A cascade of ruinous energies poured through the War-Wheel. Hellfire screamed deep into the vessel and was returned with the death cries of the galaxy's self proclaimed greatest warriors. But the storm had just begun, and the World Eaters would make sure that it raged red. Into the hull of the ship charged the blood-blind. Beserkers ran through the halls screaming wildly with chainaxes and powerswords held high. Scattered ensigns made a 'tactical retreat' as the bulk of their group was mulched gleefully by Khorne's elite. Lightning blasts from the wand like sidearms of higher class officers scarred the scarlet armor with charred black, slicing deep cuts into the warriors weakest points.
But such wounds only drove the ravaging magics of the blood god. Their bodies possessed by the wraiths of fallen brothers, and their blades empowered. Heads fell in droves. Skulls were stripped of flesh and sown into the murderer's metal with chaotic powers. Such icons of devotion to slaughter were the floodgates for more dark energies. The whole of reality shuddered in the dark god's approval.
Techpriests were invited into the fray, removing themselves from the sweltering darkness of the Infernal Sin. They partook in forced dissections of the Sontarans. One techmarine of the World Eaters (named Eighth Son for his numerous tattoos of the patron god's number) was striding through the halls carelessly as his eight metal limbs returned fire with welded bolt pistols, and tore enemies apart with the multitudes of splintered cleavers that enveloped every open spot on his arms.
The whirlwind of metal and death split apart the fascinating Xenos with fearsome efficiency. But soon, he found necessity to go on the defensive. The Sontarans had managed to mount a surprisingly effective retaliation with the heavier laser weaponry used mainly for planetary invasions. The armored infantry had also built makeshift barricades, and were opening fire with weaponry striking similarity to human firearms. Eighth Son went down behind the cover of debris and corpses as the hail became supremely brutal. Each arm reloaded and reached over to force the attackers back. The blind fire wasn't enough to quell them.
Eighth Son might have been finally ended, but as damned luck would have it, a blood stained Captain Tarrus had managed to take the same path as his Techmarine. He emerged from an adjoining bulkhead, hurling Catastrophe spike first into the chest of the least protected gunner. Before a single pulse of energy even was directed at him, he lunged right into the barricade and snapped it with couple of it's users in half. Eighth Son blasted the last two enemies down easily as the rest.
Tarrus eyed his warrior, "Khorne laughs at your fear of death Eighth Son. You hid in the heat of battle, where you should have been turned to ash."
"I am not done serving our god captain." Eighth son boomed in reply, his voice crackling. No-one knew what lie beneath the unnatural shadow his cloak cast. His face only a guess in the minds of his brothers.
"Hmph. Grab your prizes, we've only started the assault."
"...take them yourself captain. I do not desire princehood. I live only to record the way xeno biology falters."
The Techmarine waded past the corpses, a wayward arm tossing Catastrophe to Tarrus. Then he was gone, off to play with the living's frailties.
"Damned strange." Tarrus sniffed as he swiftly snatched heads from bodies.
Dars was repulsed. The enemies had intentionally smeared the halls with the green blood of his brothers. They were psychopaths, not warriors! And what the hell was this 'Khorne' they all worshiped? Some sort of deity, but wasn't that also a human grain? They did look like the Terrans. The monkeys were sworn enemies of Sontar, yet they'd not been encountered heavily in 10,000 years.
The ship was damned. There was no way to salvage the situation. He had to get out. In his hand he gripped a triangular Sontaran blade. He had been forced to fight hoards of the demons that would teleport without warning. There was too many of them to fight. Too damned many.
"For the blood god, you will writhe."
He spun around. Trudging through the cramped halls was another of the horrifying Terrans. He was ten feet tall and carried a long blade with spinning teeth. He wore no helmet, and his face looked ancient and warped.
He struck hard with his blade, parried on instinct by the Sargent. The two clashed again, and the Terran howled gladly for the fight the Xeno put up. Dars, blasted his Rehon Carbine at the hip and it burned a hole right through the weak torso joint. One of the major faults in early Astartes armor. The beserker was caught off guard and collapsed to the floor. Dars struck him down in an instant, arcing the blade right through the neck. The head rolled back, shocked at it's failure before puffing away in a cloud of crimson mist.
Khorne felt it. And it was strange. It felt Xeno bloodlust, and the fall of another of his monstrosities. It observed the rage of the killer, and it sneered. He liked this one. Liked this one much.
Eighth son had discovered many fascinating aspects of the Sontarans. Most interesting was a small energy intake on the back of the neck that fed their bodies. If severed, as he tested, the Sontaran would pass out and die after no more than 20 seconds. Truly an interesting weakness, not that the World Eaters needed to exploit it in this battle. They'd come out with few causalities if any after utterly annihilating the entire fleet. Chaos cultists and Daemons were already moving in for the kill. Severing the main command vessel was really the deciding factor in who got the Dark God's bounty.
He sensed his captain's fury through the levels that separated them. It was borderline on something even more than raw anger. It was the scale he would need to tip in order to achieve ascension. It was so very, very close now. The Techmarine grinned beneath his cloak, eight millenia he had waded beside his master in the dead. His glory only paled in comparison to the darkness that Tartarus had spread across the Imperium. It was fabled that under his belt were a few of the greatest prizes in the universe. On his waist was a skull of the extinct Time Lords, something so coveted that numerous creatures of both the chaos and material realms has tried to kill him for.
Tartarus. Tarrus. He had used at least twenty names in his life. For thousands of years he had coveted the prize of favour. Cultivating his primal instinct; his violent nature. And he had sharpened it on Imperial Corpses, Dalek Husks, Angel Rubble.
"Blood for the blood god. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD. BLOOD FOR THE GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE! LET THE LAKES OF SCARLET OVERFLOW!"
"I WILL BE HIS CHAMPION! CHAMPION OF DEATH! CHAMPION OF DESTRUCTION! CHAMPION OF THE CARRION ROAD!"
Tarrus hollered praise as Catastrophe slid through waves of Sontarans, in a dance of slaughter while Daemons tore into the wounded with stained green fangs.
"CAN NOT ONE BEST MY FIRST STRIKE?" He hissed, spinning the chainaxe through the last of the commanding officers left on board the ship.
The prey were now of low calling. He would leave them to the intangible horrors of his patron god.
"Belzel, Get the tech priests to ready the ship. I can feel my rise at hand."
The hairless renegade nodded, twitching with insanity.
