, stomach, wrist, neck, knee, neck... His thoughts and blades located then tore into the vulnerable sections of Astartes armor. His own plated turned aside the bolt-fire and slashes of the enemy, the heavy mkIII armor designed for this sort of brutal melee. 


"Five seconds!" 


The call came from behind him, and Kraith smashed his blades forward. Using the swords like clubs, he pushed back the Iron Warriors and Sons of Horus swarming the base of the ramp. A final volley of fire through those remaining standing back down and the Thunderhawk lifted from the sands. 


Panting, he mag-locked his chainblades to his armor. The interior of the Thunderhawk was dim, but he could see the occupants clearly enough. A battered remnant of once-proud Legions, from Salamander to Iron Hands and even the former Iron Warrior he had run to the transport with. Kraith moved to the Raven Guard he saw, an apothecary by the white narthecium gauntlet. As he slipped closer, Kraith was astonished to see that it was Apothecary Koloios, attached to his own 66th Assault Company. 


"Brother Apothecary, it is good to see that you survived."

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Ravyx Koloios:


Ravyx stood as the assault marine approached. The voice was distinctive, one of the warriors of the 66th Company. He would have recognised the raiment, if not for the terrible battering the warplate had taken. Of course, his advanced autosenses would have linked with the man to report his IFF sig-ident, but alas, such luxuries were not to be had on Isstvan V. The care of a very skilled Techmarine was required to restore anything like full function. He was just grateful the important functions of the Diagnostor Helm were still going strong.


The Assaulter's Lycaean runescript identifier was still intact, though. Ravyx still had his eyeballs.


'Well met, Kraith Ordus.'


The perfunctory greeting was so typical of the Sons of Corax, it slipped out of his mouth. However, the reserved nature of the Raven Guard did not lack for inflection - as with so much of the XIX Legion, it was more important to understand what wasn't said. The irritating human tendency to...gush...was gone from them, but not their humanity wholesale. He added a few combinations in Corspake, with his left hand, conveniently hidden by Kraith's bulk.


Pleases/me/too/. Glad/see/you/Brother.


Birds of a feather, and all that.


Ravyx recovered from this 'outburst' with a deep breath, and came to full height, which was still half-a-head shorter than Kraith Ordus. His diminutive size and Terran origin led to the derogatory moniker of 'Jackdaw' amongst his fellows. He was just glad he wasn't called 'Cuckoo'. Ravyx's beak twitched as he quickly assessed the Assault Marine, taking passive readings from the Narthecium gauntlet. Scuffs and dings in the armour plate carried some dried blood, nothing suggesting an open wound, Larraman's Cells functional, subject is standing straight, but is fatigued, slight limp in the left leg. Could be a sprain, which would pass within a few minutes. Laceration in the left clavicle, movement unaffected during combat: Superficial.



Medicae Test:

Int: 54 +10 (Diag Helm) +10 (Medicae) +10 (Talented) +20 (Narthecium) = 104

D100: 80 PASS, plus 2DoS


'Do you know if anyone else escaped?'


He might have been discussing the weather.


Edited by Mazer Rackham
Tests, Typos, Clearup
Link to comment
Share on other sites



"The last of our brothers I saw was Sergeant Yulan of the 9th Company, leading the forlorn hope to cover the retreat. Everything else was lost in the confusion."


Raven/wings aloft/vigilance.


"I came upon survivors and we managed to make it to this craft." Kraith looked down at the Apothecary- a smaller man, but one learned in the ways of biology and warfare.



Link to comment
Share on other sites

Ravyx Koloios:


The news wasn't good, but neither was it as bad as he expected. The dreaded Raven Fall signal never came. There was hope. Sergeant Yulan of the 9th was a consummate warrior, and the sacrifice of those men bought the survivors of the Dropsite a chance - at survival, at regrouping, at vengeance. Maybe one day they could reclaim his Calvaria - his honour, and those who choose to fight with him, and bury them once and for all in Kiavahr's forests.


One word which didn't stand out, but could have, was "Retreat". For a prouder Astartes, such a word would have stuck in their craw, driven the lash of shame about their shoulders. To the XIX a retreat in the face of annihilation was a better tactical gambit than standing there, getting punch-drunk, before falling over. His eyes flicked up to the X an IV Legionnaires. He doubted they would agree - maybe there would even be some friction - for whilst the X Legion charged, the XIX flanked, seeking to effect a breakout and cut away.


He considered the questions put to him.




That would have to suffice, for now.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Ekene Sul


Thirty seconds. He had barely made it, pushing his battered Iron Armour to the limit, ignoring the dead and still-dying traitors scattered around the gunship's landing zone. He just ran for the assault ramp. He was going to get off these cursed sands.


Close up, the Thunderhawk held another surprise: It didn't belong to the sons of either Manus or Corax, but the Lion. They weren't part of the muster, and Sul had heard nothing to suggest they had a presence at Istvaan at all, but he wasn't about to stop to question their presence here now.


Once aboard, he waited until the ramp closed before taking stock of his new companions.

If he was surprised to see the First here, he was quite shocked to see one of the Fourth. An outcast? Perhaps some among the turncoat legions had retained their sanity.


He stepped towards the others and offered a salute, banging a closed fist against his plastron over his primary heart.


"Brothers, companions," - he wasn't certain if that one with the cannon was a brother just yet - "I thank you for my deliverance. I am Ekene Sul of the Realm of Heliosa, of Battle Cadre Sindrix, of whom I am the last. Well met."

Link to comment
Share on other sites

The Thunderhawk started closing it's hatch suddenly and without warning, though the tide of bodies attempting to reach it had stopped at least for the moment.  In all 10 warriors had made it aboard the craft before it took off, but nearly half had been claimed by the sus-an sleep of the nearly dead before they were out of the atmosphere.


It was a motley crew of survivors with only one of the Dark Angel squad returning, the Iron Warrior, a pair of Salamanders, three Raven Guard and three Iron Hands had made it.  The cooling flesh of at least three more of their brethren and most of the Dark Angels squad proving that even moments from salvation could be deadly on the black sand.


The heavy bolters continued to fire as the craft rose, and the forward facing lascannons joining in once it had achieved some height, the main cannon even hurled it's greeting more than once on the ascent.


Somehow they had avoided being engaged in the climb through the atmosphere; as they approached low orbit sensors showed that the battle still raged up here.  The closest ships were a pair of Salamanders Frigates harrying a wounded Alpha Legion light cruiser. 


A vox message, clearly a tight beam transmission from one of the Frigates from it's harsh Nocturne accent, broke through all the static.  "Hold course Lionson, we are coming for you."


The two Sword class ships split then, one moving even tighter to the cruiser, it's macrolaser batteries firing at a rate that would melt them in minutes but leaving the Alpha Legion with no choice but to deal with it, while the other broke away, changing course a rate that among startships only a frigate could pull off without breaking apart from the stresses.

Link to comment
Share on other sites



Last to board, Arazakiel looked back at those brothers who could not and bit them sell their lives well should any still draw breath.


As for those that took their places, the fastest to withdraw. "There is no deliverance here, son of Vulkan. The Emperor must be warned of this treachery", he pointed towards one that he had dragged aboard, "we came for what answers we could pry from these sands before the warmasters forces spread and strike at those worlds unprepared".


They were clear targets now as was any vessel leaving the surface, and he set about locking those dead or dying into harnesses least depressurisation drag them from his grasp, ensuring that none carried weapons as he did.


Those astartes still standing would be confronted in due course.


Link to comment
Share on other sites

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!

Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Sign In Now
  • 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.