[I]Five minutes to landing.[/I]

[I]Four minutes to landing.[/i]

[I]Three...[/i]

[I]Two...[/i]

[I]One![/i]

Splinters of wood flew everywhere, phallic shaped objects launched equally far by the force of an Astartes exploding from a huge crate, 'supplies' apparently on there way to the Sisters of Silence - or so he had been told - bouncing from the metal walls of the hold and rolling ahead of the near ten-foot behemoth that followed in there wake. Causing the lowered ramp to shift beneath the weight of armour and superhuman alike, the black armoured warrior bought his weapon about to sweep from one side of the landing area to the other. It appeared that the Iron Warrior and the other more enigmatic Marine had already freed the space of most of its security, the treacherous Governor either so full of his own ego that he had relaxed his guard a little too much...or there was more, possibly even a trap further along the line.

Ignoring any stray fire that came his way, and blocking out the half-hearted attempt at humour from Perturabo's scion with his usual contempt, the Astartes known only as Ferreus watched as the witch took cover to better observe the death throes of what little resistance they had encountered. Some of the las-armed fools had began to drop their weapons, bolter shells taking them apart even as they made a hasty retreat, others standing their ground with gritted teeth and determination...but death came for them all the same.

Ferreus listened to the vox-chatter from the staff-wielding witch and inside his helmet narrowed his eyes, his mouth tightening and his teeth gritting, even as he opened his own vox and replied.

[color=1a7b30][b]"You never cease to disgust me, scion of the Cyclops."[/b][/color] He said with no attempt to restrain the venom that laced his words, [color=1a7b30][b]"no doubt you would find anything better than a fair fight..."[/b][/color] as if to emphasise his point he turned away lifted his bolter for a split second, not even bothering to take aim down the sights, and fired a singular bolt through the neck of one of the braver soldiers serving the Governor, jugular and throat-matter spraying everywhere as his neck seemed to simply disappear in a cloud of gore, [color=1a7b30][b]"now cease your useless complaints and help, or remain where you are like a mewling infant.[/b]"[/color]

With long steps he strode ahead of Prodigal Son and Kraeger, uncaring of incoming fire and dispatching any rebels with brutal efficiency in his quest for a greater challenge, though remaining at least within the perimeter of the landing area.

If there [b]was[/b] a trap to be sprung, then [b]he[/b] was going to find it.