T H E C U L T O F U G - Q U A L T O T H
Once, the man who would become Iron-Jaw, had been a mere raider. His life pointless, his exploits meaningless and his whole existence without any point in the great cosmic plan of he-who-slumbers. Then, he had met the prophet himself, who had raised him from the filth of the Pitt, to become the first warmaster of his army, during his push to take the holy city from the unenlightened heathens that dared to occupy it sacred ground. He had been the weapon of the prophet, his all-powerful and wrathful will.Then, others had usurped his rightful place, and the prophet had discarded him after his shameful defeat against Überboss Fredrick, the man, who had shattered his jaw and ripped it remains from his skull. The eggheads had restored it, giving him teeth and bones of iron, yet the prophet never would even let him into the sacred tower.
With Vulpes, Iron-Jaw soon felt a grim reminder creeping up his mind. For each passing moment, the legion Frumentarii vanished, turning into the shadowy figure of the tall and lean Überboss. Stumbling backwards, Iron-Jaw coughed out blood and spit, before roaring like a wounded boar. "DIE ALREADY..." He had felt so helpless in that fight so long ago. The Überboss had not fought him, but toyed with him, mocked him and finally crushed him. Never again would Iron-Jaw let this happen to him again. With blind fury, he lashed out, his weapon less like a blade, but a club, while he tried to get a hold of Vulpes. Once he would have a hold of the little man, he would easily break his spine like a frail tweak. But he couldnt.
Vulpes was like a leave in the wind, evading and skillfully dodging. And with each missing swing, each thrust and each roaring charge, the face of the Überboss appeared larger and larger in front of him. Soon, the muscles of the Brutish Warmaster felt sore, his weapon heavy and his mind turned against itself. "You are dead...we killed you long ago!" He muttered, stumbling backwards, as the Legate raised his voice. Looking around, the Warleader witnessed him being proven right. He was cornered, surrounded and beaten once more. His eyes grew wide, as the creeping hand of fear wrapped tightly around his heart.
"Its not over yet.."
He did not knew what gave him the push, yet he stepped back, his hand moving to his rebreather and placing it on his mouth and nose. With a flick of his finger he released the sacred Miasma into his lungs, stripping all fear from him. The world around him took a deep red tone, as he once more felt the old feeling of power flood his body. Gripping his weapon with both hands, he roared out a challenge, that quickly was accepted by the him surrounding Bodyguards. They attacked him like a wounded beast, but like one he fought. From all sides, there were spears. Gripping one, another was driven through his armor. Coughing, he felt the sting, but no pain with it. Screaming, he lashed out with his blade, cleaving the head of the Bodyguard who´s spear still stuck in his chest. Maybe it was fear about this feat of endurance, brought upon him by blessed Miasma, that gave him a second of respite, before once more, the attacks came onto him. From all sides, he felt it upon him, as he blindly lashed out. He could not tell if he was hitten stone of flesh, shattering bone or air. All there was, was the sacred Miasma, his sacred connection to the monolith. He felt his teeth sinking into flesh, before tearing out a huge chunk of it.
Then there was the face.
Vulpes once more looked at him, closer than ever before. Their eyes met and the Miasma seemed gone. Almost as if time stopped, Iron Jaw could see the face vanish behind a blade, coming closer and closer. It scratched over his shoulder armor, came towards his head and then, his sight turned red again. Not the red taint of miasma, but a bloody, black red. Collapsing, Iron Jaw fell onto a slain Bodyguard, clutching his eye. Clutching his eye, he could tell that Vulpes had opened most of the side of his head, taken his ear clean off and opened parts of his cheek. Raising an arm, he groaned, but only blood came out between his lips. This was the end, his end!
But fate had other plans. One of the Molerat mounts, wounded badly and left for dead, would proof to horrible even for death. Maybe it was the nightmarish smell of blood and destruction, or just one last act of terror, in hopes to be utterly destroyed, burned and removed from this world, cleansing it of the abhorred that was its unnatural existence. Screeching and storming, it attacked the group of remaining bodyguards and Vulpes, with a deadly fury, forcing them into a defense, away from the dying warleader. In the end, it was even more nightmarish in death, literally cut to pieces.
Saulus Evictanus, removed his helmet and fell down onto a piece of rubble, before picking up his spear. His eyes wandered from the slain beast, over its fallen kind, to the cult-warriors, dead on the ground. As if seeking reassurment, he tried to find the corpse of the warleader, who by now had to succumbed to his wounds, but he could not find him. "He is gone... Another Bodyguard shook his head, giving another beast a stab through the head, making sure it was truly dead. Taking a knee, besides one of the fallen, he frowned. "Glory to Caesar! Shall we look for this devil's corpse?"
Truly, there was no way that he could have gone far. A man could not survive such wounds...but had not the same be believed for the beast that had so wrathfully defied death?
Indianapolis had given the Legion and Brotherhood a taste of what kind of war this would be. A battle had been won, as the last few remants of the cult, if not cut down or shot, fled into the sewers they had came from, bloodied and broken. The City had fallen, becoming the first major victory against the cult.