[IC] The Grim Crusade [Warhammer 30,000 RP]

[ClocktowerEchos]

No sooner had Talvyrn's attempt at contact his brother was there a loud, crackling static that made him wince as it slammed into his ears.

"Ey boss! Lookie lookie! I got dis to werk! Itsa workin' boos- GERRKK!" an excited gretchen screeched into the Primarch's ears before being presumably choked with presumably an ork who took his place.

"'O roight 'umie," the new Ork spoke in a deep, brutal gurgle but with an added almost calm tone, sounding more like a commander who had just suffered a stupid defeat rather than an enraged ork that Talvyrn expected, "So ye just krumpp'd un me best nobz. Aggrox wuz un o' me best mates, weeve non 'each otha since we were just lil' boyz."

"A noted observation," the Primarch growled with a grin right back at the foul greenskin, "Tell his mother that I doth sendeth thy regards. Fear naught, I gave him a jolly good fight, you damnable monster."

"Dats gud... dats gud..." the ork again remained strangely calm, it reminded Talvyrn of a certain baron whose eluded capture and defeat many times over back on Bravadis, "Atleast ye 'umie made me mate 'appy. But ye see... I lioke me boyz and Gutta Gorehakka don't lioke it when a puny 'umie krumpz un 'is best matez."

"So Gutta Gorehakka is your abominable name." Talvyrn whipped out a quick headshot on a sneaky ork boy who tried to sideline him, "I'm afraid you'll have to become acquainted with such loss for many more of your fowl friends will be joining your "mate" Gorehakka." Despite everything, Talvryn actually enjoyed pretending to entertain this ork in something of a conversation, this "Gorehakka" fellow was quite the depature from the rest of his race. If his ork kowledge was correct, the Primarch guessed that he was from the Death Skulls clan or "Deff Skullz" as they'd call it. Probably some form of powerful nob or the likes too, not large enough to command the waagghh but enough to command a respectable mob of orks.

The ork scuffed and laughed like a pig, "De only un's o gonna get killed ooday itz ou 'umie! 'N all yer boys! Hit dat big ol' shinny button boyz! We gonna into a propa waagghhh wid des gitz! Show 'em da powa o' da "Stormnob"!"

The message was followed by a deafening WAAGGHHH right into Talvyrn's ears as the name "Stormnob" made several unfavorable connections and connotations in his mind. He wondered if there was some psychic energy in the ork's voice, he swore he could smell the horrible breath of the ork through the vox caster. Thankful that the gross, magical oder quickly dissipated in the heated smells of blood, death and war, the Wardens Aegis celebrating their victory over the greenskin's position as they tossed the final survivors to their deaths from their own crude fortifications.

The primarch opened his mouth and was about to raise his weapons to join his mean in their victory cheer, but as soon as his jaw dropped, a guttural roar came from behind the clouds. The guttural roar which only a mob of Orks could produce while going into battle, screaming their accursed WAAGGGHHH sound as they went. Hulking masses of ugly, barbaric metal pierced the skies as the blast of a thousand rokkits broke free from the ork ships, stormboys poured out of every orifice on the ship (with some going so far as to make their own) as dove towards the Wardesn, yelling and hollering as they went.

"SEE DIS YE 'UMIE GITZ?! DIS IS DA TRU POWA O' STORMNOB GOREHAKKA! IMA UZE ALL YER SKULLZ AS DEKORASHUN FO ME KILLA RUSHA!", Talvyrn tilted his head in a slight bit of shock as he watched the fiery, smoky trails descend from the heavens towards his position.

"A Stormnob with many a storm boys..." the Primarch mused to himself as he assessed the situation, "A curious connection but I see where the notion stems forth from-"

“Always showing up right as things start to get going don’t you Tally?", the voice of the Primarch Erron of the Wild Blades found its way into Talvyrn's mind, " Maximus has just arrived, we are mopping things up here quickly. I’d suggest finding out if the Imperial Army is in need of support,”

"Tis not my fault that I never find myself foolishly buried into the enemy's heart and overestimate thyself dearest brother." Talvyrn jokingly quipped to himself, leaving a wider grin as he looked into the sky. The stormboys seemed to be dead set on their course, probably killing themselves on impact if someone didn't help them. Thankfully however, Talvyrn was feeling ever so generous enough to give them such "help".

"ASTARTES!" the voice of the High Lord of Bravadis boomed and echoed across the ranks of his men, "Let us sally forth and meet the enemies unto the sky! We shall rain their blood upon these barren lands and watch the skies thank us for freeing them from the foul taint of greenskin!"

A cheer erupted from the Wardens as the survivors rushed to find jetpacks but it seemed that the Second House was more than prepared for such a ariel battle. Baron Greyret found himself leading the charge as per usual as he and many members of his own House prepared to go air born, "Ya don't need to tell meh twioce sah!", the Rising Baron shouted as he leaped into the sky, axe and pistol drawn and flew straight towards the mass of flying orks with more Astartes behind him.

The Primarch himself went to seek out a jetpack of his own, leaving his honor guard behind to take care of the business. Instructing them of their orders as he donned the twin jet engines need to shoot someone like him into the air, he told them to order anyone who didn't go up to go seek out the Imperial Army and assist them, contacting his brother as needed, "Thou need not fear for thy, I am more than capable of weathering a drizzle such as this."

Stepping forth as the great turbines begun to spin, the flaps and gears spurred to life as Talvyrn kneeled close to the ground and prepared to launch. Time slowed as he clenched his fist and felt the vibration of the heavy machinery against his back, his eyes drifting ever skyward as he exploded forward. In a sudden burst, he shot through the air like a reverse shooting star, crashing straight through an ork, ripping him in half on his way up.

Rolling and spinning in midair, the Primarch gracefully danced to the tune of war, shooting off rounds as he swiped at passing orks. The wave of shooting space marines met head on with the falling mass of stormboys, shouts and sounds zipped past as the wind rushed past both sides, gravity taking those whose propulsion failed them to their dooms. The bizarre vertical battle lines soon became throughly entangled with each other as only blurs of blue and green visible, but the lack of a ground did not dampen the savagery of the fight, if anything it worsened it.

A pair of stormboys grabbed a marine with a third ork coming down and plunging his blade into the doomed Warden, dragging the crude blade through the man's body before the trio of ork preformed a bloody maneuver as they ripped the marine's limbs from his torso, fating him to a bloody and dreadful death fall. The Wardens responded in kind however as they maimed orks, pulling their rokkit packs off their backs and hurling them back towards other orks. Another pair use their brute strength and the power of physics to pull on stormboy in two, the ork screaming as his flesh and muscle was stretched past breaking point and his organs dangled under him like a grotesque banner of gore. Dropping the torn carcass, it was picked up by another ork who used the body of his compatriot as a weapon and wrapped the tough intestines around a passing space marine, choking him as the grabbed on to his armor and jammed the bloody half-body into the jet engine, resulting in a thunderous blast as the Warden gave one last screech of terror as he found his body blown to pieces.

Talvyrn continued to journey up, the air now growing thick with a bloody rain that obscured his vision. Cutting and blasting his way through the thinning horde of flying (or stylishly falling) orks, he could spot the lumbering figure of what he assumed was this "Stormnob Gorehakka".

"'OOKIE 'HERE, DAT 'UMIE FLOUNDA 'IS WAY 'ERE! OPEN UP ME BOYS!" the Stormnob gave a throaty, grim chuckle as he stomped his way back out of sight and another batch of stormboys crawled out of the ship's dark reaches and dropped into the sky. A pair bull rushed Talvyrn as he tried to keep his eyes focused on a few more places than he should have and was imediately grasped by them and halt in midair, seeing a third barreling towards him. Realizing what they were trying to do, the Primarch used what limited mobility his mechandrites had to pull off the ork to his right, slamming him into his buddy who was trying for a killing, eviscerating blow.

Now distracted, Talvyrn shot a hook straight into the side of the other stormboy's face and flew up to uppercut the one he just threw. Grabbing its ugly green face, he grasped into ever crevice and orifice his armored fingers could find, his index and ringer fingers popping the ork's eyes into a gooey paste as the thumb dug its way through the roof of the ork's mouth and straight into his skull. Listening to the howls of pain from his victim, the Prmarch wasted no time working on the one who tried to land the death blow on him.

With the backhand of his heavy metal gauntlet, he shattered the Ork's jaw as he tried to shout WAGGHHH or something like that before it was turned into a very aggressive bubbling. Its misforunate only continued as the Primarch pulled out his tounge with a meaty snap that changed the aggressive bubbling into a bloody one as the stormboy tried to fly away. Shooting out his hand, Talvyrn grabbed the fleeing ork and smashed his head against the rokkit of his ally's before throwing both of them to the side, Talvyrn's once shinning armor now layered with blood and oil and filth.

Turning to the last one, Talvyrn dealt with it simply. Grabbing the rokkit pack on its back, a few quick slices from Ironpride made the ork fall to the ground in bits and pieces, its rokkit now being used by Talvyrn propelling its new owner towards the Killa Rusha. Flying high above it, the Primarch tapped into his inhuman strength and threw it towards the ship as he jumped down towards the rough metal deck, turning several poor grots into a chunky red mist as the rokkit drunkly found its way towards the ship, its explosion blowing away some more unfortunate crewmembers and hearlding the arrival of the "Stormnob".

"Well, well, well, Iu'll haff da zay, I'om inpress'd wid ye, 'umie." Stormnob Gorehakka tramped out of the interior of the ship, taking no mercy as he stepped on the back of a struggling ork boy with his heavy spiked foot. He was large, a solid foot taller than of any other ork in Talvyrn's vision encased in red heavy armor with spikes and checker patterns that any respectable ork of Gorehakka's standing would have. Armed with a stolen chainblade in one hand and an unholy amount of shootas bound together in his other, the ork looked like a very well-to-do ork in his own society if Talvyrn's reading proved anything (or the dataslates weren't lying).

"Iu'll zay dat I neva thawt dat ye'd get up 'ere." Gorehakka spat on to the ground, the tattered banner of the Deff Skullz flying on his back, "Looks lioke ye 'umies arr toffa den I expect'd o' ya."

"I'm only mankind's finest and son of the Emperor after all." Talvyrn let some narcissism through as he faced down the Ork with a grin, "You shan't need to worry on the subject of your position or talents or skills. Or lack thereof."

"Kocky 'un arna ya?" the nob chuckled as he grunted and let his boyz flood the deck of the ship, making some rude remark as he watched the Primarch cut down swaths of orks and grots with every swept and every swing before he himself dove into the fight.

Blade met chainblade as the two struggled for supremacy over the other, sometimes trying to gain better footing, sometimes trying to get their guns to just the right spot for a shot. The sturdy of armor of Talvyrn prevented the ork from landing any serious blows while Gorehakka's tought hide and shear stubbornness meant that the primarch's attacks had about the same effect. The two engaged in a dance of death to a tune of battle with a flurry of blades that neither side let up as they stepped over the dead greenskins, boots making a sickening squleech as they waded through flesh and organs and heavy crunches as bones and skulls were trampled upon. It was like the battle of titans. Talvyrn quickly realized that this ork nob was no mere nob, something about Gorehakka felt.. different. The primarch had fought several other nobz before, even those in so called "mega armor" but none provided such a test that the Stormnob had.

"Brother, doth thou require assistance from I, Baron Donovan of the Wardens Aegis Fourth House?" the sound of a gunship filled the ears of Talvyrn as he pushed the ork off of him, it would seem that his brother Donovan was once more trying to impress him.

"Shoot the ship!" Talvyrn bellowed before rolling out of the way of another strike from the ork as Donovan began to unload rounds and rounds of munitions into the ork ship. Great holes appeared as pipes burst into flames and engines exploded, grots and orks alike were consumed by the flame as they fell out of holes old and new like meteorites. Then something exploded along the length of the ship, causing the entire craft to shake and destabilize. Talvyrn thought that maybe Donovan had hit an ammunition storage or an explosive squig pen but whatever it was, it sure got Gorehakka upset.

"MAI SHIP!" the ork bellowed as he angrily swung at Talvyrn who ducked quickly and swung right back, "YER GUNNA PAY FO DIS YE ZOGGIN' GIT!"

Talyvrn probably would have tried for a witty remark right about now but he was too busy trying to get a stable footing as the ship rocked and swayed as its nose pointed downwards at an increasingly dangerous angle every second. Before long, both combatants had been forced to the ground and had to hold on to something or risk being flung into the air.

"Borther!" Donovan yelled as Talvyrn hung on to a pipe with an outstretched hand and shaky footing on an increasingly vertical barricade, "Get on to my craft!"

Under normal circumstances, the primarch would whole heartly jump, but unfortunately the angry ork who shared the ship with him had other ideas, mostly that of wanting to punch Talvyrn's face in multiple times over. The fight was still on and any attempt to disenage would probably lead to a very, very painful landing, thus the two continued their ariel brawl, each only having one hand on something to hold on to.

Thrusting his sword like a spear, the primarch tried to pierce the green flesh of his opponent, only to be met by a round to the chest as Gorehakka managed to grab a falling shoota. Knocking it out of his hand, Talvyrn tried a bit of a leaping attack only for him to find that gravity had other ideas and left him dangling by his single secure arm. Not one to wait on others, Gorehakka eagerly followed and jumped on to Talvyrn's back, ripping off one of his mechandrites and smacking the Primarch with it, cursing loudly with each strike.

Using one of his remaining mechanical limbs, Talvyrn aimed the claw at the ork's face but ended up burrowing the bit of machinery into his eye causing the ork to howl in pain but not let go until a fierce stab to the side of the gut finally forced the ork off his back. Gorehakka was fully enraged at this point though, pushing through the pain for just long enough to grab on to one of Talvyrn's legs. Then in a sudden stroke of brilliance, the primarch started up his jetpack, this time leaving a few safety features off, namely the one that prevented sudden back blasts of flame. Giving the ork less than a second to realize what was going to happen (and Gorehakka realized what was about to happen), Talvyrn grinned and watched as his jetpack burned the ork with a great gout of fire before he cut off his arm with Ironpride.

As the ork bellowed as he flew back through his ship, Talvyrn flew away from the ship with the help of his jetpack, combating the Gs he was pulling as he tried to do a midair u-turn. The ship plummeted into a great ball of fire as it hit the barren surface, shooting metal and charred ork into the air. The primarch was almost home free until he realized that his jetpack was still damaged from the stormboy head it "ate" prior and was pouring out a putrid black smog. Talvyrn barely had enough time to hastily unfasten himself from the ticking time bomb on his back, shooting to the ground as it wizzed off into the air and exploded into a rain of metal, the Primarch creating a solid dent in the earth where he landed.

"Sir! Are you okay? Where's the Apothecary?!" one of the Wardens Aegis bolted over to the body of his Primarch with others soon following.

"Fear naught s-soldier for I am f-fine..." Talvyrn groaned a little as he got up, seems like even his reinforced bones and body took quite a beating in that fight.

"That was quite uncharacteristic of you sir." Baron Lothric approached Talvyrn as he sat up and was being administered medical attention, his honor guard soon coming to the scene, "I didn't think that thou would ever be so bold as to shoot straight up into the heavens nor would thou so gruesomely maim your foes."

"Art thou feeling pity and remorse for the greenskins?" Talvyrn chuckled.

"Hardly, just pointing out an observation sir." Lothric grinned as well as he helped the Primarch up.

---

With the invasion and liberation of Ullanor at its waning hours, Talvryn and the Wardens Aegis shuffled their way towards the tower which the Emperor had called all of them for, marching in disorganized and rough lines as the legions mixed with their colors dulled and damaged by battle scars, dirt and blood. Talvyrn himself was walking with a slight limp and a good deal of crimson on him even after he dumped a few canisters of water onto himself to try and clean it.

Battle songs and victory cries cropped up here and there amongst the mob of astartes with their primarchs intermixed amongst them. Talvyrn was told that there was to be a celebration over their victory with as much pomp and circumstance that could be afforded at this time, but it was the mention of a council that worried him. What could possibly require the gathering of the strongest and smartest that the human race could offer in a single room for counseling over?

[agentmanatee]

The God and the King

Craftworld Ibrayesil was ablaze. The Bloody Host showed no quarter to the foul and pernicious Eldar as they intended to avenge their father for the cruelty he suffered at their hands. Mon-Kal ensured his men were specialized in their destruction, and each recruit was pruned from the beginning to place the Eldar upon a special pedastal of hate. Ibrayesil had never seen violence in this scale since possibly before the fall, for they knew not the rage of the Bloody Host. But, far from defenseless were they. As Mon-Kal and his sons burned their way throught the craftworld its many Exarchs met together, circled around a single Aspect Warrior. The warrior was nude save for a loin cloth and th many runic symbols the Exarchs painted upon his smooth and unblemished skin in this most solemn of ceremonies.

The Exarchs finally completed their runes, and all took a step back from this Young King. With but a single deep breath, the Warrior's chest rising and falling with a shuddering exhale that he made his way to the great pair of obsidian black doors that dominated the room with their visage. Upon them were carved the exploits of one of the Eldar Gods, they were carved tales of death and destruction, war and hate and rage and slaughter. The gods face was twisted in a rictus scowl in all depictions, and his blade was always soaked in blood. The King stood before this terrible visage, and stared at the heavily detailed doors. Slowly, seemingly opened by nothing at all, the great doors parted ever so slightly before him... enough to admit a single Eldar. The prince stepped through without a moments hesitation, the blood of his ancestors urging him forth. Behind him the doors slammed shut, and for a moment all was dark... until he was drawn to the faint red glow at the back of the great room.

Bare feet padded at the cool floor in a stiff walk as he approached the glow, and laid eyes for the first and last time in his life, upon his fate. The figure from whence the glow emanated was a great iron statue, stood slouching on a massive Iron throne. In truth none of it was Iron, for the Eldar had far greater material... but this was all the Young King could think of to compare it to. One hand gripped the arm of the throne, even in the figures slouched posture the hand had crumpled the arm beneath titanic fingers. In its other, a great blade hung loosely gripped... its tipp at the center of a great pool of dried blood. The smothered red glow ambled its way throught the figures grooves and corners, until finally it found the menacing eyes. All at once its face lit up, the rictus snarl on the doors now seen again, but now it watched the Young king.

All the Exarchs heard was a single, terrified screech... and they knew the Bloody Handed one, Shaela Mensha Khaine, walked amongst them once more.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

The Bloody host fought hard, and the Eldar fought all the harder to defend their home. Street by street, garden by garden the host worked through the craftworld. In a great botanical guarden Wraithknights tangled with the Exquesor, beautiful curving blades meat great metal and chained fists in showers of sparks as the dead tangled with the living. Banshees and striking scorpions blindsided ill-prepared ttactical marines, who all the same shouted their voices hoarse and emptied the clips of their bolters into their foes even as armour was wrent and torn, lifeblood spilling to the ground as cermite sheathed behemoths crashed down to meet the earth they would die upon. Proud Predator tanks shattered the beautifully twisting towers filled with Eldar guardians into dust with powerful canon and laser, while slender Eldar Grav-Tanks returned fire, cutting apart the wide metal frames and boiling their crews within. But, never was a fury more true than at the epicentre of this battle, for it was their that strode Mon-Kal, King of Thorns.

His sceptre broke the body of yet another Warrior, the Banshee flew across the field through the air, her head turned to red mist at the Impact of the Kings sceptre. Mon-Kal roared a challenge to the Eldar, his inbuilt plasma gun screeching to the heavens as bolts of green energy melted through armour, flesh and bone to destroy all Eldar before him. He felt no joy, sinply hate. He shouted no words, no oaths escaped his lips even as his Exquesor body guard screamed themselves hoarse around him, able to be heard even above the cacophany of war as their Father maintained his unnerving silence. It seemed as if the outcome of the battle was in no doubt, for the Eldar simply could not hold against the encroaching Host. It seemed all was lost, and Mon-Kal would soon claim the Ships corpse as trophy.

The bloodcurdling roar echoed down the streets. Its volume able to rattle bones and bring down buildings. Manny a lesser marine grasped at his helmet, wishing to turn of the sound that seemed to penetrate into their very minds, but Mon-Kal did no such thing... for now a challenger approached. The molten visage of a Dead God made its way through the carnage. The Eldar surged with him, this relic of times long past, the metallic muscles of their Avatar Writhing and undulating as he walked, body already drenched in blood. Sharp teeth were twisted into a snarl, its eyes set on new worthy prey. Kaela Mesha Khaine was a God amongst mortals, and none but one could measure to his standard. A lone figure, crown wreathed in black blood and sprouting the Antlers of one Royal enough to meet him. The Bloody Handed one roared his challenge once more, the Eldar joining in his call for war, before he waded into the melee seeking once more suitable carnage.

A literal war god waded through the Bloody Host marines the way a tidal wave rushed through a city... drowning all in its path. His blade worked like art through the air, blood flying off it as he tore armoured marines apart, they were unable to even dent his godly body with their mortal tools. Hands, blades and guns struck furiously against the spectre of death before their wielders were reduced to two halves of molten slag. Set aflame and besieged by this visage the Host broke in its path even as the Exquesor shouted threats and orders, their rage building. All at once the Thorned Kings retinue charged their new foe, their strength pitted against his. Powerful mortal fists moved to batter his hide while mortal fire poured from the maws of combi bolters, but it was no use. The Avatar screeched once more, now registering pain as knats bit at him, and he moved to bat them aside. The sergeant stood longest, his lightning claws dueled with the Bloody Blade for some moments, before he was grasped in a vice by the hand of the Avatar, who lifted him and slowly crushed his body. Terminator armor buckled and popped as the Veteran Sergeant never lost his compusure, attempting to dig gouges in fingers and free himself. It was no use as with one last squeeze a great crack was heard, and the terminator went limp as the Avatar tossed his body aside like a doll... his prey was all that stood before him now.

It was only slightly bigger than its guards, and its armour less bulky. In one hand it held a great black Sceptre, and in the other was held nothing but long claws extended from it, both tools were slick with blood. Khaine bellowed once more, and charged into honourable melee again, its great blade swing down, the intent to cleave in twain the Primarch. The sound of blade ringing against Sceptre cracked the air as Mon-Kal raised his badge of office to stop the advance of his new enemies blade. For no few moments the two stood like this, both their arms trembled with strength and exertion as they sought to overcome the strength of the other, two Kings stared hate into eachothers eyes in the sweet embrace of combat. It was Mon-Kal who broke the tie. Twisting his body he let the Bloody Handed God win the exchange, but his blade cut a great gouge in the earth raather than his opponent. As the God sought to recover the claw ripped across his midriff and it screamed, fire blood stained the Kings Claw as he drew back and the duel began in earnhest. Around these two war raged as the Eldar surged forth to push the stunned invaders from their home alongside thier God, and the Host surged back to re-take ground lost during the Inexorable advance of the Bloody Handed One.

If either true combatant knew what was happening they did not show it. They danced together, blade and sceptre, claw and fist, all met in glorious combat as they slashed and sawed at one another. The Avatar cleaved a great gouge into the Knigs pauldron who grimaced before bringing his sceptre to crack against the Gods waist causing it to bellow in anger and pain. They raged on through the streets, their melee tearing great holes in their own lines as soldiers on both sides scattered before them to avoid the vicious combat. God and King struck ringing blow after ringing blow but neither seemed to tire even as armour cracked, bent, splintered and warped; or iron flesh writhed, bled, broke and shattered. Dark lifeblood flowed like rivers form the King and from the God spewed great gouts of fiery ichor. It seemd as if they were evenly matched.

The King brought his great Sceptre hammering down on the Knee of Khaila Mensha Khaine and a great crack echoed over the sounds of battle as a God was struck lame. The Bloody Handed one screeched as its leg buckled, but sought opportunity. As Mon-Kal raised his claw to cleave the Gods head from his shoulders the God swung his blade in a great upwars arc and the King screamed in pain as he was thrown back and cast down before a God of Combat. He fell upon his back, a great scar wrent deep within his armour, and the ragged line led to his arm but a few four inches from his shoulder, where a ragged stump bled and armour sparked where it had been torn. Khaine howled in victory as his opponent lay prone before him, and souught to impale his opponent through the chest... but was not so lucky. Sceptre dropped the King grasped the burning blade and Screamed to the heavens as his fist warped and burned against it... but still he held it. he forced himself to one knee, then to his feet as he struggled against the strength of a god and the feeling of the blade destroying his flesh... but he would not be broken. With a cry he ripped the blade away from its owner, the great sword embedding itself feet away in the ground. Khaine screeched and charged, the two grappling and tumbling in the middle as fists flared and teeth flashed. It came to be again that the God had the upper hand, the King held in both his hands as he slowly crushed him, a cruel grin splitting his features. The king coughed blood and bile as his armour slowly buckled and cracked further... but it was not done. A flash of movement, the pround antlers atop his head defying sight with speed and force, as they found their place in the eyes of a God.

Kaela Mensha Khaine screamed and dropped Mon-Kal, grasping at his eyes as firey blood spouted from them. Mon-Kal panted, and cast about for a weapon, but found only the blade of his enemy... it would do. He grasped its hilt, whincing at the pain as he hefted a blade to heavy seemingly even for him.... and yet in his it burned bright, his rage forcing it to his will. With a single wide arc he swung it, and the sound of metal flesh yielding split the air, before the royal head of a God clattered to the ground. The body sat on its knees, its hands similarly cut at the wrists as he had been holding them up. head and hands sat on the ground as the molten glow drained rapidly from its broken body, a truly dead god. In silence the King panted, leaning heavily against the massive and now cold blade. The Eldar lost then.

In droves they fled from their own home, a full retreat. The Marines of the Host did not pursue them, instead forming up around their Father in the case of a counter attack but none came. A father and his sons withdrew to their staging grounds, his wounds in need of attention...

It was then the message came as Mon-Kal drifted in and out of conciousness, the pain almost to much to bear... and in a moment of insensate rage he answere to the veil, his mind screaming loudly back at the messenger, intent on being heard, "And so Father summons, and so I will come. A King has slain a God here, for he answers only to the Empror", before he dropped into the Dark.

[BCTheEntity]

Two solar weeks came and went. Primarch and Armatus alike arrived on Ullanor, some earlier than others, but the deadline was reached nonetheless. Of course, not every child of the Emperor could make it to the Council, for many were engaged in expansion efforts at the far reaches of the galaxy, whilst others were held by battles to contain threats closer to home. This mattered not to the Emperor of Mankind; for his purposes, the numbers were sufficient.

The Primarchs themselves were directed by a number of servitors, through the fields of Ullanor which were already under the hand of the Adeptus Mechanicus, terraforming efforts moving onward in full force, and then again upward through the tower once held by Urlakk Urg, now much-transformed to be far better suited for the Imperium's purposes, up to and including provisions for all those who arrived. Oddly enough, the Zodiac Guards were apparently engaged with administrative matters to help prepare for the coming Council, and so were only glimpsed somewhat infrequently by their cousins.

Soon enough, however, the Council itself came about, and all members who could presented themselves as swiftly as time allowed. Though thirty two seats were set around an oval table, not all were filled; indeed, even amongst the Imperio Armatus, the Guard called Capricorn was missing, some might have suggested for the better. Nonetheless, the human psyker known as Malcador the Sigillite called the meeting to order when the time came, then took a place somewhat away from the table as the room filled with glorious golden light, and the Emperor of Mankind made himself known to his children.

The Emperor was anything to any number of people. Indeed, it was rarely the case that he did not present himself as anything less than exactly what the viewer wanted to see, the very best aspects of humanity personified in his form, and so it was for his words as well as his physical form. Though each person in the room heard him speak different words, all were told the same basic message. Thus did the Emperor decree:

"In coming years, it will transpire that I will not be able to continue to lead the forces of Humanity to reclaim the galaxy, as once the Triumph of Ullanor is concluded, I shall be returning to Holy Terra to commence and oversee the creation of a secret project, the nature of which is such that I cannot inform you of its purpose until it achieves its ultimate state. Therefore, this Council has been called to decide which of my children will lead the Imperium's armies as Warmaster in my stead. Members of the Imperio Armatus, you have been brought in to help oversee this Council; however, though you are all capable of fulfilling the role in question, the nature of the position of Warmaster is beyond your scope. You are my shield, not my sword, and your skills will be infinitely more useful in vocations beyond that of simple leadership.

"As for my Primarchs, you have been gathered here to decide amongst yourselves, out of those who have presented themselves today in this room, which of your number will be most worthy of the role. Simply choosing a Warmaster myself, whilst a more rapid choice, would likely breed disenamourment and consequent dissent amongst those who were looked over; thus, I am of the mind that to minimise this issue, you all shall choose your own leadership below me, and so be contented that they are the best-suited candidate by the ruling of their peers. If any person in this room sees fit to raise fault with these conditions, speak now, or else hold your peace forevermore."

For a brief moment, silence reigned; then, with well-hidden trepidation, one of the Imperio Armatus spoke, clad in violet armour complete with adamantine mantle, a stutter in his voice that was the product of a somewhat unfortunate childhood rather than present fear, and an artificially-cloaked contra-psychic aura proving itself impotent to those related to the man himself, yet more than sufficient to invoke mild upset in the humans in the room, particularly the lone human psyker set away from the living demigods. "As you say, Father, your goal in holding this council is to minimise issues w-with dissent amongst your children. And yet-"

"Aquarius, don't," Pisces warned.

"...and yet, you exclude a full third of your lineage from the running. Some might ev-ven argue that, being born of your loins rather than your scientific actions, those of the Armatus are somew-what more qualified to hold the position of W-Warmaster than the Primarchs."

The Emperor gazed toward his child, eyes obsidian in colour and demeanour alike, and spoke directly into the Guard's mind heedless of his relative lack of soul.

+And if I were to allow the Armatus to vie for the position of Warmaster, do you believe you would succeed in acquiring the role, knowing full well that even amongst the Zodiac Guard alone there are candidates better suited than yourself?+

"Uh... w-well... I mean... that is to say..."

Though the Emperor used no psychic power on his son to achieve the effect, the dark-haired man sputtered to a halt as though his thoughts moved through a syrup of energy. The Emperor continued his speech in the physical plane:

"One might also argue that, being born solely of my own genes, rather than a combination of my genetics and those of a human woman, the Primarchs are far more qualified to hold the position of Warmaster. As it happens, blood is irrelevant compared to skillset: I am sure most of your compatriots would agree that the Imperio Armatus are better suited to guarding their father, or absconding with a target, or assassinating a target, than any Primarch could be."

Many of the Imperio Armatus agreed with this sentiment almost immediately. The only one who did not, or at least the only one who did not hold their tongue on the point, was Scorpio; though her first contribution to her argument against was "Weeeeeeeell...", a hint of the same stare that had been directed toward Aquarius led her to change her mind in short order: "Yes, of course, absolutely." Promptly, the Emperor turned back to Aquarius, now hanging his head somewhat after his humbling.

"The point rests. Do not question me on it again, Aquarius."

"...as you say, Father."

Satisfied, the Emperor turned his attention back to the Primarchs.

"Then, if there are no other complaints, you Primarchs may begin your deliberations as soon as you are ready to speak. This Council of Ullanor has officially begun."