@Lauder@DrunkasaurusRex@Ollumhammersong

War had come to Minoa III not in drips and droplets, not in a steady and orderly assault by the enemies of the Imperium, but in a week of fiery hell and swooping vehicles that descended from on-high to tear down defences and batter aside whole Cohorts of Mechanicus Skitarii as they sought to claim the resource-rich world for the Dark Gods and for their Warmaster when he was inevitably triumphant. Of course, not everyone was such a willing participant in that vision of the future, not by a long shot – some were members of wrecked and ruined Legions, short on supplies and materials for their Long War, while others were simply renegades and opportunists intent on carnage for the sake of carnage.

Either way, things did not go according to plan...

Vibianus Agathon had landed upon this world with his brother Legionnaires of the Perfect Form - an Emperor's Children Warband made up of some of the least degenerate warriors of that scattered Legion, warriors who had sought perfection within other crafts outside of simple hedonism and lust.

There had been two dozen of them then, and within the following months he had seen them whittled down to just half of that number, the six remaining Astartes quickly realising that the tide was turning when Imperial vox-transmissions could be heard in their ear.

“Agathon, we must go!” Roared one of his brothers over his helmet-vox, the bolter he now held in his hand having been taken from the corpse of a wounded Black Legionnaire...not that the downed warrior had lasted long after that, “there are too many, the False Emperor's lackeys have overturned our fleet in orbit and there is no reason for us to remain.”

Even as the targeting runes within his own plumaged helmet flickered between the multitude of Skitarii Hyspasists and Rangers making their way toward his squads position – a ruined and gutted manufactorum block, now without three walls and a roof – the former Consul looked around for a way off this useless rock.

It took a moment, a moment he truly did not have with Imperial forces bearing down on his location, but he found a way off the planet.

“There appears to be a Gunship to the south-east of our location, follow me and conserve your ammunition, knives and chain-weapons only.”

Affirmation runes flashed on the inside of his helmet, the superhuman already moving away from where he had crouched seconds before, a chainsword humming idly in his grip and a bolt-pistol mag-locked to his thigh armour as he sprinted.

“Consul, there appears to be a blockage in our way.” It was the voice of Engilram in his ear, the fools heavy breathing clear from how he spoke, why had he not dropped his heavy bolter?!

“Identify obstruction, Dead-eye.”

“Seems to be some of our fodder...and some ilk of Horus, guarding their Gunship I would imagine. Orders?”

“Well,” chuckled the stone-cold warrior as he licked his sharpened teeth, “we go through them.”

The sound of his blade roaring into life, and the sight of fragile fleeing mortal vessels to massacre before him, gave the once proud warrior a thrill of excitement; this may not help hone his skills, but it would at least relieve some of his built-up tension.

Deleted

The great secret about reality was that there were two sides to it. There was the side that all conscious beings were initially aware of, the material side, the physicality, but there was also the immaterial side, the reflection of reality in the warp, the spiritual and the psychic side to all living beings, all matter and motion. No matter how the simple-minded tried to deny and ignore it, it was always there and always in connection. It was in this dual-state of comprehension that beings such as the sorcerers of the Thousand Sons lived.

Sanakhet marched blatantly across a section of open battlefield between the Imperial forces and the recently chastised and retreating warriors of the Black Legion. He ducked a moment before a bolt of lasfire singed the air just over his helm as if he had known of its coming a whole 5 seconds prior, which of course, he did. Rising again, he rounded the corner of some ruined stones that would provide him with cover, and as he did, he extended his bolter pistol around ahead of him, firing even before he had vision at the wounded astartes that had been lying there in wait out of ammunition at point blank range. The aura of the wounded space marine had been sharp and bright, appearing crystalline in its honed structure like that of a highly tempered warrior. The color of its spirit had been devoid of fear, as was to be expected, and the timbre of its consciousness clearly indicated a readiness to engage the enemy that was about to round that corner with all due ferocity. Sanakhet saw all of this without a flicker of emotion as he moved to kill with zero regard for what others may have deemed 'honor.'

A brief flash of surprise overtook the wounded space marine's aura in an instant as rounds were fired before the loyalist could react. The attack had come moments before he had anticipated it, a misjudgement commonly made against a lesser sorcerer-champion of Tzeentch, but all was fair in war.

The tides of battle were clearly turned, and even in the lowest enumerations, Sanakhet could easily sense the begrudging shift in emotions of the supposed "allies" around him as they bent and broke into shame, hatred, and denial. Fear was a rare emotion, actually. Warriors on both sides more often went down with the fury of their souls still quite alive, raging as they dispersed into the ether. Sanakhet added the fallen marine's ammunition to his own.

Suddenly, the strangest lights of hope and joy lept to the sorcerer's warp-touched awareness from not far behind him, and it drew his attention like a sparkle in the otherwise bland sea of darkness, smoke, and blood. Several chaos marines, yet to be identified, were driving with full intent upon a target... a ship! Sanakhet immediately realized their plan and formulated his own to join them. Quickly, in a refelxive precautionary measure, Sanakhet elevated his consciousness to increase his foresight before moving. Five ways saw him blown up by a missile launcher whos operator was already searching for a proper target, 2 ways saw him delayed by enemy engagement to miss the ship's departure, but one way, if he delayed a total of exactly nine seconds and obscured his presence saw him to within 20 meters of the ship's dropped cargobay door. Good enough to take it.

6... 7... 8... A booming explosion, as the missile slammed into a rolling APC that had almost gotten away. Sanakhet moved now, an accelerated stride toward the gunship and the small band of Emperor's Children fighting there before it. The sorcerer took the enemy by surprise, flinging three fully armored bodies from his path before he even reached for his forcesword. Electric blue streaks of raw warp magic flashed down Sanakhet's accursed blade a it mercilessly split the blade of a chainsword that had been swung in the wrong direct, his direction. Shards of chainsword teeth flew wildly in all directions as the damaged weapon blew itself apart, and yet the eyes of the dark blue and gold astartes who had rendered the blow had never been on the chainsword or its owner at all. They were fixed on Vibianus Agathon, who he began to approach with pitiless, metronomic strides.

The mortal screamed in agony as a jagged combat blade, long since stained with the blood of foes long since slain sliced through his soft belly and carved an unholy pattern into his entrails. The tattered remains of his PDF uniform were a pathetic remainder of his once stupid decision to stand against the inevitability of chaos and the power of the dark pantheon. Now he was a sacrifice to the very powers he scorned in favour of the corpse tyrant. The miserable wretch writhed and begged, at first for his life to be spared, then for mercy and finally for a swift end from his torments. The Word Bearer ignored all pleas like a man would ignore the scarred buzzing of an insect it was trying to swat.

The whimpering mortal made a meagre, if not pathetic offering to the ruinous powers. But it was the best Ashtor could scrounge up. One soul would have to do. The Imperial forces were fast approaching and it seemed the will of fate that this world would not be liberated from the great enemy this day. More screams issued from the mortals throat, now raw and hoarse with pain and overuse. Ashtor gave his blade one last savage twist and ripped it out of the chest cavity, coating the ruined soil beneath in splattered blood. By now the creature only had a few more minutes of life left inside him, and every second of that remaining life would be spent in agony that would appease the Dark gods in hopeful exchange for favours.

He had no more time to spend on the creature. His sacrifice was made, the eight pointed star carved and bubbling with blood and viscera related bile. His fate was in the gods hands now. Unlike warriors from most chaos legions, a Word Bearer did not embrace solitude and lone wandering. Word Bearers were disciplined and worked best when under the leadership of their dark apostles. Gathered in their war-hosts and standing shoulder to shoulder in unholy vigour. Without such inspired leadership Ashtor felt rudderless. He did not blame Amon for fleeing. To stay on this world would only spell doom for the Defiler's war-host and lose the Word Bearer's legion over two hundred of its warriors and resources. Such a loss would displease the gods and their plans for the legion. He did resent being separated in the confusion. His battle squad was dead, Killed in retreating skirmishes against their 'loyalist' cousins. He could only scavenge what he could of ammo and ordinance. Their armour was likely lost to the legion forever. A hard blow to lose four suits of precious power armour and their weapons.

As the sound of countless skitarii marched forward in eerie unison reached it's crescendo, accentuated by the roar of engines of war greater and more numerous than anything chaos managed to deploy to the surface. Ashtor knew it was time to leave.... and quickly.

Luckily he knew there were some opportunities of escape. Listening to the vox channels of the mechanicus served no purpose. Their accursed binary script was unintelligible to all save their own. Even the chaos aligned techpriests jealously guarded the secret of their language. But the chatter of his allies revealed far more. It was unlikely that the Black legion would simply let him board their gunship. He would never bend the knee to their pretender king. But he had little choice other than to try.

By the time he approached the gunship a scene of a whole other sort was unfolding. The black Legion warriors were being set upon by a gaggle of other legion warriors. He recognized the livery of them. He briefly considered joining the fray but there was no guarantee these misguided servants of their singular patrons would not turn on each other once the black legion was no more. He had confidence in the khornite and the sorcerer hacking each other to pieces. Such were the consequences of foolishly choosing to ignore chaos in its entirety as was the only proper way to worship, and instead focus on one flawed and narrow aspect of darkness.

He would watch from afar for now. It was like watching beasts fight, they would tire themselves out, maybe even injure and kill each other. Once battle had weakened the remainder Ashtor would make the decision to descend on the survivors in a hail of super-heated plasma and take the gunship for his own. Returning to the war-host with such a prize would grant him much prestige in the eyes of the apostles.

@DrunkasaurusRex@Ollumhammersong@Wraithblade6

Chaos was never a singularly focused thing, never straightforward or simple, no; Chaos was as fluid as liquid and as winding as a trip through the Immaterium without a Navigator, and just as likely to destroy you! The former Consul of the Third Legion was about to find this out, much to his extreme annoyance and chagrin, when two unknown elements were added into the equation of what should have been a simple capture of a transport and a much more difficult escape from this Warp-forsaken rock.

“We must get that Gunship before any of our cousins, there is to be no stopping. For the Emperor!”

The last part of his statement was made in jest, in mockery of all that their Legion had once been and in how far they had fallen, flesh and flak turning the amaranth-coloured plate of his armour into a shade of red that would have made any Khornate proud to see. So many faces passed before the rune-flashing screen of his visor, the eye sockets flaring outwardly as he slaughtered his way through ranks of unaugmented humans, that he very soon lost count or care – these were unworthy warriors, cattle, to be used and discarded like any other.

By now the Black Legionnaires had started to react, the space around the ship more-or-less cleared of anyone who was not an Astartes, the loyalist forces making short work of those they came across and equally as desperate to get their hands on the ship as anyone else.

“Reinforcements!” Growled Engilram through his helm-vox, his heavy bolter beginning to churn out explosive shells as a dozen or so black-clad Marines rushed from within the belly of the Thunderhawk.

“You idiot! I told you to-”

Although he had no idea why, the former member of the Palatine Blades – one arm of his armour still blazoned in platinum as it was nearly ten-thousand years ago – ground a heel into the dirt and spun upon it, the bolt-pistol coming from hip to hand and ready to fire in the blink of an eye. Where the sight now hovered was directly at the faceplate of a being who had just cooked three legionnaires and appeared to be coming for him next, his possible death in night-blue armour and warded by script that hurt the eye to view.

A son of Magnus on Minoa? Not only that, but one who seemingly came without the usual coterie of armoured husks – the feared and reviled Runic Marines – to protect him. Perhaps he did not need their protection.

“What do you want, sorcerer?” Growled the Child, his voice amplified over the fighting, a smooth baritone that was edged with warning, “this is not your fight.”

Even as he kept his eyes fixed on the sorcerer, he could hear from behind him the distinct sound of a chainaxe, but not wishing to turn he could but wait and see whether its screeching paean of death was from an ally or an enemy.

A Son of Magnus. Even chaos marines distrusted them. Agathon was right however. For a Thousand Son to be on Minoa III, alone, meant he was up to something secretive and involved. Such was no surprise for a servant of the Great Architect.

The cloaked sorcerer came to a purposeful halt neatly in front of the Palatine Blade warrior, his sparking weapon lowered. He spoke slowly, dragging out his words as if talking were a loathsome, mundane task. "No. This is NOT my fight." From that, it was obvious that the Son had no interest in fighting the enemy Imperial forces. That was not even why he was there. However mysterious his reasons, in the pressing moment, he was not forthcoming about them.

What was already known about the sorcerers of Magnus was that they were the only sentient, free-thinking warriors The Red King had left of his once loyal and troubled legion, and there weren't many of them. Of course, what was free-thought when Tzeentch had you by the balls and there was nothing you could do about it? Still, regardless of whether or not they had been exiled, neither Magnus nor Ahriman would disperse them so lightly. They were not to be wasted on a any random battlefront in the Black Crusades unless the engagement was personal, for that was how Magnus operated. The Thousands Sons swore no loyalty to chaos united, nor even to Tzeentch officially in many cases, although they served the designs of the Changer of Ways whether they were willing or not. They were masters of such incredible power, yet not masters of their own fate.

The armored mage went on, indicating the collapsing lines around him. "I have no interest in wasting time on the failures of the Black Legion. My master has need of me and that is all you will know." The Thousand Sons' classic arrogance was shining through. "Now come, further bickering is pointless. Flee with me, for I know that my fate is not to perish upon this world, and we will escape." He gestured toward the perilously waiting ship. "Make haste, Child of the Emp..."

His tone had only begun to twist into a mocking slurr when a chainaxe whirred unreasonably close, breaking Sanakhet off mid-sentence like sonic phallic symbol. For some reason, to the carefully focused mind of the sorcerer, it was the most annoying sound in the world.

Sanakhet turned sharply from Agathon, yet not so much as to leave an opening for the third legion astartes' Charnabal Sabre to strike him easily in an attack of opportunity. The heat of his glare was legible in the silence of his stare at Guroth. Liquid fury rose up in the sorcerer, and the grip on his force sword subconsciously tightened. Only many millennia of strict self control was able to keep the damn from breaking before Sanakhet's hateful wrath at the servant of Khorne. He knew his was not the time for a deathmatch. His intellect was fortunately his greatest attribute and dominated his actions. Yet, how could a sudden conflict be avoided, right here, right now? It couldn't. He damned the dancing threads of destiny.

Sanakhet flexed his knees ever so slightly as he postured, raising up a gauntleted hand and speaking soft words in a low voice that struck anyone who heard them like a slap across the face. The air wiggled around him like heat rising off his armor. Clearly he was preparing for an unwanted confrontation, but gods damn anyone who knew what in all unholy warp he was casting. It was probably wise to step back.

"Khornate swine..." Sanakhet hissed the words, yet all could hear him and feel the narrowing of his eyes behind his helm as he glared in the Skulltaker's direction. Sanakhet recalled the unforgetable laughter he had psychically witnessed as his primarch had been hurled back into the warp on Fenris after receiving a wound from a Khornate berserker's axe. It had been the laughter of the god himself, mocking the folly of Tzeentch's chosen champion. The hatred was real. Vengeance was due.

Guroth would suddenly feel his body becoming more and more difficult to move. His muscles cramped and his blood ceased flowing in various parts of his body until it nearly paralyzed him, forcefully halting his advance. Sanakhet wasn't going to even bother killing him. Let the oncoming Imperium do that. He relished the thought of the red-clad chaos marine being obliterated by bolterfire as the gunship took off in front of him. To the others, there was little point in trying to save the random Skulltaker's life by dragging him along. It would simply be easier to leave him behind, a victim of the enmity between two gods of chaos. Inwardly, Sanakhet grinned, his place on the escape vessel assured, for who would oppose him while he had the upper hand?

Deleted

Ashtor needed to make a decision. The fight for the thunderhawk became more and more complicated as the scions of Angron and Magnus made their appearances. He didn't care about them but they were obstacles to overcome. The Black legionnaires fate was all but sealed. One didn't have to be a seer to fortell that all of them would be dead within minutes. But there were enough of the Slaaneshi marines that they could still control this fight. He could manipulate that. Being born a slave and therefor a half breed in the eyes of his brethren, Asthor always had to play politics and power games to survive. Deciding which squadmate to support as the new squad leader, which acolyte to swear allegience to during a power vacuum in his warhost. All of those decisions were carefully thought out and weighed for which was the best option not only to keep him alive today, but to help elevate him tomorrow. It was the reason he sided with Amon the Defiler and now stood as an aspiring champion of his own right. And it was the reason his minded calculated the greatest chance of survival lay with convincing the numerically superior Emperor's children that he was a trustworthy, or at least worthy temporary ally. As the rumble of Skitarii war engines grew ever louder he had to act quickly.

He saw his chance while the sorcerer seemed engaged with the Khornite. Plasma shot was rare and valuable but he could spare a few shots if it meant putting down a sorcerer.

“Cousins of Fulgrim!”

Sprinting forward from his hidden position. Loosing a glob of super-heated blue gloop through the air aimed directly for the distracted sorcerer's chest.

“Take the ship, I can fly us off this world! Kill the son of Magnus!”

Drawing the pistol from his hip he followed up the plasma bolt with a few bolter rounds aimed at whatever Black legionnaires were still standing, And at the Khornite's back. He could only hope this display would earn him the trust he needed to convince them.

“The metal legions are upon us, we must leave! NOW!!!”

Sanakhet concentrated. The will of the berserker marine was strong, but even still it was no match for the sorcerer's focused power. What was difficult was the finesse. Wrathfully blowing apart enemies was a sloppy use of raw magic, wasteful, and dangerous. Everything a sorcerer wanted to do had to be mentally compelled, power drawn from the ether and then restrained before it could be released effectively. The true measure of power was not in volume, but in degree of control.

Instantly, he could see the magic had found its mark, and the Khornate began to show signs of struggle. The beast roared, and Sanakhet felt the touch of the enemy god within him, resisting. Still, his magic would not fail. Guroth was doomed.

“Cousins of Fulgrim!”

The voice carried across the field further and louder than its material counterpart soundwaves could have reached the Thousand Son's ears. An instant premonition, like a cattle prod to the chest, both paralyzed and unparalyzed him simultaneously with its dire warning: Sanakhet was about to die.

Had Magnus and Lorgar never once been friends? No one here could imagine such a thing, and yet it had been so. A screaming fireball of brilliant, glowing death smashed a direct hit against the astartes where he stood, the light of the explosion blinding all to the instant and certain obliteration of the figure inside of it. The brilliance of the plasma blast in the instant that it landed obscured the details of liquefied armor splashing apart over disintegrating, once-immortal flesh beneath. Laughable was the idea that warp powers could be used to regenerate both hearts. Not now. Not while he was dead.

"Kill the son of Magnus!"

Seconds passing were an eternity in the warp. Time was meaningless in this instant of realization that Sanakhet endured as the blast came to inevitably collide with his physical body. One thing rose to his mind above all others, his purpose. He remembered what he had come here for, what he had to do, and why he could not allow failure. His father, Ahriman, and his scattered, abused and wayward brethren needed him to succeed.

Ever since his surrender to the Lord of Change, Magnus had been under the constant vigil of Tzeentch's infinite unblinking eyes, under an inescapable watch for ten-thousand years. How does one subvert against the master of subversion, the changer of ways, the weaver of threads, and the lord of fate? The interest must fade, and the vigil must waiver. Magnus had to escape Tzeentch's attention, if even for a split second. For many millennia, the Red King holed up in his lair atop the obsidian spire, seemingly quiet while Ahriman rampaged across the galaxy in his exile drawing all the attention, the TRUE champion of his denied patron god. Only now, with the cover of a second assault on Fenris, could any such impossible plan be enacted: one planet to be traded for another between the realms, one secret dark enough to hide the future from the endless eyes of fate itself...

The flash of blue fire engulfed its target, dropping it to the ground. Blue flames flickered as the plasma vaporized the physical matter around it. As quickly as is came, the explosive light dimmed to reveal Sanakhet, still alive and on his hands and knees. A desperate kine shield just large enough to cover him surrounded his belittled physical form. The golden trim on his armor was blackened, and his cloak flickered with small orange flames around its edges, but other than that, he was undamaged. The shield had manifested by will alone in an instant, but at a cost. The fact that he had survived was unbelievable. Anyone else would have died, and now, everyone else was going to.

Planting a foot solidly in front of himself, Sanakhet stood up in defiance of death. Rising like a black knight, the sight of him inspired the thought that perhaps declaring him the enemy might have been a bad idea.

@DrunkasaurusRex@Wraithblade6@Ollumhammersong

The face of Vibianus split into a grin beneath his helmet as the plasma engulfed the Sorcerer, but whatever hope he had had of the Thousand Sons demise was swiftly dashed, his face twisting then into an unsatisfied grimace when Sanakhet not only survived but even worse seemed quite unharmed. Chaos was fickle indeed, and none more fickle than the Changer of Ways, and while inside of himself the child of the Emperor was seething with annoyance on the outside he silently moved through the Black Legionnaires and toward the Thunderhawk once more.

A gold-trimmed warrior of Abaddon stepped forth to halt him, swinging at him with his chainsword in an endeavour to hew the warrior in twain. Vibianus stepped inside the swing, hammering the hand-guard of his own weapon repeatedly against the face of his opponents helmet, delivering a swift blow to the inside of the legionnaires leg and decapitating him contemptuous ease; around him the remaining three warriors of his cadre moved in unison with him, heavy calibre bolts blowing apart a legionnaire that was about to disembowel Guroth from behind, all moving forward to secure 'the prize' before these interlopers got the chance.

Mere meters away and overhead the loyalist forces were closing in, companies of enemy Astartes and regiments of Imperial Guard led by officers and commanders determined to wipe out the forces of the Ruinous Powers before they got a chance to escape. If those same followers now converging upon the gunship knew what was good for them – if they wished to survive at least – then they would need to work together to get the Thunderhawk going and into orbit...after that, who knew?

Vibianus knew this, switching to a general vox channel and hoping that the trio of newcomers would listen to sense, “we need this gunship and we need it now! Fight one another when we have fled this débâcle, but for now I suggest that we finish these lapdogs of the so-called Warmaster and get off of this planet.”

He and his comrades were nearly into the Thunderhawk, fighting their way up the boarding ramp with grim resoluteness, but they could not take it alone; with three other warriors by their side though...

Guroth, Ashtor, Sanakhet, and Vibianus all managed to claim the gunship with a majority of Emperor's Children. Sanakhet glared behind his optics but kept his physical actions respectful to the house. As long as Vibianus had his men around him, the Khornite, sorcerer, and Word Bearer were going to have to keep civil.

Dark as a shadow, Sanakhet took up a lone corner on the command bridge of the thunderhawk. His very presence was unnerving, as if some sinister outworld power had claimed him and was watching. He didn't move, but he never took his eyes off Ashtor. Plasma weapons were so unstable, and the temptation to psychically cause the weapon to self destruct was strong. Sanakhet hesitated however, as the resultant explosion could possibly damage the spacecraft, risking their escape.

Sanakhet stood innocently motionless from across the room. He'd blow the gun up later.

Somebody grabbed the controls and the ship lifted off the ground, a few of the third legion manned the defensive weapons and kept any other enemies off them. Sanakhet wasn't going to waste his talents on this duty, mainly because it would involve turning his back on his dubious allies.

Where would they go to now? The gunship wasn't warp capable, and Tzeentch only knew who had naval superiority in the space above. At best, they'd be able to relocate on-world, probably to wherever the damn purple legion was hiding. Sanakhet for whatever reason couldn't see that far into the immediate future. "This is why we are losing." He mused to himself. Nothing was worse than chaos ununited.

The sorcerer survived. Miraculously so it seemed. That was a complication to be addressed later, but Ashtor ran past him and the others to the boarding ramp of the thunderhawk. "Agreed cousin of Fulgrim! Let us leave." Let the sorcerer burn or seek his revenge later. But he was secure in the short term with his knowledge of flight and the protection of the sons of Fulgrim who needed him alive to make the Thunderhawk do just that. Brushing through the ranks of the pink warriors in his rush to reach the cockpit of the craft.

He dared not let lose more plasma towards the internal confines of the transport less he irreparably damage something important. For that reason he could not risk more bolter rounds to be fired either. So the first Black Legionnaire he could reach found the jagged bayonet of a stolen and corrupted plasma gun jammed towards his chest. "Get me to the cockpit!" he roared as he descended into a duel with the black Legionnaire. A duel he did not plan to fight fairly. Following his momentum of the baynot charge and crashing shoulderlong into the dark warrior. They both slammed into the inner hull of the Thunderhawk with a reverberating thud, Ashtor felt a combat blade bite into the soft armour of his side and focused that lance of pain and the rage it brought forth to fuel his limbs. Grabbing the hand that held the blade his other smashed the body of the plasma gun into his opponents head. Probably doing the finicky coils and complex internals of the weapon no favours. But he continued to pin the warrior against the hull, dropping the plasma gun and scrambling for his own combat knife. It was hard to fumble for a blade while one was imbedded in your own body. Even for an astartes every twist and turn sent waves of pain through him.

Despite the difficulty with wrestling a rival chaos marine one handed Ashtor managed to slip his own blade into the soft armour of his foe. Now it was little more than a free for all as he lost the grip of the legionnaire's knife and they were both locking arms and rolling against the thunderhawk. This exchange went on for what felt like an intollerable amount of time before Ashtor ended it by bashing his helmet into his opponents and driving his blade upward into the neck and brain. The blood that oozed out of the legionnaire was as black as his armour and just as tainted. He could hear it dissolving the combat blade like an acid. He left it lodged in black armoured corpse and ripped the blade stuck in his side out to keep for himself.

'Let the Emperor's children finish the rest' he thought to himself, limping down the thunderhawk to the cockpit. His plasma gun recovered and dangling from his left hand grip while his right held his newest possession, a combat knife bathed in his own unnaturally dark lifeblood. His superhuman immune and recovery systems couldn't fix the damage done to him so quickly.

There was one more legionnaire in the cockpit. Obviously waiting for the fighting to be over so he could lift-off with his brothers and escape this failed invasion. He died far quicker than his brother in the back. Ashtor left him to rot on the floor and took his place in the pilots seat. Sucking his sharpened teeth because of the pain flaring in his side. He didn't really care who was or was not onboard at this point. The warchant of the mechanicus legions was too loud to ignore any longer. Their guns were too close for comfort. "I'm closing the ramp!" It wasn't so much a warning that gave the stragglers notice to rush inside the safety of the adamantium hull as it was a statement that said stragglers were now on their own and likely faced their last few minutes of life.

True to his word the powerful ramp sealed whatever passengers it had inside. It was time to get the fuck off this world.

The gunship lifted off and the sounds of war began to fade. Several nearby explosions occurred as the enemy took a few last shots at the fleeing vessel. Fortunately, Sanakhet foresaw that none would do any significant damage, and they were escaping with the craft intact.

Now he found himself enclosed with a number of Third Legion, a berzerker, and a wounded Word Bearer. Would he survive THEM would be the next question, and his foresight cut out on that one. Predicting other beings behavior was a bit more complicated than predicting ammunition trajectories, and summoning that kine shield to save his life from a plasma blast had taxed him. Nonetheless, Sanakhet would do everything within his power to survive, even if that meant lying, cheating, stealing, treachery, or submission, for he had gained what he had come to Minoa III for. He had uncovered the ancient Eldar writings and now held one of the keys to an elaborate scheme so deep, not even the god of deceit would see it coming. Sanakhet was one small component in an inside conspiracy the likes of which hadn't been tried since the Blades of Magnus.

But even he didn't know the full depth of it. He couldn't. No one single mind could have contained the entire plan, for it would be too easy for Tzeentch to uncover it that way. No. The mechanisms were spread out in secret, shattered into a million insignificant pieces, all programmed to... destined to... come together at the pinnacle moment, born by the minds that held them.

Treachery had always lurked in Sanakhet's heart, for it was true human nature.

As the realization of safety came over them, each of the traitor marines began to turn their heads toward each other. There were only split seconds left before they all turned on each other, the Emperor's Children being the greatest in number. The sorcerer had to prove his usefulness immediately.

"One of our engines is going to ignite itself before we reach our destination." He broke the tension with a dire announcement. "Unless... One of us must go now to seal a coolant leak, starboard side."

Was the daft exile lying? He could totally be lying.

Sanakhet's helm served his stoic facade as he then turned his head slightly toward Ashtor. "I am capable of healing that wound..." His tone almost belied his grin.