[I]The day started out so well,[/i] though Drake to himself, silently observing Dagomar as he sprinted off into the distance, slowing his breathing and sharpening his focus as he had been taught to do, [i]now there are explosions rocking the outpost, people killing one another and...[/i] his eyes fell on the scene of the seven-footer trying to save himself from burning alive, [i]...and people being consumed by witch fire.[/i]

It was true that they [b]were[/b] surrounded, although the feral worlder and his own Navigator had certainly struck back at their attackers with much vigour, and the Rogue Trader supposed that it was up to him to strike the final blow that would, Emperor willing, shatter the enemy and leave them [b]not[/b] so surrounded after all. To do this, he would need to strike hard and he would need to strike fast, as brutally as possible and with extreme prejudice. This was exactly what he now intended to do.

There were a few, more than a few actually, who took a look at Horatio and believed him to be no more than a stuck-up popinjay dressed in his superior airs and fine clothing - more than one adversary had taken a lok at his weapons and quite incorrectly assumed that he had no idea how to use them. What they did not seem to understand was that the House of Drake had hired tutors for their children, tutors in most every subject, with combat being an essential part of their education. Now, while it was true that they had primarily been trained with ranged weapons, as well as swords and more [i]nimble[/i] blades than the one he carried, Horatio Drake had been trained in the use of the chain-axe by the famous pit-fighter and feral warrior Konen of Hyborea.

It was said that Konen had originally come from a prominent tribe on that planet, forging for himself a kingdom of his own, before losing it to Chaos worshipers many years later; they had used him for their entertainment, bound him to a gladiatorial pit and watched him massacre his own kinsmen. Oh he had been mentally fractured alright, but that had never stopped him teaching the young aristocrat the finer point of wielding the usually clumsy weapon with fluidity and even grace.

"Your handiwork?" He yelled to Gravius, gesturing with a flick of his stubber at the mass of scorched flesh nearby, tutting to see two of his own Armsmen laying in their own blood, "impressive, Navigator, most impressive."

Whatever reply might have been given by the three-eyed servant was soon drowned out by an increase in, and the intensity of the fire, directed at Drake and his retinue - an island of firepower in a sea of murderous bastards. Running through their more cowardly brethren came a group of more courageous individuals, although it was clear that the Navigators display of power had shaken then all, other groups moving in from alleys and streets to converge on the space docks.

"This is Drake, fire pattern Omega-Epsilon, I will take the right."

Affirmatives reached his comm-bead, the Armsmen fanning out into a semi-circle and laying down constant fire into anything that moved nearby, groups further away - such as the two figures of an Engineseer and a Guardsman - safe from the more aggressive move. Slowly but surely they advanced, taking no notice of their own wounded or dead, and their superior quality beginning to tell as at least three foes were felled for each of their own number. 

Drake did just as he had said, striding over to the right flank of the crescent and then going beyond it, straight toward half a dozen furious gangers; many were armed with stubbers, a few having las-weapons of the lesser sort, and all of them carrying some form of close-quarter implement - from a simple machete, to a guard issue combat knife.

He stepped out quite calmly, seeking a silence within and without, not even flinching as projectiles whizzed toward him but continuing his steps closer and closer toward his intended victims. Some spat curses at him, others switched their weapons to full auto, and others ducked behind their cover to reload. It mattered not, most of them missing their mark, and what shots did hit were mostly glancing and made little difference to the seething Rogue Trader.

When he came within range of them, he lifted his own pistol and gently squeezed the trigger, two shots a time, plucking two men from their feet as he closed with them. For a moment he staggered, a stubber round hitting him dead in the chest, stopped only by the concealed carapace armour beneath his foppery, and a cheer rose from the four men still alive. It was a cheer that died down quickly enough once he regained his balance, the lightest of pressures pressing down on the activation switch of his more terrible weapon and momentarily silencing them - the true value of a chain-axe lay in its psychological damage, although bodily harm was certainly not much less of a worry for those facing it, the sight of jagged and whirring teeth attached to a large-headed haft was usually more than enough to make any intelligent being retreat...these men were not intelligent.

"Sic parvis magna!" He screamed as he suddenly brimmed with energy, launching himself at the surviving gang members, his family motto translating from High Gothic into 'great things from small beginnings', a family motto heard on alien planets as far away as the Halo stars. Now it was shouted by another scion of the Drake family, one whirling his chain-axe above his head before bringing it down on the first unfortunate he found; the crouching [i]fist[/i] bought his stubber rifle up in vain, as useless as a sheet of paper in the circumstances, the rotating teeth gnawing straight through the weapon and finding him beneath. 

Soon flesh, tissue and bone spattered over Drake, causing him to take on the visage of some maddened butcher. 

Another, more foolhardy, member of the quartet lunged toward him with a twelve-inch serrated knife, the red tattooed face twisted into a snarling expression of rage. It would be the last act of this man. Drake [i]felt[/i] the blow coming, twisting his body to the side and allowing the man to simply move forward into the path of his axe, the attackers face clove messily in two and pulverized quite thoroughly.

One rat-like ganger had managed to move around to a vantage point, taking advantage of the distraction provided by his deceased accomplices. With a scream he leapt for the Rogue Trader, his own machete striking hard into the armour between neck and shoulder just as Drake turned, sparks coming flying and the stubber rising up from beneath. Soon the heated metal was pressed to his pale flesh, and within another second his head exploded in a shower of gore.

There was only one now remaining, a young gang member who appeared to have pissed himself, clutching a pistol to him and firing off shots until his weapon clicked empty. None of the shots hit home, the boys shaking hand and lack of experience seeing to that, and Drake gave a small snort of derision as he took the outstretched arm off at the elbow.

"I take no pleasure in this, boy." Came the clipped words of the bloodied nobleman, "but I can not allow you to remain alive."

A scream was cut short as the chain-axe swept through the air, decapitating the youthful coward, his head sailing through the air to land with a wet thud some feet away.

"This is Drake, target neutralised; take a defensive stance and withdraw back to the shuttle in good order. This mission was a waste of fuel."