GiskSinging Blood, Seeking Clarity
"BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD! SCREEEEAM SWEET AGONY FOR ME! A THOUSAND DROPS A THOUSAND SONGS!"
He laughed and screamed maniacally at the top of his lungs, bringing the butt of his bolt-gun into one of the Sororitas' temples, a sickening crunch announcing the pulping of her brain meats. The sound was glorious, screaming turned to song as he swung again, one of the Sisters wielding an Eviscerator, Repentia, charged Azazel. The two dueled for some time, enveloped in the dance of death so much as to nearly miss the other marines in the room. Colors blurred but one thing was true, the Dark Apothecary's HUD made it clear their injuries. Their implants had been picked up by the advanced helmets systems almost as soon as he had entered the room and the blaring warning signs and klaxons detailing very serious injuries. Pulped organs, heavy bleeding, damaged implants, the works. But... they were not his pupils... there were not team designations or anything else but the damages... yet the klaxons intrigued him. Subjects? Old instincts? Couldn't tell... to much screaming.
All this time he and the Repentia screamed at one another, one oaths to the emperor and the other a combination of gibberish, shouting for blood and screams and snarls. Eventually, the dance ended. He smashed his armored boot down on the woman's foot crushing it into blood paste. She screamed and left herself open, being impaled through the chest by Azazel's Chainsword. Blood sprayed across the deep crimson and black armor before hw wrenched it free of her ruined chest cavity, limp body falling to the ground with a sucking chest wound. He turned to try and scan the room, but was interrupted as a burst of bolt shells smashed against his pauldron, ceramite and adamantium cracking and the force threatening to spin him around. He growled and turned to the offender, the Sister of battle was smashing a fres clip into her boler. Azazel had yet to reload his own... perhaps this was the en-
His moment of clarity was interrupted by the Soroitas being tackled by a screaming genestealer who proceeded to shred her to bits. Now, Azazel in a moment of clarity born from another, scanned the field.
'Surrounded, lost. The field is bloody with ork blood and my squad is compromised. We will die here... wait! An escape!
A weakness in their line! We must make it there! For G-', the memory came to a shuddering halt as Azazel was returned to reality, watching one of the unkown marines slide into the closing exit door... the memory made it clear his next action. He turned and snagged the gorget of his nearest pupil, screaming into the vox channel.
"PUPILS! MAKE FOR THE DOOR! WE MUST NOT BECOME TRAPPED HERE!", and took off at a high speed sprint with whoever's Gorget grasped firmly. At some point whoever he was dragging stopped resisting, instead he could feel their fottsteps line up with his, yet he held still to the gorget as if life depended upon it. The two marines smashed the ogry out of the way, stumbling into the room with a clatter of power armor weapons. The servo motors in Azazel's armor whined as he forced himself to stay upright, snarling as he collided with a wall, somewhat denting the paneling. Once stopped, he wheeled about to observe his fellow occupants.
Apparently he had been dragging Bravis, who now breathed heavily next to his teacherm vision slits scanning the many occupants they were now joined by. Of his pupils only he and seemingly Elraz had made it into the door, the other two dead or still in the room... and Elraz was missing an arm. Azazel grumbled and dropped down next to his pupil who sat on the ground, his half arm hanging limply at his side. Using his narthecium he began to rapidly repair damage to his flesh, but had not an extra arm... he'd have to get a new one. His head shot up to observe the other marines now with him... what strange colors.
He did not recognize the taloned claw of the mairne in the flamboyant, purple armor and he could not see the sigil of the marine in black. His own armor, spattered with gore showed clear his heraldry. A Black, taloned fist on a field of blood red. The ancient legionaries would find it most like that of the Imperial fists, but strangely different. Azazel spoke first once more, his voice now calm, but shaking as if it took effort to keep from screaming.
"Wh-at are your allegiances?! Do you serve the corpse God like those fools?!", he addressed the marines.