Cruor Redemptor felt alive for the first time in centuries. The darkened halls of the battle-barge were filled with warriors. They were not pure-bloods. They were not Night Lords. But they were warriors. Trans-human demigods in plate of dark crimson. Forced upon Telemachus and his brothers by the whims of a Tyrant, but Astartes nonetheless. Coryphaus had taken to staying to the bridge and keeping Nihil hidden away within his chambers – unsure of what the Corsairs might do against the vastly outnumbered Night Lords. The rest of their Claw were never far from sight. It was not the brotherhood of the loyalists or some other legions that compelled them. It was a wariness of these intruders – a survivalist’s paranoia that fueled their sudden desire for community. Hapshan was the only one missing from any of these meetings. The huge brute having apparently taken up station at the border between the Legion’s prowling grounds and the Night Market where the mortals lived. Iaxus had been the one to report that Hapshan still lived last he checked – and there were some suspiciously red stains surrounding him. They all had noticed that four Red Corsairs had gone missing – their guests politely refrained from remarking on it. Thoughts of Hapshan’s odd possessive streak were shunted aside as Captain Tolamar strode toward Telemachus who was seated within his throne. The Red Corsair’s helm was maglocked to his thigh; a face that wouldn’t have looked amiss within the Emperor’s Children favoured the two Night Lords with a mocking smirk. His oiled blonde hair was pulled back with a band of tanned and bejeweled eldar flesh. “Since we near the end of our journey through the Warp, I believe it time for me to let you know what we must do,” Tolamar’s voice was a wispy thing, thin compared to the rich baritone of most Astartes. “While the Tyrant awaits for our signal, we are to assault the main bastion of the Adepta Sororitas,” as he spoke an image appeared on the hololith before him depicting a cathedral-fortress. “This is the home of the Order of the -.” “I don’t care for a history lesson,” Telemachus growled from his throne. He was resting within the seat in a position of boredom. “I was making war across the stars before the ancestors of these girls picked up a lasgun. I cut my first throat when they were learning lies about the Emperor in their schools. Numbers, armaments, insurgents, defenses – this is the relevant information. Not some long and boring history of why these holy women decided to pick up a bolter and play at war.” Tolamar blinked a few times, his lips turning into a thin line before he gave a slight nod of his head. “As you say, Captain Telemachus. The main bastion numbers near two-thousand Adepta Sororitas, and three times that number in lay-militia. The lay-militia are mostly a non-entity, the main weapon they’ll bring into battle are lasguns. Barring a lucky shot, their numbers are negligible -.” A snort, this time from Iaxus. Tolamar’s lips thinned even more as he turned hard eyes to the slender sniper. “Something to say, brother?” Iaxus tilted his head, dead eyes looking at Tolamar in a way anyone other than an Astartes would find unnerving. His rasping voice, the mark of an ugly wound across his throat, came out soft and low. “The greatest weapon of mortals are their numbers. Fifty-one Astartes are a deadly foe – but against two-thousand bolters? Six-thousand guns? We do not hunt as you do – so I have no doubt the Claw will win free of this safe and clear. But, Corsair, as you and yours charge into the teeth of a fusillade from enemy guns – do let me know if they do more than scratch your pretty red paint.” Tolamar snarled even as the rest of the gathered Claw chuckled darkly. “Iaxus has a point – though I do think he’s making the mortals’ guns out to be a more fearsome foe than they are,” Telemachus said slowly – his words were not to salve wounded pride. “My brothers and I are not made for the same bloody work as your kind. Hapshan alone is unique amongst us in his willingness to come to grips with an enemy in a mad rush. I do not doubt that you will crush any mortal resistance you come across. But it will be Red Corsair blood that covers the ground, not Night Lord.” Tolamar narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring, “I had heard the Night Lords were craven – but I never thought it to be true. You would hide and skulk while others fight for you? That was not the deal you made with the Tyrant. He shall hear about your unwillingness to fight – mark my words brother, you will incur the wrath of the Tyrant!” None of the Night Lords interrupted the rant of the Corsair. As he finished, glowering at the warriors in black, Telemachus slowly rose from the captain’s throne. “Do you think I earned these wounds from hiding and cringing, Corsair?” his voice soft as he gestured at the mutilation of his face. “This was gifted to me by one of the Pyre-Guard of the Salamanders. A Legion I loathed, who were weak and soft – but who were five times the warriors you Corsairs are. I fought and bled on the walls of Terra. I was one of numerous monsters that existed in a time when sorcerers were a few scattered mortals and daemons were thought to be xenos.” Telemachus marched forward, standing chest-to-chest with Tolamar. “I fought beside – and against – demigods and monsters. I learned at the feet of my father – a man I so hated and loved that it near drove me to the same insanity as the bloodthirsty World Eaters or the fool zealotry of the Word Bearers. I am no simpering, thin-blooded child-warrior like you and all of those who came after us. I am of the First Legions. I am one of the warriors that extended the boundaries and empire of mankind into the darkness of space. One of the warriors that willingly defied a man your kind would label a god. “Question my honour, my loyalty, all you wish. But you are not half so worthy to question the mettle and bravery of my Claw. Now, get off my bridge and hunker down with the eager children you call brothers and leave the true warriors to their plans. Four of your kind have already gone missing – I’m sure a fifth will not be felt too heavily, especially once they realize that it means a position for captain has opened.” Telemachus and Tolamar glared at one another, the Red Corsair’s body was tense with hatred and violence. His fingers closed around the haft of a short, ugly chainsword. But a single look at Mortis Lux and the staring eyes of nine other Night Lords had him stepping away and marching off without another word. Coryphaus watched Tolamar stalk away, the metal doors to the bridge whirling open like an iris to admit his exit before closing behind him. “I have a feeling that one will not soon forget the slights you leveled today, Telemachus,” his words were soft and mellow. Black eyes turning back to his captain as the mutilated Night Lord took his seat on the throne and turned the chair about to observe his brothers. Telemachus leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped to rest his chin on his folded fingers. “Let him remember and stew on it, then. Any Astartes who calls into question the bravery of my Claw is one I won’t mind crossing swords with,” the words held all the cool hate that filled the mutilated Captain. Coryphaus just bowed his head – it was the one odd thing about Telemachus, call him a craven and he sneered – call into question the bravery of his brothers and he would become as bold as one of the Wolves. “Now,” Telemachus said, drawing Coryphaus from his introspection. “We are to be the distraction for the Tyrant. Much as it galls me – this mission will see the Redemptor refitted for our end goal. Hapshan will remain on board – I do not think we could move him from his spot with promises of bloodshed. “Iaxus, Nemmox, Renaes, Velcoran – you will accompany me in assaulting the west wing of the cathedral-fortress. Iaxus, as always, I leave it up to you to decide priority targets. Nemmox – I want you to cut out the lighting for the entire western wing and to fill up their vox channels with a feedback screech. Renaes will accompany you. Once you finish the task you and Renaes will join Velcoran and I in cutting our way through those who haven’t run. “Coryphaus – you’ll lead Sevaran, Vel Sinjarn, Korresh, and Tytius in an assault of the eastern wing. You have overall command, but wait to engage until after the Corsairs have begun their own assault. I want to make sure they get to bleed as much as they wish before we begin.” Fists thumped to breastplates as the Cruor Redemptor surged from the Warp and into space above Sanctus Primaris. “Ave Dominus Nox.” Ten voices intoned. (( Choices: A) Coryphaus and his strike team rely on a similar plan to Telemachus'. B) Coryphaus conjures some aid to really throw the east wing into chaos. Voting closes May 15th! ))
“Form up!” the voice of Celestian Superior Martessa cried out, striding along in front of the ranks of lay-militia and Sisters she was commanding. Her thunder hammer was lifted high, the bulky weapon streaming Oaths from along its adamantine haft. “Today we are assaulted by minions of the Dark Gods. Warriors of the darkest ilk who have turned from the light of the God-Emperor. But that is their weakness. They have turned from Him on Earth. They have chosen the easier path. For that they are craven! They are weak! They are -.” The lights cut out in the eastern wing. A supernatural darkness as the light from the vast windows of the wing gave off no light. To the credit of the mortals only a few gasps of fear went up from a force of some five-hundred odd lay-militia. The Sisters of Battle were, however, completely silent at the sudden failure of power. “Here,” a voice hissed out before five shrieks echoed in the supernatural dark. The monsters were among them. Martessa clasped her thunder hammer in both hands, power field crackling around the head and giving her a sphere of wan light. A figure in bulky blue armour streaked with lightning came out of the dark, screeching toward the Celestian Superior. A shout to the God-Emperor, a wordless prayer, and her thunder hammer swung out. The traitor marine rolled with the blow, but was still sent spinning away from the impact. Martessa planted her feet firmly and cried out in the darkness, “To me brothers and Sisters! To me! It is the coward that hides in the dark and shuns the light!” ~~ “Korresh is down,” Vel Sinjarn’s musical voice said over the vox. “I’m not down poet,” came the sneering voice of Korresh – all hard vowels and hate. “I’m just… winded.” “A shame, here I was going to compose an epic requiem for your gene-descendants. It would have moved them to greater heights of suicide and might erase your geneseed,” Vel Sinjarn’s voice was all morose sorrow as he moved nimbly amongst the lay-militia. His armour receiving a few scorch marks from lasguns as his twin mono-knives slashed throats and gouged eyes. “Can’t you two be quiet for once?” Tytius asked in a voice as lifeless as Nostramo. He’d forsaken his knife and bolter, instead moving at a plodding rate through the lay-militia, twisting off limbs and heads with his red hands and driving back the mortals from his heavy tread. “I much prefer their lover’s quarrel over the shrieking of that harpy with the hammer. Though I’d agree otherwise if Korresh hadn’t failed spectacularly in killing a mortal,” Sevaran quipped. The only other Night Lord who had remained stationary. His bolter tracking through targets, short bursts killing lay-militia and power armoured Adepta. Coryphaus stood nearest their entry point – a window shattered when the stifling darkness fell. The sorcerer protected by Sevaran as he extended his hands forth, chanting in a soft language with his outgoing vox silenced. The words twisted in his mouth, and he loathed the idea of using this spell. But his mission was to sow chaos. So Chaos he would sow. The final syllables left bloody lips and his eyes snapped open. A wound in reality tore itself open, a sickly light brightening the otherwise dark room. Shrieks erupted from the wound, leathern wings snapping in the air as mottled grey bat-like creatures burst from the portal to the warp. Claws raked at the now panicked lay-militia. Bolt rounds shot through the air and dispersed furies wherever they appeared. But, even as the Adepta stood strong the lay-militia began to break. Spilling out and away from the daemons – both warp-born and transhuman. The three-hundred odd surviving Sisters found Martessa in the sickly light and formed up on her – letting the lay-militia flee. As strong as they were, the creatures that now appeared could unman even the staunchest of followers of Him on Earth. The furies pursued the fleeing lay-militia, though more spilled from the portal every second – these hovering around the Adepta. Once the furies numbered near as much as the Adepta, Coryphaus closed his fist and shut the portal to the warp. He didn’t want to risk something he couldn’t control rampaging through. Breathing heavily, the sorcerer sunk to one knee as his brothers formed up on him – a direct contrast to the lines of the Adepta. Furies fluttered near to the ranks of the Adepta and were driven off, either by bolter or flame. Breathing raggedly, Coryphaus rose to his feet – staring down the proud form of Martessa and those Sisters who stood close to her. Coryphaus raised his claw into the air, and sent out a psychic pulse to the gathered furies. With a screech, the lesser daemons fell upon the Sisters as one. Bolters roared back, flames billowed forth but the furies drove in through weight of numbers and began tearing their way into the Adepta. He kept his eyes focused on the Celestian. Watched her jaw clench and resolve harden. Then her voice rang out, strident and clear over the death behind her. “Suffer not the witch to live!” the Celestian charged forward, thunder hammer gripped in both hands as her lieutenants flowed forward with her. Where she clutched a maul these Sisters held vicious power scythes. “Uncle Mortarion might be most displeased to learn that loyalists use his favoured weapon,” a smile was in Sevaran’s voice as he rolled his shoulders, maglocked his bolter and drew his chainaxe and mono-knife. “I think he’s more displeased about the name on his heart,” was Tytius’ dour response. “I know I’d be more upset if I had a name carved on one of my hearts.” The fatalistic Night Lord still did not draw his knife, his gore-soaked hands curling into claws as he hunched down and waited for his opposite number to reach him. There was no more time for talk after that. The Sisters closed with a cry and it was bloody work. Coryphaus’ claw scraped along the haft of the thunder hammer, shedding Oaths from the haft as he stopped a blow that would have crushed his chest. Vel Sinjarn was dodging swipes from a scythe, never letting the crackling blade touch his gleaming knives – looking for the perfect moment to strike. Korresh had gone on the assault, chainsword roaring as he slashed and hacked at the Adepta – forcing her back as she tried to parry with her scythe. Tytius had locked his bloody hands around the haft of a descending scythe, holding it at bay against the Adepta’s strength – red lenses glaring at a face snarling defiance. Sevaran lost his knife as he spun, the scythe blade eating through the mono-knife – but his chainaxe struck a blow against the arm of the Adepta, sending sparks flying as adamantine teeth chewed through power armour – a spurt of blood following it with a cry of pain. Tytius killed his first, bored of the struggle the Night Lord activated his vox and screeched into the face of the Adepta. The eyes of the Sister of Battle widened before she convulsed. Blood burst from her eardrums. She released her hands on the scythe to try and protect her ears, but Tytius caught her. The scythe fell to the ground as he lifted her up and continued shrieking in her face. Her eyes burst and she jerked spasmodically for a few moments before being allowed to drop to the ground. The long scream, though, put an end to much of the fighting. Eardrums ruptured or just thrown into severe pain, his brothers were able to finish their work. Korresh buried his roaring sword in the gut of the Adepta he faced, watching blood blossom from front and back and the light in her eyes die. Sevaran gleefully hacked his apart, cutting her apart at each joint until only her head was left. Vel Sinjarn gave his a red smile, while whispering into her ear, “I’ll weep for your ignorance and compose a masterful lament to wasted beauty.” Martessa, however, was left alive. Coryphaus staring down at the wounded Adepta who glared defiantly up at him. A gentle backhand sent her sprawling to the ground unconscious. “Remind me to bring this one back with us,” he said over the squad vox. “I want Nihil to have an example.” “You spoil the boy,” Korresh grumbled as he lifted up the dropped power scythe. The weapon fit easily in one hand, and he toyed with it before giving a grunt and maglocking it to his thigh alongside his chainsword. “He won’t last long, Coryphaus. Our servants never do,” Tytius said slowly, copying Korresh in appropriating one of the power scythes, before taking the other offered to him by Vel Sinjarn and adding both to rest beside bolter and knife on his body. “Oh, let our brother do as he wants with his slave. Personally, I think it’d be beautifully tragic to have her amongst us. An angel of the false-god walking in the lightless depths of our hell…” Vel Sinjarn’s voice was wistful as he moved over to bind Martessa at wrist and ankle with cord, a blend of diamond and steel fibers that not even an Astartes could break. Sevaran just chuckled, chainaxe sawing through the neck of the Sister he killed to impale her head on a meter long spike sticking up from his right shoulder, “Oh, Telemachus is going to love you all the more for this, Coryphaus. Three strays? He’ll call you soft.” “Telemachus can call me whatever he wishes. If I cared about his opinion of me I’d have jettisoned myself into the void when we still believed in the Imperial Truth,” a chorus of laughs followed the claim of the sorcerer – even dour Tytius letting out a grim chuckle. Coryphaus turned, watching the furies as they picked through the corpses of the Adepta. Barely a quarter of the daemons had survived – but now they glutted themselves on the flesh of the fallen Sororitas. “Speaking of our brother…” Coryphaus blink clicked a link open to Telemachus, “How goes your plan, Telemachus? We’ve already finished in the east.” There was a haze of static before Telemachus’ rasping voice filled the vox of Coryphaus’ squad, “And we in the west. Shall we make our way to the center and see how the Corsairs have managed?” Coryphaus smirked, “I’ll see you there, brother.” ((Choices!: A) The Corsair distraction has utterly failed, Tolamar and his brothers are pinned down under weight of fire and close to breaking and calling it a wash. B) The Corsair distraction has succeeded and all that is left is the final push. C) The Corsair distraction has utterly failed, Tolamar and his brothers are pinned down under weight of fire and the 6th Claw decides 'Eh, we tried' and teleports off world. Voting closes May 18th! ))
C Lets leave them to there fate and head off but not before calling the pnned teams and mocking them.
(( Die roll has decided the fate of the tie! )) The ten Night Lords met within a small hallway. The sounds of massed fire reaching them from down the hall. All five, bar Iaxus, were stained red with blood. Telemachus and Coryphaus acknowledged each other before heading down the hallway shoulder to shoulder, pausing only at the end to see the failure of the Corsairs. Three bodies littered the killzone in front of the vast stairway that lead toward the hideout of the Claw. The remnants of three Corsairs taken under massed fire. Numerous other bodies slicked the marble steps with blood and meat. Despite the hideous casualties the defenders had taken – they remained unmoved. Taken at a glance it was clear what had occurred. The defenders had been caught preparing and taken their heaviest casualties in the initial rush. But now, four heavy bolters and two assault cannons were snarling down into the hiding ranks of the Corsairs. The mortals had rallied and now pinned down the thin-bloods under the massed fire of las and shot. Sisters of Battle marched behind them in grim black and red power armour, while a single Sister stood out amongst the rest. Power armour of an arterial crimson with black etching and black robes stood on a plinth. A halo of golden light playing about her head as occasional shots from the Corsairs glanced away. In one hand she brandished a scythe – large even for a Space Marine to tote one-handed. In the other she clutched an ornate and golden bolt pistol. Subconsciously, the Night Lords shrunk away from her – a golden radiance spilling from the Adepta and bolstering those gathered beneath her. “What, by the Powers, is she?” Telemachus asked his voice unsure and pitched into a soft tone – barely above a whisper. Coryphaus didn’t respond right away, instead whispering to himself to see latent energy. Immediately he let out a strangled scream and fell back, shutting the spell away. The strong hands of Vel Sinjarn caught him, holding Coryphaus as the sorcerer panted and slowly recovered. He stood, granting his brother a slight nod of thanks before speaking softly over the vox, “Powerful, brothers and…” words failed him for a moment. He felt wetness on his cheeks, “This light… it’s the light of the False-Emperor.” A heavy silence followed the proclamation before Telemachus’ voice spoke over the vox. “Isoran, we need immediate transport out of here. Send a message to the Tyrant that the foe is stronger than anticipated and ask him for new orders. Remaining where we are would be suicidal.” There was a long pause before a mechanical voice echoed over the squad vox, “Acknowledged. Teleportation imminent.” Telemachus linked his squad vox with that of Tolamar, “Red Corsairs – it seems we have arrived just in time.” Tolamar’s tight voice snarled out, “Finally. Take them from behind and -.” It was not Telemachus but Vel Sinjarn who spoke, “Oh, poor Captain. No, we have arrived just in time to see how foolish this assault was. But have no fear, you shall be remembered.” Tolamar’s silent disbelief never had a chance to verbalize at the betrayal. The ten Night Lords transported from the great chapel in a thunderclap of displaced air and the actinic reek of ozone. The Red Corsairs were left alone to draw the ire of nearly three thousand lay-militia and a thousand Adepta. Telemachus and his Claw materialized in darkness, the wraith-like form of Isoran hovering before them. “The Tyrant responded to the hail, he’s directing us to use our stores to launch an orbital bombardment of the bastion. He almost has what he has set out to acquire, he just needs be sure that the main force of the Adepta cannot launch a counterassault.” Telemachus and Coryphaus had removed their helmets as Isoran spoke; the Captain gave his brother a hard look while Coryphaus’ face remained unreadable. “Do it,” Telemachus said heavily – marching from the teleportarium. Coryphaus watched him go before leaving as well, Isoran blurting out static toward Mellissa to prepare for a lance strike. Their brothers dispersed to see to wounds and show off prizes won, dimly Coryphaus remembered wanting to bring the captured Adepta with him. The sorcerer shook the thought away, wandering the benighted halls until he arrived in his chambers – the reek of tanning flesh assailing his nose as he entered. The door shut behind him with a soft sound, Coryphaus spying the sleeping form of Nihil and shaking his head. He roused the boy with a light kick, ordering the groggy child to help strip him of his plate. As Nihil worked Coryphaus said slowly, “Do you remember when you asked why Telemachus and I turned from the Emperor?” Nihil paused, removing the force claw from Coryphaus’ hand and placing it reverently on his arming rack. “Yes, my lord.” “I feel I owe you a better explanation – if you’re going to exist here,” Coryphaus said as each piece was stripped from him and placed on the rack. Nihil immediately setting to with polish and lapping powder. Coryphaus shrugged into a thin surplice and took a seat on the metal cot of his bed. “I told you why I turned… but I cheated you on Telemachus. When I said Telemachus had always been a coward that was true. But he wasn’t afraid of battle; of pain… he was afraid to trust. He trusted the vision and ideals of the Emperor – he finally trusted someone without fear of a knife being jammed into his spine. “That trust was shattered into a thousand pieces, Nihil. I couldn’t believe in a better fate because of the machinations of others. Telemachus turned because the one time he’d freely given his trust he was betrayed by it. So he turned fully, and I followed him. I think, if I hadn’t, I could have been one of them. One of the ones who stood against what followed. But I’d known Telemachus since we were children – and I couldn’t inflict another pain on him. Since he turned, so did I.” The ship shuddered as it unleashed the lance strike. He knew the nugget of the Emperor’s Light was washed away in actinic fire. Reaching a hand out, he pulled his force claws from the rack and showed them to Nihil – knowing the boy had never truly looked at them before. He lifted each finger, showing the way the claw ended in a jagged edge near the base – though a symbol was clear on each talon: a winged sword, a winged drop of blood, and a snarling dragon’s head. Two of the sword, two of the blood, and one of the dragon. “I took these from the blades of four angels and a dragon. I broke their bodies and then their swords and turned them into my claw. I did this, Nihil, because I made sure that there was no doubt in my mind I could ever be loyal again,” Coryphaus lapsed into silence, staring at his blades. “Master? Why tell me this?” Nihil asked after a few moments. Coryphaus looked up slowly, “Because – I needed to remind myself why I turned, Nihil.” (( Filler chapter! May 21st, or 22nd depending on how busy I am the 21st, will be the next post with a decision! ))
