[hider=Supreme Grand Master Kushiel]
Dulan. A miserable rock filled with miserable people who refused to bend to the Emperor’s will. A miserable rock that Kushiel and his squad were currently hurtling towards, having been fired out of the launch batteries of orbital craft. The layers of ceremite around them shook violently as they thundered through the air. The cloth of his tabard would flutter a little thanks to the movement, but then with a gut-wrenching feeling the thrusters would activate, the rear of the craft slamming into the ground with a heavy thud.

“Death to the enemies of the Imperium. Spare none who resist.” The straps popped loose from the chests of the marines, Kushiel’s chainsword revving. Almost as soon as the doors lowered themselves, they were surrounded by foes. The distinctive whooshing-thuds of boltrounds would sound as the marines of the First Legion opened fire, Kushiel sparing only a brief look upwards to where dozens more drop pods winged their way down. 

Lion ‘El Johnson had meticulously planned this assault, and he was not one to disappoint the father of the legion. “Do not let yourself get distracted. Protect Brother Goran, ensure that the power of his weapon may be brought to bear against the fortified positions.” A few mutterings of acknowledgement from his marines, and then the advance would begin. Although the foes they faced were numerous, they were nothing to a full-blooded Astartes. Stubber bullets bounced off Crusade and Maximus armour as if it were rain on a roof, with the returning hail of fire leaving decidedly more permanent wounds inflicted upon their foes.

The assault would continue, swift and brutal. With the additional marines entering from the sky it seemed as if nothing could go wrong… But of course, such thoughts only invited problems. No sooner had one of the drop pods landed when a rocket had been fired. The shell would strike against something inside the craft and then the entire thing would erupt, the twelve marines inside eradicated- gone in an instant. Heavier armament would be hauled out, and now marines began to fall- one droplet of rain did little, but many could wear down even the mightiest of boulders.

“Press on brothers.” He would command, chainsword meeting with flesh and bone for the first time that day. The screams of the poor fool mangled beneath him were dampened by the auditory systems of his helmet, and by the time he had stepped past the corpse, robes red with blood, they had stopped.

The fallen could not be mourned. They must press on. They had one mission and they were duty bound to complete it. Foe after foe would be encountered, and quickly Kushiel lost count of the bodies- alive or dead it mattered not. Bolt after bolt, hack after slash. He knew only of the job to be done, and such was his concentration that the world around him fell away, replaced only by a mind singularly focused. “Brother Ariel. Concentrate your fire there, supress them and allow for grenades to be thrown.” He would merely indicate, and the fire would commence.

“Brother Goran, can you safely fire? Excellent. Enemy light vehicle, eradicate it.” Every command was calm and measured, even as a round winged its way past his armour, shrapnel fragmenting against his stomach. Even as he let out a wet cough, he continued issuing commands.
“We are almost there brothers.” He would say, grimly. Another foe slain by his chainsword, the screaming stopping as soon as the teeth churned their way through his grey matter. Now, he realised, he was marching not just with the squads that had landed from the air, but also those that had launched the assault further away from the fortress centre. Hundreds of marines, marching together, fighting together. Some, dying together. A glorious sight.

“There.” He would indicate with his bolt pistol. “Brother Goran, remove its presence.” The sound of heavy plasma was nectar to his ears, and he watched as the blossoming explosions tore through what would have been a major hinderance to their assault. 

“Nothing will stand in our way! Charge!” The marines would surge forward. Even as his breaths grew laboured Kushiel fought, his orders never failing to come out in level, even tones. Eventually however, his legs would work no more. Taking a step forward, Kushiel’s knee would collapse, the sergeant using his chainsword to hold himself steady. Pushing himself up, slowly, agonisingly, he would rise back to his feet and continue walking, continue fighting, continue commanding.

It was only as he saw winged helmets advance to the front that he would at last allow himself to collapse. When a white-and-green figure stood over him, his hand would raise up, squeezing the apothecary’s gauntlet. [b]”I am not ready to rest yet. By the Emperor I am not ready to rest.”[/b]
[/hider]