Turning his bolter around for the umpteenth time in his gauntleted hands, [url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/79959-whispers-in-the-dark-wh40k-chaos-space-marine-rp/char#post-2603517]Sorthraal[/url] busied himself with frequent weapons checks before the signal came.

[b]"This is madness,"[/b] he intoned, for also the umpteenth time. [b]"He wants us to kill our brothers."[/b]

[b]"Because they do not believe, Sorthraal,"[/b] replied Malgadon, standing across the aftcastle armorium with a self-satisfied smirk.

[b]"I couldn't care less,"[/b] Sorthraal said, as he pulled the handle and chambered a bolt round, [b]"about their faith to the ruinous powers. I do care, however, that we will be committing fratricide."[/b] The traitor marine stood up from his throne, surrounded by munitions crates at his boots. [b]"Malgadon, we fought with some of those warriors in the Great Heresy. You must understand my reluctance to murder them."[/b]

[b]"I don't like it either,"[/b] Malgadon said, as he stepped forward. The [i]Killer's Heaven[/i], in compliance with Eighth Legion tradition, was pitch-black in a complete lack of illumination, and only dimly lit in the decks reserved for the mortal crew. Yet even through this palpable darkness, neither astartes had any trouble seeing each other, owing to their gene-enhanced nature. [b]"But we have no choice in the matter. I will not allow myself to go mad over these whispers."[/b]

Malgadon's helm was painted to imitate a skull. The ruby armourcrys of its lenses were the empty eye sockets while the vox-grille was the rictus snarl. Two long horns from a great beast of some sort curved into the air from its temples just shy of making scratches on the ceiling. Skulls were fastened by bronze chains across his cuirass and left pauldron, while two Mark VII helms -- one white, the other blue -- were impaled on the spikes that jutted out from his back-mounted power pack. Deed-scrolls and other panegyrics draped and hung from his deep blue ceramite, aggrandizing its wearer even further.

In contrast, the slightly older Sorthraal had little in the way of decoration. Or at least, it wasn't immediately noticeable at first glance, especially from afar: myriad runes covered the ceramite of his armor, in the flowing, serpentine tongue of Nostraman. Each sigil a concept unto itself, the script was ubiquitous all over his form. Others wore papyrus to record their deeds, but Sorthraal took the less obvious route and stenciled cuneiform on his equipment.

[b]"He presumes to command us only because of the damnably incessant palaver of the Neverborn. If we did not have this affliction, then I would have killed him myself long ago. His existence is a cancer."[/b]

[b]"I know, Sorthraal. You've told me plenty of times. Now, brother, please replace your helm. I think we are about to start soon."[/b]

He did so, grabbing his Mark VII helm and donning it. His powered armor hissed and whirred as the collar locks engaged, and teardrop-shaped eye lenses began to glow in activation. His vision, once unadulterated and true, was now tinged with a hint of red. Ammuntion counters blinked into existence while a targeting reticule scrutinized Malgadon's form. A cross mark hung above his head. [i]Friendly, invalid target.[/i]

[b]"Fine,"[/b] Sorthraal said, as he followed his brother towards the doorway, muting the abrasive vox bleat with a blink-click at the channel's icon. [b]"Let us get this crime over with as quickly as it is possible."[/b]