Chapter 3: He comes to punish, with flame and steel shall he lay waste to your world.
As Tynerion left his quarters, a group of four warriors burst to attention, his bodyguard, the first warriors under his command and men loyal to their cores. There was Van Koreth, who, stood in a resplendent suit of tactical-dreadnought armour and gripping a chainaxe tightly in his gauntlets was an imposing sight.
Kogol Amoroth, he preferred his suit of sanctified daemon armour, and gripped a dark-blade daemon weapon in his left hand and a plasma pistol in his right.
Then there was Isadour Mikaes a man rare amongst the World Eaters, armed with a meltagun, and a chainaxe of his own of course.
Lastly and most dangerously there was Diores, Tynerions second in command, his loyalty to Khorne was complete and his lightning-claws had tasted the flesh of many thousands of foes.
Tynerion's deep voice rolled across the decking, 'To the drop-pods, we bring death to Armageddon!' That order quickly spread across the fleet, (Several dozen capitol ships and several hundred escorts) where thousands of berserkers, millions of cultists and renegades and a battlegroup of titans let out joyous war-whoops, finally given the order to join the battle for the contested planet below.
Tynerion and his bodyguard immediately headed towards his drop-pod and set the target for Armageddon prime. His armies would land at Angron's monolith and start fighting the ork filth that infested the jungle around it. From there the warriors of Khorne would search for the nearest hive city and lay waste to it, massacring its populace as soon as possible, killing any that stood in their way. To make any siege as short as possible the fleet would bombard the closest cities walls as soon as they landed then take a defensive positions to counter any Imperial counter attack, he had planned ahead incase of boarding parties by leaving at least a warband of world eaters on each ship, along with several combat groups or mutants and renegades that numbered in the hundreds.
The drop-pod was prepared, the daemon-cogitator was writhing in ecstasy at the thought of being used to spread death to the minions of the False-Emperor. The company of Relictors that were stationed at the monolith would be the first to feel the wrath of the armies of Tynerion. The group inside waited, they would be the first to arrive, as it was proper for the lord of Khorne to be the first to draw blood from the foe. The glowglobes shifted, their bright white light changing to a deep crimson as the pod was launched (several seconds later another group of hundreds of pods were launched by the fleet). The bone rimmed altimeter chimed down at an insane pace and Tynerion steeled himself for war, several warchants escaping in whispers past his lips. The men of his bodyguard were doing the same, contemplating the need to draw blood and harnessing it, taking the unrelenting fury and reforging it into a powerful blade of hate that they could use in the most horrific of battles.
The pod hit the atmosphere of Armageddon with a thunderous burst of turbulence and a chime from the cogitator that told of their almost imminent arrival. Tynerion prepared to jump through the iris hatch at the middle of the blood red flooring. The second they landed he would leap out of that hatch and slam into the lines of the Relictors. He gripped hard on the haft of his chainaxe, a dark smile cracking from his usually stern features, he relished the thought of spilling blood for Khorne, and if it was his time so be it. He would die with his weapon in his hand and covered in the blood of foes.
With the chime increasing to a fever pitch the pod slammed home, lifting the soft ground up a little and lighting any nearby foliage from the heat of entry. Tynerion leapt out his heavy form slamming hard into the ground and he span around, looking for the Relictior's battle line. The roar of a dozen bolters took his attention and he saw the Relictors in a trench, defending his primarchs monolith from his sons, The lapdogs of the false-Emperor were not even a dozen paces away, he stormed outward, a terrible energy taking his form, his bodyguard struggling to keep up with him. Unholstering his bolt pistol he sent two shells at a sergeant of the defenders, the heavy rounds pierced his unprotected forehead, blasting it apart in a fountain of gore. The defensive fire intensified, mass reactive shells blasting chunks out of his power armour and tearing through Isadour, ripping his body apart in storm of fire and steel. With the force of a battle tank Tynerion slammed into the defenders lines. Taking a grey armoured Relictors head off of his shoulders with a devastating hammer blow of his chainaxe. A second strike split another in two and he was about to strike out at a third when his remaining bodyguard smashed into the wreches lines. The men inside stood no chance under such a horrific assault. But they had numbers to bring to bear and the rest of the armies had only just landed. With another massive sweep of his chainaxe he decapitated another pair of hapless Relictors, a sudden flare of pain flashed up from the back of his knee, it seemed the Relictor he sliced in half wasn't quite dead and had stuck a combat knife in the weak point in the power armour that he wore. With a roar he swung his axe down, splitting the loyalist dog's skull open.
Tynerion ripped the blade out of his leg, and smiled as he heard the tell tale noise of jump packs, the lapdogs were sending their finest close combat troops, assault marines. Tynerion flicked his bolt pistol up, firing a single shell that caught a marine in the fuel lines, causing the volatile jet pack to explode, turning the unfortunate marine into charred meat in the process. Ducking behind the trenches cover, the return fire did nothing but get a little dirt on his armour. Then the loyalists were upon him. A screaming chainsword flung out, its ravening teeth out for purchase into Tynerions flesh. Tynerion contemptuously batted the blade aside with his chainaxe, the return stroke tearing the marines throat out. Scowling he taunted at the remaining assault troops, 'Is this REALLY the best assault troops your company has to offer? Im not impressed.' The assault marine sergeant, a marine with a plasma pistol and a power axe span around after dispatching Kogol with amazing ease and snarled, he ran forward, screaming prayers to the Emperor and the Primarch to guide his blade. Tynerion smirked darkly under his helm, the fool fought with rage but without control, he was easily slaughtered, his power axe parried, and his plasma pistol sliced in two pieces. Tynerion lifted him up by the throat, if he would have only worn his helmet it wouldn't have had an effect, but as he was without, and Tynerion's powerful fingers had severed his spine. The aspiring chaos lord used his other hand to wrench off his own gore streaked helmet, (he had dropped his chainaxe, picking up this weakling.) The World-Eater grinned, his razor sharp canines glinting in the setting sunlight, in a swift movement, he lowered the sergeant's throat to his mouth and savagely bit down, feeling the blood stream down his throat, hot and urgent, he ripped the chunk of flesh he had bitten out in a welter of crimson, to the horror of the remaining assault marines even as they grappeled with his bodyguard. A dozen of the rabble broke from fighting the bodyguard. Screaming warcrys and storming forward, chainswords held two handed to kill the creature that dare kill their sergeant.
Tynerion was upon them faster though, having picked up his chainaxe on the way there he stormed into their ranks, ignoring the chainblade that bit into his side he swung his axe in a devastating figure of eight, killing or fatally wounding half the Relictor assault troops. He felt the hot blood splash on his face, a twisted smile across his rough cut face. With another savage swipe, the chaos lord had killed all the lapdogs nearby, and, as his bloodlust abated he saw that his army had landed, and the remaining Relictors were in full retreat.