A god, bestriding the field of battle. Every shot felt with a tremor up his arm, the massive recoil of the bolter jamming his shoulder into it's socket. Las-shots cauterized his skin as the bit it, stemming the flow of blood before it could start. His lack of amour worried him not. He was a chosen of the gods, none could touch him, not these tiny man-lings, nor the tanks that crushed their bones as they rumbled towards him. Clods of dirt were hurled into the air as they opened fire, and in return he stitched their hulls with raking bolter fire. A shell landed to his side, and his skin peeled away like paper in a flame. More hits followed, until all that was left standing was a charred skeleton, still screaming it's defiance into the inferno raging around it.

*****

Awaken. Skin tight over taught muscle, glanding adrenaline hard and fast. Panting as he rose from his cot Yarrow Kelvic heaved a shuddering sigh, his body already relaxing thanks to deeply ingrained psycho-conditioning. His shaven head dripped sweat down his back as he stood in the tight confines of his quarters aboard the Legion Hammer. Gnarled, scarred fingers gripped a crystal goblet of iced water and brought it to his lips. He drank deeply, the simplicity of the action calming in itself. Placing it down he stretched to his full impressive height, even bereft of his armour the damned Astartes stood over two metres tall, and almost as wide with thickly woven muscle.

He donned a simple pair of crew trousers and a pair of worn leather boots, his armour sat in the ships amourium awaiting repair to a deep gouge in the breast plate where a rival champion had clove it with a power claw. Stepping out into the hushed, empty corridor his muscles tautened in memory of the sweet agony the had rent his flesh, and the vengeance enacted on the foe for daring to touch Yarrow with any weapon.

And thus it was, belligerent of mood, that he made his way to the vast training complex on the mid-deck of the Hammer. Here the manifold warriors of Lord Vastus' Black legionnaires honed their killing skills, learned so long ago in the fire at the palace of the false Emperor. Man and Superhuman worked side by side in the centre of the room, the human auxiliaries and their dark Astartes masters running drills with ruthless efficiency. At the fringes of the room deep combat pits were set into the floor. Within these the Astartes honed their single combat skills against the greatest opponents possible, each other. It was to these that Yarrow walked now, and to one in particular, the widest pit, with blood, clotted and congealing, staining the floor around it. In the pit the current combat was coming to a close, one combatant missing two fingers, the other his left ear and a chunk of flesh from his thigh. Deep self inflicted ropes of scar tissue snaked across the warriors bodies, identifying them both as world eaters, the galaxy's most proficient and blood thirsty killers. Mighty chain axes abandoned the had resorted to grappling with each other, smashing and biting, meat on meat and bone until they had to be dragged apart and forcibly subdued by the gene-bulked pit-marshalls. Yarrow jumped into the pit, placing his feet carefully in the slew of blood that permanently caked the floor.

"Any man wish to challenge Yarrow Kelvic, Champion of the first?" cried the pit-marshall, as two world eaters pre-emptively stepped forward. Their shirts off, he could see their rope-twists were short, the scars on their skulls from the brutal lobotomy process still fresh and raw against their darker skin. "Two challengers," called the pit marshall "Will you take a second lord?" this to Yarrow, whose answer lay in the look of scorn he shot the genehanced warrior. The two world eaters dropped into the pit opposite Yarrow, one crouching low on his haunches, the other taking a higher stance, his rear foot bracing against the wall behind him.

There was no buzzer to start the fight, no bell to signal the start of the round, and thus the pit was still for Several Seconds before any combatant made a move. In fact both world eaters acted at the same time, the one in the crouching stance swinging low with his leg whilst the second came in with a round house punch at head height. Yarrow caught the punch and spun with it, guiding the arm over his shoulder, and at the same time smashing his heel down on the incoming ankle, pinning it to the floor. As he turned he brought the heel of his hand up, smashing it into the neck of the standing world eater, snapping his head back with a gunshot crack, breaking his neck and taking him out of the fight As he shifted his weight the world eater on the floor lashed out with a kick to Yarrows knee. Dropping onto his backside Yarrow rolled over his shoulders and onto his feet. The world eater got to his feet less steadily; his body swaying as his re-wired neural pathways rapidly caused him to degenerate into a raving Berserker. With a roar that silenced the hall he charged forward, arms wide to grasp Yarrow around his middle. As the berserkers thick arms slid around his middle, Yarrow grabbed the marines head and slammed in down into his rising knee. The world eater left the floor and hit the opposing wall with an unhealthy crunch. Sliding to the floor he was still. Checking his internal chronometer Yarrow saw that the bout had lasted less the thirty seconds. Hauling himself out of the pit he left the training room to awed muttering.

*****