[@DrunkasaurusRex][@Ollumhammersong][@Wraithblade6]


Chaos was never a singularly focused thing, never straightforward or simple, no; Chaos was as fluid as liquid and as winding as a trip through the Immaterium without a Navigator, and just as likely to destroy you! The former Consul of the Third Legion was about to find this out, much to his extreme annoyance and chagrin, when two unknown elements were added into the equation of what [i]should[/i] have been a simple capture of a transport and a much more difficult escape from this Warp-forsaken rock.

“We must get that Gunship before any of our cousins, there is to be no stopping. For the Emperor!”

The last part of his statement was made in jest, in mockery of all that their Legion had once been and in how far they had fallen, flesh and flak turning the amaranth-coloured plate of his armour into a shade of red that would have made any Khornate proud to see. So many faces passed before the rune-flashing screen of his visor, the eye sockets flaring outwardly as he slaughtered his way through ranks of unaugmented humans, that he very soon lost count or care – these were unworthy warriors, cattle, to be used and discarded like any other.

By now the Black Legionnaires had started to react, the space around the ship more-or-less cleared of anyone who was not an Astartes, the loyalist forces making short work of those they came across and equally as desperate to get their hands on the ship as anyone else.

“Reinforcements!” Growled Engilram through his helm-vox, his heavy bolter beginning to churn out explosive shells as a dozen or so black-clad Marines rushed from within the belly of the Thunderhawk.

“You idiot! I told you to-”

Although he had no idea why, the former member of the Palatine Blades – one arm of his armour still blazoned in platinum as it was nearly ten-thousand years ago – ground a heel into the dirt and spun upon it, the bolt-pistol coming from hip to hand and ready to fire in the blink of an eye. Where the sight now hovered was directly at the faceplate of a being who had just cooked three legionnaires and appeared to be coming for him next, his possible death in night-blue armour and warded by script that hurt the eye to view.

A son of Magnus on Minoa? Not only that, but one who seemingly came without the usual coterie of armoured husks – the feared and reviled Runic Marines – to protect him. Perhaps he did not need their protection.

“What do you want, sorcerer?” Growled the Child, his voice amplified over the fighting, a smooth baritone that was edged with warning, “this is not your fight.”

Even as he kept his eyes fixed on the sorcerer, he could hear from behind him the distinct sound of a chainaxe, but not wishing to turn he could but wait and see whether its screeching paean of death was from an ally or an enemy.