[@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 [i]that[/i] 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 [i]Perfect Form[/i] -  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.