[DW/SM] Spectre of Ullanor (IC)

[Mazer Rackham]

THE MAZER RACKHAM DESIGN STUDIO...

IN ASSOCIATION WITH THE CABAL OF DEAD INK...AND THE RPG NOOK, PRESENTS:

 

=][= A 'Deathwatch' Roleplaying Game =][=

 

++ THE SPECTRE OF ULLANOR ++

 

 

+ In-Character, Play-by-Post Thread +

 

'Green iz best. Kopta Greenz iz bester.'

- Rozgob Flashdakka

 

 

LOCSIT: Imperial Hive/Industrial World/Armageddon

SECTOR: Segmentum Solar

PLANETSIDE: Armageddon Secundus

LOCALE: Hive Acheron, Plains of Acheron

SITUATION: Critical Xenos Threat

 

Introduction:

 

The Third War for Armageddon rages. Beset on all sides by the Ork fleet, their numberless troops, their brutish atrocities and callous war-make, the Imperial Defenders are hard pressed to rebuff the onslaught of an age. Not even during the previous Orkicide, are times so desperate. Imperial Guard march to war in Brigades of stoic millions, the Faithful Adepta Sororitas and mighty Legions of the Collegio Titanicus stalk the rubble-strewn, corpse-haunted wastelands the Xenos wretches have brought, giving battle in the name of humanity, of survival, even of spite.

 

Victory is not assured, even though the legendary warriors of the Astartes plunge through the rank muck and foetid air of the embattled planet, Bolters barking, they too are almost detritus, spilled by the terrible conflict. In the depths of Hive Acheron, treachery brews - and although the Emperor has seen fir to deploy Colonel Schaeffer and his last chancers to cull the villainous turncoats, other poisons steal into the well.

 

In the jungles, and the deserts, the war grows hot, bloody. Attrition of the secretive forces employed by the Inquisition steady abrades the careful scalpel-like strokes, but Ghazkhull and top chieftains are no so easily murdered. Blunt force is brought to bear against the threats - with hammer blow strikes from Space Marine Squads across the embroiled sectors...

 

One thing is certain: there can be only Waaaagh!

 

Location:

 

Acheron Hive. The largest and best defended. The best prepared. A bastion of the Imperial resistance, a rallying point for Armageddon's beleaguered defenders. Yet all is not as it seems. Many months ago, the voice of Herman Von Strab, once thought dead, confirmed by the Imperial High Command, rings out across hijacked Vox channels once more:

 

Spoiler

 

 

Perhaps the traitor's fate has been exaggerated, but the intention has not. Loyal courtiers and nobles who cling to the desperate need for position and prestige linger, sending their own House Troops and mutated slaves into the tunnels and alleys, fighting the loyal Armageddon Steel Legion, and myriad pockets of Imperial Guard, the Arbites and whatever other forces are stationed within.

 

This time, Von Strab must not escape. His fate has been evaded many times, and now those with suspicions of his true loyalties suspect a dark hand behind the dubious reprieves...

 

The Green Menace:

 

Ghazgkhull Mag Uruk Thraka has assembled over four million Orks to take Armageddon as his own. The lands, the rivers and skies are polluted by this foul menace, and even as the Imperial defenders swell, with gangs of cutthroats standing shoulder-to-shoulder with regular soldiers, and the mighty Space Marines, the war rages on every bluff, around every poison-stained cloud, and each barricade formed by broken tanks. Bored now wth the stalemate, and possessed of a terrible will to begin his own blasphemous kroosade!, he musters his nearest allies to leave the planet.

 

Imperial Strategos reports the unified tides now ebb and flow, and in the long months before the Season of Fire, the Imperials now have the chance to tip the balance.

 

Acheron Hive is to be one of these lynchpins.

 

Securing the monolithic bastions will provide great boons for the Imperium, and once again give a solid wall against which the righteous can safely place their backs.

 

+++++

Somewhere over the deserts of Armageddon, Five minutes out from Drop:

 

The propellyblades thumped quiet above him. The pilot was good 'un, because ''e was one of Flashdakka's Nobz. Not quite a Chinork, this was a smaller, fasta bird, painted with black and purple cammo, wasn't it? A Black-Ork Kopta. Single penny-farving setup. One of Da Masta Mek's design to Bespork Speccyfikayshun. He didn' know 'ow 'e knew dem wordz, 'e just did. He was grateful for the time an' space to fink. Like really Fink, ya know? The Kopta was enclosed, armoured cabin an all, lucksyooreeus, even. How 'e'd 'ad the idea, 'e'd never know.

 

One of dose Smartboyz, sumwun said, although 'e kronked 'im fer it and took 'is teef. A brainbox, Markari said, and dem Wishy-bones Wierdboyz all cackled like dey was throwing a fit. Below, the hot sands scoured across the lads darn dere, ruffin' up with the Humies. Good scrappin' in dem Browncoats, lots of guts, like his Boyz in 'ere. Surrounded by a Krak team, from his own Parashootaz Reggiement, dey was on a secret mission from the Big Ork, hisself - and not even Da Boss or Da Flashdakka or Da blimmin' Mad Mek was supposed ta know.

 

That Humie Git, Von Strab, or whatever - more like Von Cack-blather! Ha, ha! Wuz goin to leave a big door open fer 'em so's dey could get in the slagheap and cut some throats. Course, dem Humies wouldn' like it and give 'is Paras a duffin', but 'e wasn't too bothered. Nah. Da real trubble, was dem Beaky out in the wastes, but 'e 'ad a plan see? He was finking proppa snagga, and them Humies, dat blabber-gob and all dem Beakies was gonna be fer it.

 

'E just 'adta get it fixed. Big Ghaz warned 'im. 'Now dun you klunk it, ya git! I's got de Eye of Gork and Mork, and I sees you klunk it, I'z gonna chop ya.'

 

The Black-Ork Flight thundered up, and up, into the Humie's front door.

 

+++++

 

Welkom ta Armageddon, ya mugz!

 

+++++

 

THE ACHERON OPERATIONS ZONE (AOZ):

 

A diverse and intense combat zone, the best defended hive attracted the most determined Greenskins to attack it. From tank battle graveyards, abandoned gun emplacements, hastily erected fortifications (now swamped in sand) and Ork Snipers under every rock, the AOZ boasts knee-deep Ash Wastes, the Greater Acheron Crater, the Lesser Acheron Crater, Manufactorums and the infamous Motorway Two-Five (M25) which is the most dangerous over-and-under zoom on the planet. A network of irrgation tunnels into the Eumenedies river allows for human water replenishment and hive core cooling. Random Imperial and Xenos minefields, dead-falls and quick-shift (a sand dune that isn't as stable as it looks) create a deadly battlefield for the unintitiated.

 

Your operational area (AO), is a 500 klom radius around Acheron, with a semi-permeable 250 klom buffer zone which contracts and expands by the hour, given conditions and opposing force distribution. See the map below for a guide (with thanks to Lysimachus for the original).

 

Spoiler

 

Chapter Deployments and Player Briefing:

 

The Players will be split into loose groups. Who pairs off with whom is up to you, but I would suggest that the bikers stick together, since the Chapters' bloodline allows for that, and the Salamanders, Angels of Fire, and Celebrants enter the AOZ from the Southeast, coming fom actions along the Hemlock River after massed assault with the Titan Legions (Invigilata remnants etc) and everyone else approaches from either Northeast or East.

 

You should endeavour to have iny introductory posts end with you making way or arriving at the ERV, marked above. Once there, the Ordo Xenos Team will brief you.

 

What's left of it.

 

Ork hunter-killer-eater patrols are rife, along with operational groups of Speed Freeks, sporting battlewaggons, trukks and buggies. Ork air patrols are frequent, and almost uncontested in the skies above Acheron. The hive's air defences, casement batteries and light ordnance are functional, and are keeping the enemy at bay for now, but this cannot be expected to continue. All circumstances are exceptionally fluid on Armageddon, and that relates to the defenders as well - sallies made by the Regiments within the bastions thicken and thin the Orks as well as the Emperor's forces.

 

The Xenos armoured threat presented by the Speed Freeks is rooted firmly in the outlying environs of both the Eumenedies and Avernus Munitorium Forges. Ork airspace superiority has been noted, but their airfields are as yet undected, with suspicion they are underground. Long range Ork artillery bastions are constantly pounding Acheron, with sometimes no proper laying at all, resulting in bizarre and haphazard mortaring and shelling. Ork boomguns and flakkers are generally assisted by Grot Gliders or Balloons, which cause problems for Navy ground-attack aircraft.

 

Strategos reccommendation is to travel at night, and minimise signature by maintaining single file.

 

'The Imperium will win - because the Imperium always wins - but at the moment, even as we bleed from every denial we inflict upon the greenskins, and for all the fire in my men's hearts; that victory seems a long night away.'

 

- Major Kreavus, Armageddon Steel Legion, XIII^th Stormtrooper Regiment.

 

++ FORMAL OPEN: 03 NOV 2025* ++

 

++ THREAD IS OPEN FOR INTRODUCTORY POSTS ++

 

Edited Tuesday at 10:27 PM by Mazer Rackham
*=Subject to change

[Lysimachus]

Incario:

 

 

Brother Incario moved doggedly onwards through the seemingly endless dust-storm, tired but still alert, his senses keyed for the slightest sound or movement. There. Had that been the roar of an enemy vehicle? He froze, panning his sidearm, a half-empty Tigrus-pattern bolt pistol, around for several seconds. No, just the ever-present howl of the wind. He lowered the pistol and trudged on. 

  

His heavy bolter, Drumroll, was silent and stowed, the huge hoppers carried atop his power pack long since depleted. However, the Devastator had no intention of putting the gun aside. His pride would never allow him to abandon the precious and deadly weapon, especially here where it might be looted… plus weapons of its kind were far too useful against the foe Humanity now faced. 

  

Orks. Again, the planet Armageddon seethed with the filthy greenskins. Again, Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka had brought his hordes against the Imperium - and again, the Astartes had come to defeat him. 

  

His own Chapter, the Celebrants, were coming in full Chapter strength - all ten Companies, more than a thousand Space Marines! It was a rare thing, a glorious prospect, a joyous privilege to witness, and something that Incario was eager to be a part of… if he lived long enough. The 5th Company, under Captain Trajan, had been campaigning much closer to Armageddon, and so had come directly as a vanguard for the rest of the Chapter. Many other Chapters had also arrived, in contingents of greater and lesser size, but thus far, the war was not going well. At all.

 

The Ork numbers were so overwhelmingly vast, and Thraka's tactics so unexpected, that the Imperials were immediately forced onto the defensive. Lord Trajan had split up his units in support of the mortal defenders of Armageddon, assigning them to assist Guard and PDF Regiments as they attempted to hold key locations or, more often, as they retreated across the burning deserts. 

  

During the latest of such missions, the early morning evacuation of a Mechanicus testing station, Incario had been serving as a rearguard for his squad, the 4th Tactical, and had been forced to stay behind, holding his position long enough to give Sgt Cadmus time to get the tech-adepts aboard their transport and take off. Incario had poured the entire contents of Drumroll’s hoppers into the approaching horde, killing dozens and drawing the rest after him and away from the unarmed Arvus Lighter. 

  

Then he'd fled, first into the buildings of the outpost and then later out into the deserts. Not the most noble of tactics. As a Celebrant, Incario didn't have any issue with dying a glorious death in battle. Dying was an expected part of service, even a joyous thing if done well… but it was not something to be sought out unnecessarily. The Celebrants were scions of Guilliman, not Dorn, after all. 

  

Cadmus had promised over the vox that he would come back for Incario, but the Devastator didn't hold any grudge against his Sergeant. If the Arvus carrying 4th Squad had made it safely back, they would have quickly been given other, more important missions to complete than to come hunting for one lost - potentially dead - battle-brother. 

  

No, Incario suspected that for now he was on his own. 

  

So he'd moved northwest, hiking for nearly twelve hours and killing a few small mobs of Orkoid skirmishers with pistol, combat blade and fists. His destination was a small ERV marked on the cartograph that had been issued to all of the Astartes battle groups. He didn't even know if the location was still operational, but it was currently his best chance to catch a ride back to the 5th Company.

 

 

 

OOC: I've described Incario's HB and pistol as nearly emptied just for the purposes of this opening narrative, but I'm assuming/hoping that I can then fully reload them with normal ammo at the ERV before we start?

 

 

Edited Wednesday at 06:23 AM by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

Incario:

Spoiler

GM OOC: Yes, your HB and BP can be fully replen at the ERV.

 

[Lord_Ikka]

Kurkov

 

Burn.

 

The flames washed over the small orkoid creatures. Gretchin, the bigger greenskins called them. A dozen of them caught fire and ran about, the remaining unburnt grots fleeing the wash of flames and the vengeful figure spewing them. 

 

Scum, thought Kurkov.

 

His armor, normally fire-red and bronze, was charred black along the edges from the heat of his heavy flamer's exhaust. Campaign badges and honor marks had dulled, and the purity seals affixed to his pauldrons were burning. Appropriate for an Angel of Fire, a Devastator who wielded flames as a weapon in service of the Emperor of Mankind. 

 

He had used much of his fuel to get to this place, away from an ambush that caught up his company. Kurkov had been separated from his squad by the bikes and buggies of Ork Speed Freakz, and his last vox communication from his brothers had been an order for all surviving marines to make for any known friendly bases. That was a day ago. He had moved from cover to cover, ash waste dune to wrecked vehicle, following the vox-ping of an Imperial base.

 

Movement in the distance....Red armor...A brother? No, the armor faded to yellow from the waist down. Another Marine though, of the...Celebrants chapter, he believed.

 

++Cousin, friendly at your south-east. Angels of Fire chapter.++

 

Kurkov spoke quietly over the vox, hoping that the transmission was short and low enough to avoid any notice.

Edited Thursday at 08:40 AM by Lord_Ikka

[Necronaut]

Hierax

 

They were all dead.

 

They were all dead.

 

Hierax lay still as death himself, almost completely submerged in silt and screed as another of the interminable, and blessed, dust storms blew over him and the corpse of Sergeant Laertes, whose chainsword, he now jealously clutched to his plastron. He shifted imperceptibly to keep the left lens of his helm just above the fresh layer of grit being washed over him by the howling winds, and he watched in silent fury as the band of blue-festooned greenskins hacked apart the remains of his brothers Orphean and Ajax, taking parts of them as grisly trophies, or food or worse, and climbed into their beastly transport to depart.

 

How he detested their foul breed.

 

+Stay your wrath, brother,+ Sergeant Leartes had whispered to him before he had expired. +You cannot avenge them now… Too many. Too exposed. Bide your time. Lie amongst the dead… Live.+

 

He coughed and wheezed and it sounded wet and bloody in Hierax’s ears. +I… do not… have long, brother. Too injured to enter sus-an. Too… much blood.+

 

He coughed again and gurgled.

 

+Sending co-ordinates. You must find… ERV... Avenge us, brother… Hide... Survive…+

 

He had slowly, over agonizing minutes, slid his hand through the ash and dust and grasped Laertes’s chainsword and pulled it into his grasp and watched the world fade into darkness as he was buried alive.

 

He would find and kill them all.

 

+++

 

Hours later he trudged through the trackless ash-wastes, following the faint signal of the ERV transponder. Periodically, he was able to patch into Imperial comms traffic to monitor nearby operations, but he remained silent, didn't dare to reach out for succor, nor even to attempt to contact chapter command. The more he replayed the events of what happened at the landing zone earlier, the more and more evident it became that it was not mere chance that a sizable mechanized unit of orks had just happened upon them – it had been a trap. 

 

They had been betrayed.

 

Two full squads of battle-brothers, hunter-killers, impossibly, had been wiped out in one fell swoop.

 

A light on the horizon suddenly appeared in the gloom and he threw himself to the ground in the lee of a small dune, and started to work his way into the loose soil and detritus that covered the bleak and dreary landscape, the mottled grays and earth tones in which his armor had been painted doing an admirable job of providing some level of optical, if not thermal, concealment. He sighted down the scope mounted atop his long-barreled boltgun, Whisper, a relic from the Horus Heresy, if the legends and the weapon’s own service and maintenance record could be believed – admittedly, there were scant few original components left in the weapon, it having been rebuilt, repaired and refitted innumerable times over the intervening millennia, but its record remained unbroken – and attempted to discern the source of the light.

 

Orks. A dozen. In some sort of half-track vehicle. Headed directly towards his position. 

 

Had they seen him?

 

They certainly weren't acting like they had – no weapons being fired, no wild gesticulation or warcries over the din of the engine. A routine patrol, perhaps?

 

His instincts and Sergeant Laertes’s last orders all but demanded he try to slip away, but there were few features amongst which he might hide himself in this stretch of barren waste. The odds of being spotted grew the closer the war-buggy drew to him. There was nothing for it.

 

He checked his range-finder and the wind-indicator. Less than one klom north-northwest, winds blowing fifteen kloms per hour to the southeast.

 

Conditions were perfect.

 

He closed his eyes for a few moments and visualized how the next minute of violence would unfold. He had to act quickly to take control of the scenario. 

 

The ramshackle half-track continued to rumble and shudder and bounce over the moonscape as it closed the distance between them. 

 

Now.

 

He squeezed the trigger and let fly a self-propelled spike of hardened adamantium which zipped across the remaining six hundred-odd meters, shattered the buggy’s windshield and removed the driver's head in a fountain of gore, spraying brains and blood and bone all over the surprised orkoid passengers. Moments later the truck lurched and weaved as it started to lose its way and the orks inside started to fight amongst themselves and with the vehicle for control. 

 

Another bolt flew, hidden by the winds and gloom. One of the front wheels exploded. The truck twisted sickeningly and rolled and tore itself and its occupants apart, turning over and over and over, and eventually came to rest upside-down after careening into a dune less than fifty meters from him.

 

He watched for a few tense seconds, waiting for any signs of life. 

 

Incredibly, one of the ork boyz who had been thrown from the truck shook his head and staggered to his feet and started looking around for his weapons. Another bolt flew and he was thrown to the ground in a heap and stirred no more.

 

Hierax advanced upon the burning wreckage, a wraith emerging from the darkness, a wicked chainblade held in one hand, and his bolt carbine raised in front of him in the other.

 

An ork struggled to free himself from the shattered hulk and was shot to bits. Another that had been thrown from the crash site started to stir from unconsciousness and was similarly perforated with mass-reactive rounds. 

 

The Raptor swept the killing field dispatching three more survivors in a similarly dispassionate and ruthless manner until he came to the last, the largest of the bunch. He towered menacingly over the ork, who groaned and sucked in breaths which gurgled wet with blood. The creature saw the astartes suddenly standing over it and wheezed at him, “Get... youz... beakie–”

 

Hierax didn't let the creature finish speaking its blasphemous words, and lowered the chainsword tip-down onto the ork’s chest and ran the motor up to maximum revs, disemboweling the alien in a spectacularly cruel and painful manner.

 

With his teeth set in a rictus of disgust and his eyes aflame as much with inhuman malevolence as with the light of burning fuel in his helm’s lenses, he continued to drive down with his full weight on the chainblade until it had chewed through the ork’s armour, chest cavity, spinal column and back out the other side, completely eviscerating it.

 

Only then did he pause, gun the chainsword’s engine a final time, and withdraw it from his victim.

 

“Suffer..." 

 

Nothing else stirred upon the ashen dunes, the fires of the wreck eventually burned themselves out, and all that remained was the howling wind which continued its tireless work of scouring the flesh from the dead.

 

+++

 

Hive Acheron loomed ever larger in the distance as night fell and he made his way towards the ERV. He was only a few hours out, by his reckoning. No signs of life save for the odd ork patrol on the horizon, which he followed through his rifle scope for a time, a few kilometers away.

 

He was alone in the wastes, for now…

Edited Saturday at 08:03 PM by Necronaut
Spelling

[Machine God]

Enkush

 

All was noise, yet as he had maintained all was music. 

 

The rattle of his Ork Tusk necklace sang in the winds of the turbulence of his blessed speed machine. An adherent of the Meis philosophies that he had unearthed (he had laughed off the pun) on Mars during his training - the Biker Brotherhood. Allowed him to parse the song from the background, all was important news from the Machine God and a pleasant song of metal.

 

On 'Morin Khuur' his hog,, he'd travelled the Unlucky Arterial on his way from the sea to the Twenty-Five. From the Ness, he had bypassed a barking mob of Ork Boyz on busted machines and finally he'd given a right whopping to a group of the Gretchin. The halved red / white scheme of his bike was steadily turned green as he performed a grisly doughnut through the Gretchin remains.

 

He sought to link up with a ERV that his cartograph had found on a dodgy-handshake, the data was somewhat corrupted by the heavy rads. He had to be off, to keep moving lest this Field of Elder Giants be his Last Exit.

 

Still come as you are he'd always been told, he certainly had some guns.

 

With a flick of red right gauntlet he gunned the throttle and he was off to glory.

 

 

 

 

 

[Lysimachus]

Incario:

 

 

The dust storm gradually blew itself out, increasing visibility. That was a two-edged sword, though. If he could see, he could be seen. Thankfully the day was approaching its end, evening would soon fall, and he was only a few more miles from reaching the ERV. 

  

++Cousin, friendly at your south-east. Angels of Fire Chapter.++ 

  

The voice over the vox was low, cautious. Incario looked carefully around him. There. Perhaps a quarter-mile behind him. Another Astartes and, by the top-heavy silhouette, another Devastator. The Celebrant grinned under his helm, paused to wait for the Angel to catch him up, and replied in a similarly low tone. 

  

++Hail, cousin! It gladdens my hearts to see a fellow Astartes, especially one wearing such handsome colours!++

 

Edited Thursday at 10:47 PM by Lysimachus

[Lord_Ikka]

Kurkov

 

++Agreed. I assume you are moving to the beacon as well? My company was ambushed by Speed Freakz and was split apart.++

 

Kurkov moved up to the other Devastator, warily watching the dunes for any other movement.

[Mazer Rackham]

All Players now entering the Acheron Operations Zone (AOZ):

 

The Vox scatter begins to clear for a moment, scads of static cloud parting in noospheric roll and sweep as your open channels and snooper encryption picks up the thro throb of heartbeat above the ERV Beacon.

 

It rolls in across the desert, a plague of something worse than sand - it is is grit in between the back teeth, an itch under the tongue and back of your head. It is enough to make a mortal spine crawl, and yet, as Astartes, how does you humour endure? It begins with a sneering snort, a blue-blood cough to clear a ragged throat, then it begins - nails across chalkboard resolving into reedy, richly educated rhetoric.

 

+Acheron Station One, Acheron Station Two. Good evening, listeners, it is I, Governor Herman von Strab, addressing you in our adversity.+

 

+The forces assailing our world have been shattered by the might of our formidable allies the Warhost of the Green King. I have honoured my debt to you as my people and have pledged my arm and my forces to cement the place of the rightful ruler of this, our Armageddon.+

 

+As rightful overlord and planetary governor, I hereby declare that the invaders to our noble hive seek to burden us, and the poor serfs who now suffer for it, with a yoke which is outdated. Self-governance, self-reliance and self-belief are the credo around which we must rally. We do not reject the Emperor, in his Majesty, just his Lordslings who have usurped our noble position from us by jealousy and greed.+

 

+If you are loyal to Armageddon, and to Acheron, our most glorious dwelling place, then stand with me, with us, and report any sightings of the Usurper, for the Emperor watches them as he does over us, and he will strike them down, even as he burdens us to test our faith. They will fall, Acheron will stand - I, Herman von Strab, will stand with you, until the end!+

 

The transmission peters out, but can be heard switching over to another broadcast relay.

 

+Acheron Station Three, Acheron Station Four....Loyal servants of the Emperor, harken...+

Edited Saturday at 02:18 PM by Mazer Rackham

[A.T.]

Uldyssian

 

The Salamanders head turned at the transmission, wondering as to its true origins. The chapter had seen fit to assign only him to the task of fortifying this quadrant and he concurred with the assessment, a single astartes could ensure works to funnel the orkoid horde away while more might draw attention to this path.

 

Comms chatter and gunfire in the dust had increased in past days and circumstances were converging. The time for preparation was ended.

[Machine God]

Enkush

 

As he sped off down the highway he chased a lone herd of Mukaali, their noise and dust masked his passage although he was caught up in both the thrill of the hunt and the need for speed. Doctrine warred with his gene-seed, he dialled back the thought of firing all his guns at once and made do with listening to the report of a heavy metal thunder barrage from some distant battery.

 

The herd rapidly dispersed behind some water towers and his cartograph informed him that he was soon to be entering the Acheron Operations Zone (AOZ), sure enough the airwaves were assaulted by a transmission from the Traitor.

 

+Acheron Station Three, Acheron Station Four....Loyal servants of the Emperor, harken...+

 

He used the cacophony of the horrid tirade to hide an answer to a Codex Vox signal that he had earlier detected nearer to the ERV.

 

++Angels of Fire the Khan here's you.++