You awake to the unmistakable roar of the combustion engines of a Valkyrie, those of you that sought sleep in such a damned place as this that is. You are all shoved into the cramped interior of the Valkyrie, illumination being provided only by the faintest of red lights that adorn the wall separating you from the pilots. The air reeks of stale sweat and the barely masked scent of caked in blood from the last crew of this blasted shuttle. Their ends were gruesome, slow, and painful – but the officers never told you that, they told you that their ends were valiant bastions of hope in turning back the tide of filth that would await you all in this hell-scarred behemoth.

The actual battlefield is not the contemporary one you know, filled with wide open areas and perhaps even the odd patch of greenery. This is Iosturn Hive. This lumbering hulk of a hive has served as a centre of population for thousands of years since it was recovered in the dying embers of the Horus Heresy. Billions make their home in this shattered wreck of a spire, a squalid, odorous, sea of humanity who work day in day out for meagre food and bleak prospects. Crime is astronomically high with the average citizen being only somewhat more inclined to work than to outright join the masses of gangers that dwell in the core of the hive – some say more insidious things lurk deep in there, the stories are puzzling things and cryptic, but they forever mention of something lurking just bellow the surface...waiting...

You are not expected to survive this encounter. You are simply expected to die a blood-soaked death at the hands of some chem'd up mutant rather than do anything productive, prayers be to you that your officer is of higher morals than simply that. Your briefing was a short affair, simply put you were told to join several other guard regiments as you assail a fortified town centre. A densely populated area where thousands live in absolute squalor and offal. The only reason you were even given support is because command realises that your squad may be overwhelmed by a tide of thousands of raving, rabid masses that seek nothing more but bloody vengeance – even if such causes their death.

Those of you with the “privilege” of having window views would be appalled by what you saw. All around your column of vehicles both air and land, there was nothing but scorched earth and the occasional burst of fire as guardsmen fought for their lives against renegades and heretics alike. Every now and then, the column would be assailed by something more malicious, figures larger and broader than several men striking with stealth that only a fabled legend could even think of having. Hell, even your Emperor-forsaken vox sometimes lets out a short burst of daemonic laughter! Such is the vile repulsion of this place.

Your, and several other, aircraft soon diverts from the column's immense yet ponderous firepower, however. Your mission is not to secure Ivanix Plaza, but rather Eir Centre – objective Hermes, as anyone with a rank above you petty grunts would call it. Your air column is a formidable sight, that is simply irrefutable. No sane man would stand before you! Sanity...being a resource in low supply among your foes...

You have free time, though it is in a short amount. You do well to perhaps coordinate with your new found allies... or perhaps the warp will overtake you. For your sake, let us hope that does not occur...

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Winstanley rubbed his eyes with seemingly shaky hands, wiping away almost a mass of soot and dust that seemed accumulate just from existing in a place as ravaged as the hive. Clearing his throat with a soft cough, he scanned about the interior of the transport with a keen gaze at those about himself. He recognised none of them in the least, but they were now brothers in arms none the less, and they would be treated as such, though he secretly hoped that the Commissar-looking fellow was one of the more mellow individuals.

Rubbing a hand across his lightly bearded face, he took note of their weapons, clothing, even appearance. It was perhaps presumptuous, but it always paid to know if any Penal-Legionaries stood among them. “I say, gentlemen, we're up to our necks in it this time.” He spoke aloud, allowing the barely audible words to echo about the metallic interior of the transport and fill the space before the deafening roar of the engines once more took over. “Though it would be most scurrilous of me to speak but a word of you without prior knowledge, and as such I ask in as non-boorish a way as possible, who are you all?”

Mikail had been slumped against the wall, casually dozing away the alcohol-induced sleep he had been stuck with. It was not his own doing, something to do with a certain comrade spiking his drink to ease his nerves, or perhaps as a joke. He was becked in the rightful uniform of the Valhallans and had an M,36 Lasgun casually slung over his shoulder, the hand guard adorned with the famous red star of the Valhallan regiments. He awoke with ponderous speed, his senses finally coming back to him in the hazy and dimly lit interior of the aircraft. Upon his face was not a shocked or even worried look, but rather a subtle grin.

Panning his view about those around him, he gave a short chuckle and lightly shook his head. “Should've known that Petrov would get me into this, old bastard.” He spoke with a joyous tone, devoid of any sorts of anger nor sorrow. All was simply a calming easiness to it, a jokers tone that filled the interior with its bass tone and rolling consonants. He lightly tapped at his gun before proclaiming in a most thrilled tone to the Praetorian that had spoke prior. “Friends, I am Mikail! If at all I am surprised you have not heard? I am from Valhalla regiments, very good medic indeed.” He seemed to delight in having any sort of company to chatter with.

“But, maybe fame will be recognised by others. Is not of concern! All that matters is that we are here, to kill the heretics that blight this place.”

Huddled in the loud Valkyire, as if reducing her profile would make the monsterious thing any quieter, Elouviana tended to her Long-Las, giving it last minute checks before it would be put to use against the Heretics and Mutants of the Hive World. Every man was a stranger to her, and that was fine, cohesion did not rely on being all intimate and buddy-buddy, it relied on obeying your Commisar or Sargent and doing your job. And, in cases of sharpshooters like her, taking potshots when you could get away with it. To that end she would have preferred a solid slug Sniper Rifle, a Long-Las gave away the position on the first shot.

However, one man did not think so, and spoke strangely, in Gothic, but using the wrong kind of words for Eida to be able to understand him properly. She got the gist of it, that he wanted to be friends, but it was so strange. Another picked up his call, and spoke much better. Elou sighed and put her weapon away, not wanting to be ostrisized if they were making the rounds of saying hi and such.
"Elouviana, Asguardian Rangers. I'll be at your backs, covering respective asses, and making sure their marksmen don't ventilate your brains" she wasn't great at being a people person, and said what she was thinking, which was never good because she rarely thought positive.

Jack was sitting by a window, staring out at the gruesome battlefield below him. There was something hideously majestic about the ravaged warzone, some tainted mixture of anticipation and disgust that has long since been brewing within him, all for this moment and for all the moments that await, and for the final moments, be they slow and drawn out, or gone in an all consuming flash. As he grows hypnotized by these sights, he starts to mindlessly fiddle with one of his swords. The gargantuan beings, pillars of flame, and ravaged landscape aside, this planet began to remind him of home, ever so slightly. Looking down at the blade in his hand, he wonders about how different things might have been; what other hellish landscapes he could have been sent to, and what brutalities he would have endured had he stayed in his homeworld. Perhaps this fate wasn’t so bad after all. After a brief moment, he shakes his head and quietly clears his throat. The time for thoughts like that is over. He sheathed his blade and instinctively checked his armor, nervously shifting it a little. He moves around his dog tag, which displays '24601' on the front, and a crude etching of the name Jack on the back.

Only as he looked at one of the men did he realize he was speaking; such was the oppressive cacophony of the engines. When he strained his ears, however, he could start to make out what the man was asking, in his strange yet not unwelcoming accent. When Mikail spoke, Jack stared at him with distant eyes. He seemed to be a quite happy man, jovial in personality, which was fairly surprising. Almost immediately after him came a woman named Elouviana, who was some kind of ranger and sharpshooter. It dawned on Jack that he hadn’t even seen her until now, as absorbed as he was with watching the scenery. After casting a wary glance around and noting the presence of a Commissar (or at least, someone who appeared to be one), he decided to speak up next. “I’m Jack. People used to call me Whistle. Ex-Penal. Minimus Sicarius. I’ll be at their backs, slitting throats and puncturing organs, maybe collecting intel if we need it. Good to meet you all.” He spoke quickly and to the point, though not without a small degree of civility, possibly caused by this suddenly introspective mood this flight had placed him in. As he greeted his fellows, he drew his assassin’s blade, a cruel looking weapon black in coloration with a very sharp tip, and spun it around a bit with one hand out of habit, the sword whistling as it sheared apart the air.

Among them was a man humming quietly to himself a strange tune. He seemed calm and deep in thought and by the clothing he was wearing and the simple weapon it was obvious he was no standard soldier or fighter. He was clean of the typical grime and filth that stuck to the common guardsmen. In truth he looked like he should have been a scholar, but as many men find themselves in the service of the Emperor so did he. His commander and oldest friend stood in the back and he knew why. He had been there for the recovery he saw the barbarism that had befallen those that came before and he was fascinated by it. It was morbid, but when there was so few left of your regiment you had to endure to find something of meaning in the horror. For him it was fascination and contemplation on the nature of why and who "To defeat them we must understand them." he would say much to the chagrin of others.

As the others began to speak he smiled and ceased his humming he seemed to enjoy the banter, but he never made even a hint of speaking. Instead he waited in anticipation his eyes drifting back to his friend and fellow Hollow Martyr. As he was doing so a strange compulsive mannerism could be noticed by those who were observant. He traced the insignia on his cloak counter clockwise three times before tapping his chest twice. For what purpose or reason it was certainly unknown to any, but him. Upon its completion and no word from his mentor he cleared his throat and spoke.

"Epicurus is my name. It's to good to meet you. Emperor smile on you all in battle." Upon the end of his words he returned to his humming. There was a loud exclamation from his friend that halted his humming instantly and made him fall into silence waiting as he focused his eyes on the Commisar.

He stood in the corner window back facing the others and head hung low his eyes fighting back flashes that came of what had happened only days prior. This ship was the tomb of the last squad to almost every last one of them... Briefly had he gotten know them during the flight and truly knew them in full during the massacre that came after. He knew two well thought no hoped they may make it out alive with him, but of course they didn't none ever did. Sixty years of this in the name of what he no longer knew, but he trudged fighting on. He knew once he turned once they saw his cloak his face..his sword these men too would recognize him think that they were saved because of it.

Sergeant Johns and Kranis a gunner thought it eyes awe struck admiration replacing nervous fear when they first confirmed it. They followed him like lost dogs out of that ship and through the bowels of this hellish hive world loyal and courageous till their bitter end. They were good men and he considered them among the best he had served with in many long tireless years. There was the breath and hope of youth in their eyes and steps. The thoughts of something beyond this miserable set of endless wars. They made it off the ship with him and that was when he knew they would remain and live with him till his end. For now though he looked down at the landscape below a fallen world that too closely resembled what his birthplace was on the precipice of becoming every moment. The sea of filth and twisted labyrinth of grim fates he knew all the stories of the people who lived in them he was one of them in his misled youth. Those memories though he thought would have helped, but this world was vastly different it was a fell corrupted den worthy of scorching and its citizens perhaps in his mind beyond redemption or saving. He was to follow orders though it was his duty and what did he have left, but duty and honor. After touching down seeing just brief glimpses of this world he believed the rumors that something lurked below that some abomination that long slumbered has awoken out of purgatory. Now its ceaseless corruption its vile nature spreads uncontrollably and the guard is the last chance for this world.

As they drew closer to objective Hermes his thoughts drifted back to Sergeant Johns and Kranis to their faces, their voices, and the bond of war brothers forged in fire and blood. They had earned something rarely felt by him respect. A place of personal remembrance within the heart of a cold man. It did little, but keep faded embers of their life or who they were alive though it was more than many nameless souls who formed the tide of soon to be dead soldiers rushing to be culled in the name of the emperor.

"Enough of that." He exclaimed before before slamming his hand violently against the window. As he realized what he had done he took a deep breath and began to turn to the rest aboard this vessel.

As he stepped forward and came into view it would not have been the first time any of these men had seen his face nor his distinct coat. He was known by many as the Black Saint and his full name was Viber Vendarium Titallus. He was a hero and a living legend of Ysuran Crusade. A ten year galactic conflict against vile green skin hordes. He served in combat for the entirety of the war till its last days. What started as a small engagement by the end of that decade had grown into a war that called for the Legio Titanica and several chapters of the space marines. Endless conflict raged over the civilized imperial worlds and shrine worlds of that system and Ysura was at the center. He was younger then when he served on those front lines starved for glory and blood and he found more than a kings share.

It was in those last days that he cemented his place as a propaganda piece of the Imperial Guard. The Last March on Ysura it is known by now and it was the last march of countless poor souls. It was a tidal wave of bodies and weapons the entire emperors might thrust upon that world many rumored the world would crack and break apart from the weight of the bodies and barrages. Only one goal mattered to slay the war boss to end the breeding of these wretched beast. Viber and many guards served on that day under the same banner and on the same line with the Space Marines the emperors finest soldiers. There was unity in those moments among them all. He remembered the chapter master and that chapter well brave and honorable willing to fight for and with the common man. Zhekha Andrikus of Iron and his personal retinue of guards as well as some men under Vibers command made a desperate charge on the final day. The war boss was in sight all they had to due was cut a way in clear a path and so they crashed against the wall of green skins. They broke upon them at first, but Zhekha and his men made it through and began to cut away hundreds of them. By some luck or the Emperor at work Viber moved in and out of swings forward in a mad sprint toward the war boss.

As he closed in he said a final prayer prepared to die and swung his power sword with vicious howl and he heard the sweet rush of blood felt it warms embrace showering him. As the haze cleared his eyes saw the headless body of Warboss Brodrug Domekrushah da Arch-Lord of da Killbashaz. What comes after to his immeasurable pain and then sudden nothingness. It was that way for what felt like eternity till he woke up months later in an infirmary. His body was broken and his mind wasn't much better, but he was alive. Only because of the might of Zhekha and the Space Marines had he been saved or by the Emperor. For his service and his actions in that conflict he became well known ad was promoted to Lord Commisar. Many though know that in years to follow his unstable nature and what some would call suicidal wish to fight had kept him from every truly utilizing the position. He still chose to fight on the front lines again and again by compulsion to find the fight that would end him or bring him peace so he could sleep again.

The stories made him seem much more than he appeared to be now. He was simply a thin man with a harsh face and gray hair weathered by war and hardship. His eyes were surrounded by deep dark circles from the lack of sleep and his stance showed clearly what wounds he sustained had never truly healed. His cloak was once the color of obsidian, but had long since faded in color. It was tattered and had many scars much like the man who wore it.

"I know all of you on paper and I will know you fully in battle. Your whole service records and many others were looked at. I requested each of you because the last group failed because we cannot afford to fail twice. I will not lie to you like those who gave you the orders to board this ship. Those men except two did not die valiantly they did not die heroes. You see the ship you see the blood smell powder you know many of them died right where you sit. All of you know your jobs and if you do not Winstanely will be acting Sergeant." Vibers voice was deep and cold. There was a roughness that made every word sound like a struggle.

Viber took a deep breath and said with a sense of finality "May the emperor have mercy on you all because I will not"

Nearest to the bay door sat a man in utter silence cleaning and checking his weapons ignoring all around. Nothing showed not even a bit of flesh. His face covered by a vox and his eyes by goggles all else was covered by clothing and armor. All he wore or carried was a dark grey seemingly catered for an urban environment. He was in short making final preparations planning where he would post himself to give cover so everyone could exit the Valkyrie without being ripped to shreds or littered with slugs. He had ridden in a ship like this a few times now the noise was something he liked there was a pattern to it a calming regularity to the way machines worked at least most the time.

"Canis Molussus. That's my name. Heads down and eyes forward move fast on your exit." He spoke quickly and his voice was heavily distorted by the Vox.

He was short and matter of fact he didn't really care for distraction or chatting not before a mission especially a landing like this. This was an unconventional place for an unconventional fight adaptation quick thinking were all going to be needed to survive and after all he wanted to survive. It was of some relief that a medic was with them in that regard. The others were interesting to him unlike anyone in his own regiment and in fact his only experience had been serving with his own. It was a anxiety inducing sensation new people with different training, worlds, and cultures it was another thing he had to adapt to so that he could survive.

Your chatter carries on for the fleeting moments of peace you can eke out despite the never-ending assault on the senses that are the engines. The cramped interior allows no favour in allowing you to see the world outside its confines, yet those with a window view will see this almost unmistakable sight. The aircraft had diverted course. No longer did you set course to the designated drop zone and the relative safety that an established foothold held for you all. Instead, you were to be diverted to the thickest of fighting, where Imperial Soldiers were barely hanging on despite near suicidal levels of aggression from those who sought to slay them. The ship lurched, almost seemingly as though it knew only too well what would happen when diving into this, last, perhaps greatest of hells.

An ear-splitting crackle echoed about the dimly lit aircraft as the pilot gave you his solemn words. His voice was heavy with distortion, your emotional well-being is of little concern after all. He spoke relatively softly, as though he almost wept for you and your imminent demise. “Sorry boys, new orders. We're being diverted off to Aether Station... Command says to, expect a warm welcome...” You could almost feel the despair the man emanated from his very soul, as though he could stand to not lose a single more of his brothers in arms, he soon shut off the vox systems though unbeknownst to you he truly did weep for you.

As the pilot speaks, the reek of blood permeates the air with its sickeningly sweet stench of iron, as you are reminded ever more of the fate of the last team to be sent out in this vessel. Their grisly end that has been a rallying point for the guardsmen, or so the uncaring officers would want you to think. The stench is so overwhelming, that it would seem almost as though a force beyond humanity is making it's sweetness wish ever more to breach into your nostrils and force you into the same fate as those before you.

The banking and rolling of the aircraft was extremely noticeable, as all you who were not strapped into your seats would most certainly be tossed about lightly by the sheer speed of the transport. From the soot-marked windows, you soon see that no other aircraft has been diverted. Whether through command failure or outright abysmal luck, you were more or less alone with only those bedraggled guardsmen on the ground to support you...even though you were to support them.

The situation had been dire in that district, even since the times before the war. Constant ganger attacks, murderous mutant infestations and a plague of xenos that abducted those poorest of humans, for them to never return. Some say that to dwell within such a miserable place changes a person, warps them in ways no man should ever bear witness to, turning once good people into twisted, craven souls who only lust for blood and vengeance gains those who seek to wrong them, or those who lord above them in the upper hives, those who care for nothing while the common man gets nothing but a pittance and dogged loyalty to all those who seek to berate and lower him even further, debasing them as humans, turning them into nothing more than trained animals.

A streak of light. A plume of soot-laced smoke. Manic laughter. Those are all the things that you would hear, were you not encased in the walls of the Valkyrie. An immense force rocked the transport, buckling the metal and causing rivets to squeal in abject protest at this abuse. The entire hull on the starboard side had been torn asunder by the lucky shot of a single Heretic missile launcher. In his desperation, you hear the vox on-board crackle into life and the pilot's voice echo coldly. No longer does he whimper. His soul has been steeled. He has come to embrace his death, but not yours. “We are hit. Worry not. This ship will land...you have my word.” His word seems lacking, however, or maybe the Emperor has turned his gaze from you and your craft as the thing begins to lose all directional control and being its hellish decent into the ground...

Those guardsmen in your craft, those poor miserable wretches. Some hug each other with a terror born only if the purest of fears. Some of them weep uncontrollably, babbling away the names of their most cherished in this world while clutching a small locket with the image of a smiling child upon it. You see one man, his eyes cold and hardened against the worst of this world, you see him calmly drawn his own sidearm and shoot himself. Not flinching in the least as he did so. He gives no words nor reasoning, yet his solution shall be the least painful of them all...He slumps to the ground, making even those hardiest of souls give in.

His lifeless corpse hit the grating of the floor with a dull thud, as the sack of flesh were now devoid of its mental master and sought almost to rebel against the life it once knew. Those guardsmen around the corpse simply stared at the thing like it was utterly alien. That a man could lose all hope so quickly and so easily end himself... The dead man's eyes were fully open to the world around him, one last visage as he slipped into the embrace of his demise.

The nauseating, delirious spinning mounts and worsens with each rotation, each movement of this damned aircraft bringing your soul that much closer to sitting beside the Emperor, or perhaps damning you all to an eternity of misery....Some of you undoubtedly have your fears. Some of you will react with decided difference in all actions of the world. But all humanity reacts the same to a crash of this sorts and sheer magnitude. With the shrieking of several banshees, the craft crashes in a wrecked pile of twisted metal and broken bodies. Yet, the most peculiar have occurred. You live. Each of your, even the weakest physically survived, but, why? Perhaps fate has something planned for you? Or maybe a dark lord creates the hands of fate that guide you all.

Whichever the circumstances, here you stand. Bruised, cut, perhaps scarred and scared beyond all sense. You see the mangled remains of fellow guardsmen. Them, not you, you see the same man who weakly held onto his locket during the time of crisis. He was staring wide-eyed at the sky, his legs missing and his body trapped. He bears marks of blood across his face, with a smooth layer of the scarlet vitae coating his armour. He is truly dead, yet even he held onto his hope, will you, however?

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Winstanly was most pleased by the company about himself. They seemed like the most pleasant of sorts, though some seemed decided backwards, and there was indeed some that commanded him to be even the slightest bit worried about them, not as soldiers but as actual people. He looked on with almost passive yet sorrowful intent at the commissar. A broken man perhaps, Winstanley had heard much about the commissars on this world, but never so much as this. He eyed the scholar, or that is what the Stormtrooper so deemed of him, with a mixture of passiveness and utter laughter. “This is a war my boy, not a place for those who fear the very sight of blood as much as to make themselves wretch.” He gave a short, scathing laugh afterwards, looking back at the Valhallan medic that sat beside him. “A proper fighting gentlemen if nothing else I do see!” He spoke aloud, a smile decorating his face, splitting it from side to side. Composing himself, he brought himself to stare into the very soul of the former penal legionnaire, checking him for even the slightest bit of disloyalty that may compromise the entire squad. He found none, yet he gave only a rough nod to the man and his blade.

“I dare say that we are in quite the state, it would seem as such anyway. No doubt you all, know, how to perform your duties to the Emperor and to the Imperial Guard as a whole.” You could very well make out at least a slight undertone of sarcasm to his voice, the smallest bit of biting dryness that burned, masked ever by a smile and cheerful expression.

Brushing aside a layer of dust that formed over his pauldron, Winstanley leaned inwards to hear fully what the pilot had to say. He was not dismayed by the tone of the man, for him to show weakness was an exceedingly bad example for the rest of the squad, though anyone with a brain cell will know too well that their mission zone was in complete disarray and falling on all sides. “It is with valour that we carry out the Emperor's will” he mumbled, eyeing up the state of the other guardsmen of little note. They seemed normal at best, incompetent at worst. Only time would tell.

He was, however, not one of those to be sat by a window, and was completely blind to the disaster which struck them seemingly without any sorts of warning. He flinched and moved in complete shock to the impact, though he did manage to place the man next to him in front of the blast, perhaps ungentlemanly, but he was a savage anyway. Winstanley was at a loss for word or reason, however, he knew too well that this had occurred before, but never like this. He managed to bellow out some seemingly random encouragement. “Stand fast! The enemy assails us yet the armies of humanity stand firm!” While in his mind the words were heroic and awe-inspiring, they actually came out as seemingly weak and lacklustre.

“Damnit, just brace yourselves you-...” Despite all his training, all his courage, he was not prepared to see the sight before himself as a guardsman simply shot himself without a care. He watched in silent horror, completely dumbfounded despite the horror of the situation at large. He stared, unblinking for several moments before moving back into action and actually preparing for any sorts of impact... “Emperor guide us!”

Winstanley awoke amongst the severed limbs of a gunnery sergeant, a brute of a man who was now missing all his limbs and spraying blood while screaming into the heavens such was his pain. Standing above the man, he calmly shot him several times in the head with his las pistol before moving to assist his fellows. Though the only real words were a grim, damning verse. "What in the bloody hell just happened?!"

Mikail sat with a grin befitting a fool. He was painstakingly listening to all that occurred around him, listening to the plights of others with rapt fascination. So much so that he openly ignored the positive situations like a plague of language. He was splendid in his uniform, however, his ushanka sitting atop his head like some great bear within its lair, resting. Peering outside the window and at the masses of destruction about the ship, he simply sighed and said with unwavering belief. “Look! It is a nice day out today!” The genuine excitement of his voice was almost palpable, in such stark contrast to the very real hell that took place outside the walls of the aircraft. Such was his boundless excitement that he grinned like a complete moron, eyeing each individual body and piece of debris like they were still splendid in their appearance and life. “Oh look! Is Petrov! Or, the body of! But doesn't matter, he seems happy as is.”

Shifting about in his seat, Mikail looked dead at the commissar and smiled, where others saw such an act as downright dangerous, the Valhallan did it unflinchingly, yet not provocatively in the least. He stated with boundless glee. “The commissars on the home world are such delightful people, even when shooting of own men begins they are always so eager! I tell one of other officers, however, and I end up here. Ah. Life is good in that way I tell you. Not to mention that Dima stole commissar Kubachev's hat. That was hilarious.”

He didn't even seem to care when the side of the aircraft was ripped open! He simply gazed at it like a brand new window for which the turmoil of the outside could spill out in all their radiance. “If you look carefully! You see beautiful wildlife!” He gave a warming chuckle after this, not even bothered when the guardsman shot himself. Mikail took it like a joke. Even the crash and the pain he felt, he laughed and smiled. Even as he watched the fat melt of a human corpse near him, he laughed. War wasn't an issue with him, it was simply delightful.

As Winstanly glared at him, Jack looked down instinctively, not daring to meet his sight. He felt as though the man was reading his mind, almost, revealing all of his secrets and judging him for them all. After a few moments, he saw a bit of movement, and released the tension that had built up, having noticed the Stormtrooper had looked away. He sighed out of relief and looked around to his fellows once more. His gaze rested on Mikail once more and, as the medic spoke, his expression grew from suspicion to extreme unease. The man seemed to be almost impossibly cheerful, leading him to believe that he may be delusional, to some extent. After a brief moment of contemplation, he turned to look at the Lord Commisar, who just revealed himself as the Black Saint. As the Commisar addressed the group, his eyes widened and he quickly sheathed his blades out of respect. He returned to having his head down once the Saint completed his speech, and tried to ready himself for the oncoming battles.

The speakers of the ship started to inform the crew of a change in orders. A very unfortunate change. Jack's face fell, and he put his seat restraints on, expecting turbulence as the ship turned and flew into a battle. His inclination was not unfounded as the aircraft began to shudder and shake and, eventually, after a loud explosion, the starboard side was no more. He turned to look at the Commisar, in his scarred and war-torn glory. "Looks like even the Emperor won't have any mercy on us either." He braced himself for the incoming crash, ignoring all the rest, though he couldn't help a shiver run down his spine as he heard Mikail begin to laugh, and he heard a gunshot and a thud. In a horrified frenzy, he wasn't sure if the madman had killed a squadmate, or if he had done them all a favor and had his last laugh. Either way, not caring enough to check, he looked down, sure he was standing in his grave.

When Jack regained consciousness, his vision was dark, and he felt a heavy object on top of him. He cleared off the debris off with some effort, with one thing in particular being particularly heavy. As he moved it off and rubbed his eyes to clear his sight, he noticed it was a corpse with a gaping hole through his head, clearly caused by some sort of energy weapon. This made him scramble away in horror, and he moved out of the remaining debris towards his companions. In his rush, he tripped and fell to the ground, resting before yet another corpse, one grasping a locket to his heart. After prying some of the wreckage off of the man, he looked down into his lifeless eyes. "I'll let them know, friend. I'll help... I'll let them..." Shuddering, he pried the artifact of hope off of the corpse, looking at the child eternally smiling at him. He put the locket in his bag and wordlessly stumbles over to the Stormtrooper, trying to ease his tumultuous mind, perhaps in vain.

Diverted off course, not really something Elou wanted to hear. Such usually heralded a mission beyond the scope of most, and with the lack of Karskins in the garrison, it would come off pretty terrible. Just another hunk of meat thrown at the enemies of the imperium. Tactics, apparently, happened to other people. She had no care for the Commisar. She never had care for the Commisars, they seemed to self-rightious, and above everyone else only because their family managed to buy a position in the Guard that lets them shoot other guardsmen.
"Well, this is certainly going to be-" Elou was cut off by a missile smashing into the side of the Valkyire, shaking the ship to an incredible degree. The pliot claimed they would land, and she thought that it was true, since even hitting the ground at mach ten was considered a landing. Weither they would survive the landing, was another thing entirely.

One guardsman decided not to chance it, and blew his own brains out, like the coward he was. Elou's disdain for such a lack of trust in the Emperor was clear, she wanted to burn his body, rip out his teeth, and crush any ability to ever identity him, but now was not really the time. The spinning was increasing, the guardsmen were becoming more distraught, and the end was closing it. Such a loud ending, she never would have thought this was how it would be. She wanted to go much quieter, in a nest, outwitted by the enemy, but smashed and mangled by a ship. A second before landing, she laughed softly, at how the world was so cruel, never letting anyone die how they willed. Then the ship suddenly stopped moving, as it hit the ground.

Elou was launched from her seat, smashing into the roof and then hitting the ground again with equal force. But, she survived, somehow. If, the ringing ears, spinning head, and inability to focus, hear properly, or even remember where she was could be called living. Her eyes stared unblinking, unseeing, for quite a few moments, before sense returned, and she pushed herself up slowly. The rest of the guardsmen had bit the bullet, or the crash landing, either way. She knew they wouldn't be needing their Las-charges anymore, so subtly helped herself to all of them, and any granades they might have been carrying. After all, the dead were poor shots, and she wasn't going to run out of ammo half way through a firefight just to respect some poor, creamed bastard. Ration packs were also taken, who knew how long they would be here, after all.

Done with her 'recovery' of the equipment, she got to her feet, still a little unsteady, but it was passing, a bit. She then pulled the hood of her Cameoline cloak up, and tugged it around. It would be hard to focus on Elou, to stare at her would bring a sort of nausea one gets from staring at something that was not quite there, but not quite not either. It suited her. Checking that her Longlas had survived the crash - which, her primilary checks gave a positive response for - she nodded at the rest of the team.
"Well, seems we aren't dead. I like how this mission is going already"

The orchestra of gunfire and screams was growing louder and with it the rhythmic collisions of the ship by bullets and shrapnel became ever more frequent. Epicurus had always enjoyed battle there were patterns in it like anything else and order among chaos laws among the lawless exchange. As he peered out the window to see distant bodies running and falling among buildings painted red with blood he knew soon he would be among the ruined and dying. As they grew closer the noise grew louder and finally a lone heretic missile launched into the air hurling with vicious velocity towards the Valkyrie. The piece reached its crescendo as the missile collided with the Valkyrie producing e symphony of death and destruction. In an instant men were torn or blown apart others cried and clung together. One man most interestingly to Epicurus in desperation to avoid what ever may come next took his own life leaving a vacant wounded husk behind. He thought it well of the man if he was that weak to do them all the favor of wasting no more time or endangering those who were capable. He respected that the man did not beg nor plead he acted in what he felt was best and in these times that was the most one could hope for. Epicurus whispered last rites for the man before turning his attentions to his own life.

As the pilot reassured them Epicurus was already certain the ship would crash and so quickly he began to assess those around him who still were breathing. In an instant he saw it to his left a man had his leg crushed by a section of framing from the ship. It was cut deep and the bottom portion crushed among the blood bone and muscle could be seen torn and fractured beyond any easy repair. Epicurus looked to the man next to him and leaned in as best he could struggling against the ships death throws.

"Forgive me brother your sacrifice will save the many." There was a hint of compassion as Epicurus spoke yet the man looked none the less terrified by the statement.

The sound of a man gurgling on blood came next and with little time at all the look of terror had vanished from his eyes replaced by a glassy vacant expression. Epicurus had slit his throat and then cut the strap that held the man to the seat with his mall knife. Already covered entirely from waist up in blood he caught the mans body and placed it atop himself using it as a shield for when the Valkyrie inevitably collided with the ground. He did not care if others saw what he did in his mind it was justified what was he to do let the man live waste time recovering from the crash treating a man who would simply endanger the unit. No he would ensure all who were at their best fit to serve could do so unencumbered by those who would die anyways. Them the final note came with a crash and Epicurus found himself drifting into the abyss.

He could not tell how much time had passed, but he smelled fire and blood opening his eyes he was relieved the body had been litered with shrapnel and metal defending him from everything, but bruises from the momentum of the whole ordeal. He tossed the body off and stood from his seat to see who among them survived. He heard cries of the dying and saw the man who had prayed and hoped over a locket still there eyes toward the sky. He said a few blessings and walked through the carnage towards the man who had called himself Jack and followed him to Winstanely. As he did so there were flashes of how the medic had behaved and all he could think was at the very least he would endure, but his eyes would be vigilantly upon him he seemed ripe to turn madness had already taken him.

Viber had stood in the same place silent and rooted like a great oak his hand firmly holding onto the rails along the side of the ship for stability. He watched the battlefield scouring it seeing who had the edge in what districts hoping the birds eye would give him an edge for planning the units movements. The sights that once filled him with such excitement for battle had soured and become distressing and symbolic of the encroaching doom he felt awaited all who served in this life. Perhaps it was because in those days he fought green skins and true distinguishable enemies, but now for some time he fought other men former citizens sometimes even on planets he once visited in peaceful times. As he watched his eyes caught it a heretic missile hurling towards the side of the Valkyrie he was on. The harbinger of vengeance ripped the whole side asunder and took men with it. Vibers eyes had been obscured by smoke and a shower of blood yet he held on and somehow remained in place. He cleared his eyes wiping away blood and peered past the smoke. He could their expeditious descent toward the ground from the gaping hole that was once a metal barrier from the world bellow.

"Men and women of the Imperium in this hour you must find your resolve and your courage. You must find the will because we cannot give it to you. We who do will survive we will avenge those who fall and litter the streets with blood and bodies for our comrades. For honor and glory!" Viber screamed an obvious blood lust in his voice as it seemed the fire was for now reignited.

After his words he heard the typical screams and cries and even witnessed one man take his life. He looked about the ship and though all concerned him most it was Mikail who he was interested in. He had admiration perhaps even in his old age envy for the mans ability to take it all in such stride to accept what happened around. Yet he also knew and had seen men who like that medic on a dime could turn and change snapping into strange and paranoid creatures or violent madmen. They were not on the precipice of breaking they had already broken.

The ground met and went to blows with the ship winning its struggle as the ship gave and the ground hardly cratered. His legs buckled and his shoulders cracked as he held himself in place old and weary bones fighting against the torrent of blows. Yet there he stood at the end of it all crouched and in pain yet he stood for all to see in the same place he had been at the beginning. The Black Saint was once again at battle and by the grace of whatever may be he survived to fight on.

Cannis had sat in place maintaining his dutiful attention to his weapons. As the heretic missile hit the Valkyrie the detonation created a storm within the vessel. Men were torn apart shrapnel made from the ship and missile began to pelt and rip into and through the men among. He saw those who had stood thrown into the ceiling a few heads cracked or smashed dead in an instant from one titanic blow. He was firmly fastened in and he watched the chaos that surrounded trying to make sure his weapons were not thrown about or damaged. He looked to the man to his right to make sure he was still with him and it was as he did the gunshot rang out. Blood and brain matter covered his face as the man slumped over and Cannis looked in horror at the man. In shock he dropped his weapons and tried to shake him to stop him retroactively it was panic and impulse he knew he was dead, but he just had to try.

His ear still ringing he could hardly hear what was going on and as it finally started to clear he was jolted forward and slammed back into his seat losing all consciousness. The eruption that had occurred from the ships land fall was immense. Cannis woke his seats strap broken and he found himself in a pile of bodies. As he looked around he heard their morning saw their weak struggling he felt sick yet he knew he could not let his brothers suffer. These men were dying and so Cannis gave them all quick quiet ends to stop them from feeling anymore pain from having to lay in this grave alive and afraid. As he finished he held back tears and went toward the grouping of men now gathered survivors and some seemingly well. As he moved he noticed he was bleeding from where shrapnel and had cut through his armor and across his abdomen. The warm blood ran down him and his movements were pained, but he walked on to join the unit. He knew that if they stayed here if they didn't make plans to move soon they would die. The crash site would soon be found by those who shot the ship and they would surround and scavenge what they and kill any who were here.

As he surveyed the carnage set out before him, Winstanley simply sighed before averting his gaze from that most gruesome sight as the crashed aircraft and the lost souls that had died upon it. Lowering his head, Winstanley muttered an oath of justice for those lost, he would not let their sacrifice be in vain. Reverting his gaze back to those remaining survivors, he made a mental note to get transitioned back in with his own regiment, such was the shell-shocked and motley assortment of misfits and freaks he saw before him,. He'd worked with worse, and he'd forge them into the true fighting men and women that the Imperial Guard needed so dearly. Marshalling what was left of himself, he raised his sword to the heavens and said to all those about himself. “If you should live to fight once more, rally besides me! There is work to be done and by the Emperor we will do it!” His voice echoed about the abandoned street corner they were on, discarded refuse and raw sewage littered the area due to the repeated shelling it had likely received from both sides of this war, the miasma of putridity stretched as far as the senses allowed, filling all with a potent concoction of human waste and burning wreckage from their former transport.

Try as he may, Winstanley tried to distance himself as much as humanly possible from the Commissar, there was something about the man that made him uneasy in the very pit of his stomach, some unnatural compulsion that brought his senses to rebel against the Commissar's very existence as a person. Yet the Valhallan he found to be a good laugh, and so stayed ever beside. “From here, the nearest regimental command is up past the Hades sector, and through the 'wall of flesh'...best you don't ask why it's called that.” In truth his words were uneasy even mentioning the name of that blighted area, the sight of the world's first demonic incursion and also the sight were multiple hundreds of men were shot by the Inquisition for heinous acts of “Incompetence” as it was so carelessly put. In truth those men didn't deserve death for fleeing a threat so unnatural it caused men to weep blood and fill their minds with doubt.

“As such, gentlemen. We are to travel there, and perhaps reunite with any guardsmen we can on the way there! I believe even our acting, leader, shall agree upon that, yes? Commissar?” Despite his worry he still found the soul to face the man to some degree. “If we stand here without objection then I do assume we shall proceed...” As he spoke, Winstanley remembered something most vital, he walked with purpose up to the wrecked cockpit of the crashed aircraft and pried open the hatches leading inside of it. Inside was dark, without light due to most of it being nose-first into the brick of a manufactorium. Reaching inside, Winstanley felt about for the pilot's dog tags, he would see to it that the man was commended most greatly for his actions in the field of war, in allowing even the faintest elements of his cargo to survive. A hand grabbed Winstaley's wrist however, a dirt and blood smeared thing from which a croaking pilot did breathe out his final words.

“I...did it, I did...it... your here. Go, p-please. Do what you came here...for. Emp. Emperor, g-guide you a-all...” Even as he spoke his final words the pilot smiled while blood dripped in long lines down from his reddened lips. The man was spent in his time upon the mortal plane, yet even he took solace is knowing that his job in life was done. A smile crept across his face as his smile grew wide before fading into nothingness as he perished.

“Godspeed...” Winstanley whispered, taking the man's tags and sighing away the grief that came from all this. He clambered back out of the aircraft, to once more face the squad about himself. “We shall move. Remain vigilant, and, all that...” Despite his best efforts soon his mask of courage would soon show cracks...

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The nearest Imperial Guard soldiers were several streets away, they had been embroiled in intense combat for weeks in that particular area, and the men there often didn't return. Those who did did so with tales of face's silently screaming from the walls, and a soft whispering promising untold happiness beyond all mortal cares. The actual camp was barely holding on, it was only due to their overwhelmingly superior firepower that the place stood at all, a vile testament to the sheer ignorance of the commanders that led the sector.

You all continue forth, down several streets and twisting alleyways down crumbling tunnels and through ruins of once proud buildings. Everywhere you look, death and destruction rein supreme. However, from the rouble, you do spot something. The flash of grey mixed with other colours, and the dulled chatter that is so familiar to the accent of Low Gothic spoken in this world. They are soldiers of this world's Imperial Guard Regiment, not a particularly legendary one, but yet still a force far above common rabble. Their Sargent, you assume this due to his broad and loud nature, mixed somewhat with the Macharius Cross that he wears on his right breast. He marches up to you, his heavy black boots crumpling debris below them, and with an authoritarian voice he shouts. “Hold yourselves right there! We were not informed of other patrols in this area? Tell me, why are good soldiers of the guard not out there following their damn orders?!” His voice was horrible to behold, a shouted array of violent, ear-assailing words that, when mixed with his worlds native accent made it even worse.

Behind him, several more soldiers showed themselves. One was a skinny, pale man with cracked glasses that wore a heavy vox-unit on his back. Two others were quite plain, and you didn't much see their faces. They looked...oddly shifty. And the final was a big huge bear of a man, with a massive beard and shaggy red hair. He carried a flamer like a man might so easily lift a small pistol, and his voice was warming, a soothing syrup in this world of torture. He spoke these words. “Leave them! They're alright as th'e are! Ain't causin' no one no trouble!” Despite an...actual lack of symbols showing rank, you all feel a deep sense that this man is a superior in some way like he hold the actual power here... Something most troubling grabs your instincts however.

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Winstanley was initially worried by the openness of the other guardsmen, yet a relief at their number and the relative amount of having not survived a helicopter crash... He addressed them formally, however. “Greetings, gentlemen. We are...well, we have no name. May you have seen a Valkyrie crash? That was...our vehicle... We are the remnants. Do, take us to the post nearby, if you kindly...”

Elou took vanguard as the squad moved out. Any bit of elevation that crossed her path was scaled, and the surrounding area scoped out with her Long-Las, seeking any foe to put a Las-round through their head. The Commisar, whom was gaining disdain with every passing moment, was shouting, or something. She never really listened to them unless they had sound tactical advice, and this one, apparently, did not. At one time, they stopped for a few moments for whatever reason, so she restructured her bandolier, making sure the Krak Grenandes were at the forefront, and the clips at the back. She needed to make sure that the 'nades were easy to get to if she needed to blow a hole in any sort of fortification, gate, or bunker door. Krak Grenades were great little keys for that.

Nothing happened, however, and they arrived at a small garrison of guardsmen, doing what most guardsmen did, and standing around looking gormless. One of the men, larger, bolder, and generally unshaven. He barked at them about not being informed about their arrival or presence, and then asked why why weren't following orders. Elou couldn't hold her tongue, and so looked the sargent square in the eye. Keeping Elouviana's gaze would be slightly nausiating, as her cloak made it hard to judge her actual distance.
"If you are not informed of other patrols in the area then why do you presume to know our orders? We are following them, so you can go off and do whatever it is that Ogryn half-breeds like yourself get up to" She replied, smiling with a strangely manic tint to it. She caught the eye of the man with the flamer, but then something else came about. Like walking down a narrow alley way at night. Nothing actually behind you, but the feeling that something was following behind. There were no alleyways now, but it was a similar feeling, so she skulked away to find some elevated position, for a better view.

Jack followed the rest of the squad, taking role of the rear guard. He watched the others with unease, being mildly perturbed by the strangeness of some of his allies. The medic still seemed too capricious and overall bizarre to be trusted, and the Stormtrooper seemed to at least slightly disapprove of the Ex-Penal's presence. Though the Black Saint seemed to be extreme (which was expected, naturally), the confidence the man had in his words somewhat put him at ease, though his statements were harsh and unforgiving, the steely nature of the man made his will similarly iron. This struck him as a contrast to Winstanley, whose previously glorious and golden words began to lose their luster. As the group moved on through the wreckage that could have been construed as a city, Jack jumped slightly as the new Sargent shouted at the squad. After eyeing the Macharius Cross with suspicion, he kept his head down and hands near his swords, maintaining a good distance between him and the new soldiers, with his allies being a buffer.

Mikail was not fazed in the slightest by any of the days actions thus far, nothing had bothered him from the crash to even watching the soldier summarily shoot himself in the head. Such was his absolute job with life that he hummed an iconic Valhallan battle tune that was forever famed by the numerous and indomitable tank regiments of that world. Happiness oozed from the man in all ways, a smile bright on his face, highlighting his angular features and pale skin in such a way as to make the ghostly trooper seem almost beaming in the literal sense. “I tell you, comrades! Is not as bad as could be! Could be stuck on the desert world! Or, worse, without booze!” His wisecracks were, in Mikail's mind, the very grandest of comedy potential, as though no human could make such a string of words seem to so wildly hilarious as to make a man cough such was his laughter.

It would be said that the Valhallan looked much like a wild man, barred pearly teeth bared in a wide smile and some, glint in his eye, some deep uneasiness that no man sane man would ever bear in his gaze. Yet Mikail was devoid of any pernicious rage and devoid of any hatred, he simply saw the world as he did: as one huge comedy wherein he was a star to perform to those around him. “Ah, I tell you, on days like these I think to self, Mikail, why is not of simply making Pelmeni? But then I am remembering that last time that happens I very nearly into getting shot by Commissar. He was such funny man, very serious man he was, but then he dies. Even happier, but not because of rank.” Mikail seemed to reserve himself somewhat during those few moments, his grin ceasing and his light fading, but he soon bounced back with a tremendous laughter that shook his body from end to end.

“I tell you! I never seen Ork body fly as far in whole life! Was like a firework but green! Reminds me of Kuchov, he was near Ork, less green, but probably worse body hygiene! Could stink out whole canteen with mere presence!”

Mikail's joyous nature was retained, and perhaps even made more extreme by the appearance of the other Imperial Guardsmen. He didn't much care for the Sargent's attitude, but his bearded friend seemed like a riot beyond reason, the perfect companion for the Valhallan.

Painted in blood Epicurus kept quiet and avoided drawing undo attention of any of the men around him. He was not entirely surprised by those who had survived the crash in a well enough state to move forward. As he followed Winstanley about sifting through the wreckage he swore he could see faint white figures moving, but in an instant the vision had left him. For now silence would be his friend as all tactics and decisions were made he resigned himself to a rear post of the formation. Through wreckage and streets of fallen buildings they moved forward with little conversation until the Mikail the strange medic tried to break up the monotony. Epicurus was amused, but kept from commenting.

Cannis rallied to his brothers call and stood at attention giving a formal salute. "I am with you." Cannis followed his weapon at the ready and his eyes darting to avoid any surprises he was growing concerned with every passing moment that the enemy would find them before they could reunite with the rest of the guard or at the very least a tactical place to plan their next move. As they moved and Winstanley finished his confirmation of mission orders with a great amount of uncertainty and unease they came to the helm of the ship. Inside the pilot jolted toward Winstanley a strong man who had saved the lives of a few valiantly against all odds. His duty ended and he would be remembered and heralded with honor by those that still lived. As the smile grew across the pilots face Cannis approached and said last rites before placing a small token on him. As the group organized into its formation more tightly and left marching through the carnage that surrounded them he chose the flank of the group first to keep an eye on and protect Epicurus and second for his preference of always having the largest view of the potential battlefields ahead.

As all gathered among the broken land all senses aware and assaulted by the destruction that had been wrought by both sides on this world. Viber let the men rally and Winstanley act as he had been appointed to do so. As he felt the pain in his failing body mounting he took an injector from underneath his coat and gave himself medicine for the pain. "Just keep on moving." He whispered to himself as the dose was administered. For a moment his vision was hazy and words became a droning hum impossible to clearly understand. As his hearing and sight returned he heard Winstanley speak his name. Cracking his neck he moved forward with heavy feet to speak to the survivors.

"We are what remains the few who will fight for the many that were given this purpose. Agreed Winstanley. Prepare yourself for unholy sights and horrors once we reach that certain. What is at work in this city will challenge not just your body, but your mind." As Viber had finished speaking his voice had trailed off his hand gripping his canes head tightly. He had seen many times what the inquisition was capable of including on this world and often he could not help, but think of them as no better than the monsters they were intended to fight.

They had moved several streets up to an outpost known well by the soldiers fighting on this world. It had been battered by a tidal wave of bodies. The strikes against it were relentless day and night and the fights that raged flooded the streets with blood. Those who left and went toward the wall often didn't return whether dead or mad none knew and those who did were not quite themselves. They spoke of the strange things at work near the Wall of Flesh. The screaming expressions of the dead that made the foundation for it engraved in their minds haunting them.

Viber knew this place was a testament to arrogance and ignorance of those who often commanded from comfortable safe seats for the grunts in the muck and shit to give give blood and sweat for them. They had given them great weapons, but not enough men nor enough care to keep them going to keep them strong. That was the standard however it was how things were done just mindlessly throw men at the problem was often the solution of far to many who commanded the guard. Here though they were fighting their own kin their own kind and forces greater than that such plans would not work in this war yet some chose to still follow the tradition of idiocy.

The sound of low gothic began to ring out from around the corners. The regiment stationed here was an honorable one perhaps not the most recognized or most famous, but for those who knew of them there was a good amount of respect for the people who served in their ranks. It was good to know they in fact were alive and still maintaining their watch. As they came into view Viber positioned himself to foremost position within the formation of the group. There was a sense of excitement growing as they drew closer. It was cut short as the Sergeant came stomping forward. He exclaimed in a strange barrage not normal for anyone of his position especially for the medal he wore. It was painful to listen to undeserved authority and posturing by a lesser man.

The rage Viber long knew that beast that swelled inside him the fire stoked by the aggression and the suspicious nature of a man Viber could not place by face or name who bore an honor so high and one who did not seem to recognize him. Yet it was soothed only slightly by the man to the back who stood with the others posted here. He was a behemoth carrying a flamer like a toy and his deep soothing voice commanded true authority which was furthering the oddities of this situation growing in proof to be amiss. Viber held his tongue and let Winstanley speak, but he was quietly inspecting and scrutinizing every detail of the surroundings.

As Winstanley spoke Elou had disappeared from the ranks of their men with tension growing and suspicion high Viber couldn't help, but feel the paranoia encroach and whisper to him she was with them she was plotting against the unit. Quickly though any concern for this was shattered by confirmation of the ill faces before them. Viber in his head was screaming liars and thieves vermin and scum that cross he recognized not just it, but the name upon it. Sergeant Gregori Parvus a fellow hero of the Yssurran conflict who died of his lingering wounds after the last days. Viber hadn't know the man to well, but always respected him. Viber had never been on this world, but once on it did intend to visit the monument it wasn't to far from their objective after all...yet now he knew that monument was gone and all that was held within looted. They had desecrated a place worthy of reverence. Their blood would be spilled and their lives ended for this crime.

Viber with all restraint held himself firm from bursting into a bloody fury just yet. He approached his ebony cane connecting to the ground with a solid thud every step forward. He was now face to face with the so called Sergeant and he grinned with a disturbed look upon his face it was unsettling and unnerving how long he stood there like that. Then with no warning he began to laugh. At this point several of the men about looked at him assuming him mad curious if not worried what exactly what was happening.

"So Sergeant. Parvus? In spite of appearances of a younger man your an elder or perhaps more importantly you found out how to come back from the dead, but lost all memory of the wars you fought with me?" Viber spoke the words like venom his disdain and thirst for revenge evident.

Before the men could react or say anything in retort Viber began his bloody retribution. His hand had firmly been placed on the cane and as he pulled it up the blade was revealed. In a deft single motion from its unsheathing the blade found its place firmly within the Sergeant. His mouth open words wishing to come out, but only gasps of pain with the spitting of blood could find their way from him now. Viber pulled the man close to him by using the blade and driving it ever further the man now screaming and blood pouring from him. Viber was wet with blood and smiling wildly it had taken hold the beast within was on the battlefield once more. With the man slowly dying now close to him acting in some way as a shield he removed his bolt pistol from its holster with his left hand and fired it directly at the flamer tank on the back of the other man.

Viber laughed violently as the tank began to cry and the horrified and panicked faces of the heretics realized their impending doom. "You will burn and only ashes will remain!" Viber screamed amid his laughter. As the words left him he continued twisting and thrusting his sword into the man he was using as a shield for what purpose than his own twisted satisfaction it was uncertain. As the heretics and impostors now scrambled and cried like children the raw energy within the tank came into life. The explosion was a beautiful ultra-violent spectacle. Chunks of men and charred flesh danced about a dark red paste with black soot painted the field around and the body of this so called Sergeant was an unrecognizable shell. Viber had been mostly protected and now he clung to a just a blown apart torso missing all, but its head though even it hung on loosely much like the intestines dangling below. Never for a moment did Vibers vicious laughter stop as the whole event unfolded and now among the dead it seemed to echo.

It was broke and brought to a stop when the coughs of the pale man who had been furthest from the blast showed he had survived. Viber ripped the Macharian Cross from the torso dropping it and seemed intent to move forward to finish the job. As he did his knees began to buckle and he hurried to reassemble the cane and hold himself up. The shock wave from the blast had beaten and stiffened the old bones locking them into their place making it difficult to move with any speed or efficiency.

"There will be more prepare yourselves to cull every last one of these vermin." Viber exclaimed with great conviction. He stood now holding himself up with his cane his bolt pistol in hand ready for the assault.

-----Contextual Post for Combat.-----

In your debates with the other guardsmen, you notice something most peculiar every now and then, a small scuffle, muffled talking, the sound of boots crashing down upon stone... Heavy breathing carries forth upon the winds, and the foul stench of chaos marks it's presence. As soon as Viber even begins to say the name of the Macharius Cross, several armed men burst forth from the ruins all around you, surrounding you and cutting off all escape routes. They are the sweaty bedraggled masses of humanity, clad in dirty, rune-laced rags and their faces dripping with barely contained bloodlust. They carry crude yet horrible blades, serrated with massive teeth and rusted beyond all belief. Their guns look like they barely work, horrible tin-looking things that look closer to blowing up in their hands rather than doing nay real damage to anyone they are pointed at.

One of the two shiftier looking guardsmen soon straightens himself out when his comrades are slain all about himself. He stands to full height, his warped body seeming to even gain a foot of unnatural height while as his flak armour bulges and splits down the sides due to his grotesque musculature. His face is no longer human. A horrid gnashing maw is all that remains, alongside two lifeless black orbs that state in your very souls. He looks upon Viber like he is nothing but food, to empathise this he lifts the charred remains of the flamer-using Heretic and savagely rips off one of his legs began downing the whole thing like it was but a small morsel.

His fellow heretics, they do number above five that much you know, are eternally coming closer, their stench and bloodlust equally apparent... make yourselves ready...combat approaches....

Mikail was not surprised din the least when the guardsmen turned out to be heretics. He simply wasn't. They never laughed at his jokes, nor did they actually look like normal people, but the former was forever more important to the Valhallan. With a fluidity of motion that no man should ever be capable of, he did as he'd been taught all his life. He affixed his bayonet, a wicked piece of serrated steel that was a full eight inches long and perfectly suited for stabbing into the unprotected flesh of another human, though he didn't charge, not yet. He shouldered the immense shotgun, racking the slide before squeezing the trigger once.

A hail of shot flew from the angry maw of the gun, hitting one of the knife-wielding heretics squares in the head, the man's brains splattered across the wall behind him, as blood squirted in an arc of vitae whilst the corpse simply slumped to the floor in a tangled heap. With a roar of victory, Mikail screamed at the top of his lungs as he charged forth at the other member of the former pair. An immense “Uraaaaaa!” Bellowed forth from the man as he charged forth and jammed his bayonet into the fleshy innards of the chaos heretic. The man didn't die but instead doubled over in immense pain from the wound.

“WITH ME! TO GLORY!”

Winstanley leapt to attention almost immediately when the true nature of the traitor guardsmen became apparently, he levelled his hot-hot lasgun to his should, carefully squeezing off a burst of high powered lasgun fire at several individuals. His shots were true, as the automatic barrage of lasgun fire tore through the flimsy armour of the heretics with ease, leaving only red hot holes in their wake. Three bolts shot across the distance between the two parties, several heretics were felled by the incandescent bolts of light.

Three heretics were felled, their bodies ripped open and destroyed by the white hot bolts. With a tremendous effort Winstnley stood his ground instead of fleeing, bellowing out a curse at the enemies that assailed them. "Suffer not the heretic to live! Burn the heretic! Slay the mutant!"

The moment the heretics revealed themselves, Jack drew his blades and eyed the poor souls with malice. He discerned that they had noted his presence, and so immediately ran ahead to unleash holy retribution upon these traitors. However, he did not shout or scream, nor did he yell some battle cry of his regiment or any such thing, instead charging forward with a steely, watchful gaze. Having chosen his prey, he twirled his mono-sword and thrust his second, cruel looking blade into the heretic's heart. He peered into the man's eyes, absorbing all of the fear and hatred residing within, then promptly ripped his sword out with an overall unnecessary amount of flourish and bloodlust after the moment had passed, bits of shredded armor and flesh flying towards the heavens. He kicked the cadaver to the ground, then glanced around for another target.

Upon seeing the crazy medic charge into a nearby heretic and impale a man with his bayonet, Jack raced over to the dying foe, holding his swords at the ready. As he rapidly approached, he began to hiss and growl with a primal yet contained fury overcoming him. He pounced upon the doubled up heretic, ramming a blade into his neck, causing even more blood to spurt onto Mikail's shotgun. With a wrathful howl, he tore the sword off of the heretic's neck, leaving only a thread of flesh connecting the man's head to his shoulders. "DEATH WALKS AMONG YOU!"

Elouviana hunkered down in her spot on some ruined building, and scanned the area for any threat. She knew there was one, it ws like her sixth sense, and she never ignored her sixth sense. That always got Rangers killed. However, it did not come in the form of some sneaky mutants trying to give them the slip, or some horrors of the warp baring down on their position. It came, from the very guardsmen that they had been waylaid by. They turned out to be heretics, but what caused them to throw off their mantle and attack was beyond Elou's scope.

What wasn't beyond their scope were the heads of the enemy, who seemed to be falling quite readily to the group. It was nice to know she wasn't surrounded by morons who didn't know which way to point their Lasguns. However, there was one big bugger who seemed pretty dam imposing, and it was him that she turned her gun to. Aiming down the scope to get a solid read on him, and flicking the gun onto the Overcharge setting, just to ensure he'd be fried, she squeezed off a single round in his direction, the crack of the Long-Las ringing out as the laser beam hit the mutant monster direct.