@Vulpas "Warpcraft, a boltpistol and a force sword." Ishmael said calmly. "I can make my enemies see the horrors of the Immaterium while I give them the horror of having a force-sword gouge in their chest."

Minutes in the elevator went by before reaching the Hangar, the doors opening to reveal what was within; dozens upon dozens of Hell Talons & Hell Blades all lined up in front of gargantuan 'doors' on one end of the hangar, each aircraft having their own half-dozen or more technicians and Dark Mechanicum techpriests working on them. And this was merely naming the chaos Aircraft that were within, not including the handful of Imperial vehicles.
To either side of the elevator were numerous hallways that lead to hundreds of bedrooms; most empty from the people within being at their respective aircraft, though there still were a sizable amount that were resting up.
The Sorcerer didn't bother with the sight and took a sharp left towards the hangar doors, the massive Helbrute-box being dragged into one of the Thunderhawks ahead.
The aircrafts themselves weathered and dirtied, though one could clearly still make out thes blue paintjob and the Ultramarines symbol on the sides that were partially scraped off. One's bay door was given what looked to be a considerable amount of reinforced frontal armour, front-facing melta charges, lascutters and other armour-destroying equipment - a rather hideous looking machine, by all rights. If anything, it was some monstrously ramshackle (yet deceptively formidable and sturdy) combination of a boarding torpedo, and an actual thunderhawk. From it came another Iron Warrior. MK II armour, it seemed - with the right arm and both legs replaced with newer plating. He turned to give a nod to the Sorcerer before glancing at the... Group.
"This is them?" He asked to the Sorcerer. "Yes," Pherosh said with a nod as he made his way into the Thunderhawk. "Once you get upon the ship, we shall follow suite via boarding torpedos; my Rubricae shall accompany and protect the 'landing' area, so to say. Remember, you aren't to destroy the Warp drives, and if there is any advanced sets of powered armour - or so-called, 'sacred' Astartes weapons - they are to be given to us, and you shall be rewarded."

In the group's own Thunderhawk now sat Rotticus' ( @GobMaw_HellSmasha ) box, and a full squadron of Rubricae. ten of them in fact, two of which seemed to be holding some archaic, Tzeentchian form of flamers whilst a third was holding some monstrous assault cannon in its grip with little effort. The shined Azure-blue and burnished gold power armour was as the legends said, fused shut, the automatons standing silently as they awaited the embarking.
Pherosh seemed to relish the moment as he stood himself straight, his grip on his staff tightening and the bolt pistol once at his waist, now being unholstered.
The Thunderhawk itself wasn't cramped fortunately, having enough room for thirty Astartes; for a dreadnought, ten rubrics and a band of Renegades, there was at least enough room to reach around oneself; of course, once they wiggled past the Rubrics at the front. Their duty was to be the vanguard, to take the attack headon.

The Iron Warrior earlier made his way past the group to a door at the back, from which he went to the 'bridge' - a silly thing to call it, being at best built for two Astartes.


The Thunderhawk itself certainly won't lift off until the entire group was onboard; and from there, they would have to weather mild, artificial gravity.

Solithar followed the group, first time seeing these Rubricae, heard the rumours but to see them was rather unnerving.

Creatures that are soulless or at least seem that way aren't exactly to be trusted, and this is coming from the man who'd served for years with those who claim to always be murders first, and that is just what some would call themselves. The Night Lords always had the most wonderful life growing up. Everyone of them had killed, cheated or worse before they were inducted into the Legion. Or even some when they were being inducted.

It was hard to believe he was going along with this plan, but there was no where else to go for now. Perhaps this would lead to his death, so be it. He'd been around long enough anyway, he'd seen the horrors and wonders of the Galaxy, he knew the only rewards were ones you took yourself. No one else would give thanks or praise for your actions. We all ended up dead, that was the way the Galaxy worked and always would. Only thing we can truly choose is how to meet and greet that end. No point in scurrying away acting as if he ran long enough he'd find some refuge from death, it always met us in the end.

But don't be fooled, he wasn't going to let himself die, he'd strive, he'd fight and he'd kill to ensure his survival and only when his blood is spilt, his bones broken and his breath failing would he finally let go of his life.

Solithar, eased his way into the Thunderhawk, finding an isolated area within the Thunderhawk's holding space and left to his thoughts in this which might be his final hours.

Following the group to the lower decks, Lanius came just behind the Sorcerer, following him, amusing himself with imaginative sensation of what it would feel like to plunge a weapon at his back.Would the Lord Sorcerer anticipate the attack through the mysterious gift of presience?Would he just gurgle up and fall to the deck like all others?Despite his twisted sense of amusment, he decided against it.After all there was a job to do that might earn him reown and he hated to admit, but he quite liked the reglalina in which Pherosh and Rubricae are clad.So meticulous are they, that even the soulless automatons that were presumably his Legion-brothers had polished their armor.

Battle is a sacred ritual of sensation and learning, and one should approach it with awe-induced respect.Absorbing in the cacophony of the flight deck, Silver Baron looked left and right, enjoying susurration of the myriad feet and claws against the decking, the ruckus of mobilization and whine of engines.It was a rather painful experience to his sensitive, transhuman senses.But well worth it.

Boarding with the others, Lanius took the seats closest to the landing ramp, itching for bloodshed.However the honor of the first breach he would definitely leave to the fodd-...his honored Thousand Sons bretheren.

It was almost a shame that beneath such beautiful and occult exterior lay empty husks.Lanius mused that they would be excellent conversationalist!

Rechecking the seals on his grand helmet, he prepared for the battle to come, with uncanny patience of a coiled snake.

Sareth exited the elevator and got ready to board the thunder hawk she spotted the other marines in blue armor and thought nothing other just thinking they were normal chaos space marines, Getting ready to board she took cover near the back with her long las readying it for when they exited they would surely need cover fire if there was anyone in the hanger to come to the thunder hawk. Her hud and seals for her armor online she took her seat with her rifle in her hands.

@Vlayden

Kooru, after being packed within the elevator, so close to the angels he could have simply reached out and touched them himself, would shamble from the compartment once they reached the hanger. The man, looking to get some distance from himself, and the divine, would not at first notice the area around him, yet when he did, he would feel his jaw hang slack. The sight before him was undoubtedly that of the war force of the heavens assembled, as he was shepherded towards the designated Thunderhawk. Climbing up the ramp slowly, Kooru would take a seat, his back pressed up against the side of the giant metal box, as he'd hum a tune to himself, waiting for the next phase.

"Ahh...Is it time already to greet the worshippers of the corpse god?" Rotticus's voice boomed out from within his metal shell, "I do hope they prove to be grascious hosts to our coming." Rotticus couldn't see much from his limited viewpoint to the outside, and the confines of the metal container proved to be suffocating. But it did not matter to him. He will soon be able to spread the joys of the Plaguefather once more. Even if he had to endure the presence of the insufferable Rubricae in his vicinity, they will serve their purpose, as buffers for the raiding party. And in the end, that benefits him and Nurgle's faithful all the same.

"Do remember who you should be aiming at you withering bags of dust" Rotticus bellowed, hissing out the last words of his statement, "it would be a shame if there was an accident regarding finding whatever's left of you underneath my heel at an inoperative time...Though...you would be serving a more grander purpose then you are currently. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad then, hmmmm?" Just because the Sorceror and he had an agreement did not automatically make them friends, or even allies for that matter. They just so happen to be opposing the same opponent at the same time. Rotticus fully expected the Sorcerer to try to destroy him when given the chance, unlike himself who would rather lay in wait for the Tzeentchian to make his move first. Then, he'd make the sorcerer serve the God of Decay in his own way. But for now, he'll play nice. For however long it'd last.

Ishmael regarded the Astartes silently. The armaments of the Iron Warriors was formidable to be sure. Impressive. He entered the Thunderhawk.

Well, here we go. He thought. I can't wait to kill someone. It's been a while and doing it makes me so..... happy.

Fortissimus silently followed the rest of the group, taking a moment to look upon the Thunderhawk his gaze lingered upon the partially scratched off Ultramarines symbols. That, along with the general ramshackle nature of the modified gunship didn't sit well with him even now. This was a glorious vehicle of the Adeptus Astartes at one point. Surely it deserved more care and respect than this or at least a proper new paint job!

However despite his secret annoyance that such a great machine seemed to be being treated so poorly, Fortissimus walked up the ramp into the Thunderhawk. Rather than taking a seat like some others, Fortissimus stood right behind the Rubric Marines, activating his mag-boots to hold him in place; his hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. Much like the blade Fortissimus was a weapon stuck in its scabbard, waiting to be drawn and soon the time would for that. As he stood on the deck of the gunship only one word stuck in his mind. "Soon."

@Jammysod @GobMaw_HellSmasha @High_Adept_Zeth @dx144 @Vulpas @Casavay @BruticusTheGoreHound @Azathoth

Once the thunderhawk got out of the Hangar and the artificial gravity kicked in, it was a rather silent journey - even for but a few minutes. The Rubricae stood still and did little more than look over their weapons, though they seemed... Different.
They still were mindless automatons, and yet now they seemed so much more alive as they made sure their boltguns were loaded and glanced at one another, their grips on their weapons tightening. The one with the Tzeentchian 'assault cannon' of sorts patted the rotary barrel once and stood to the front alongside the two flamer-wielding Rubric Marines, each of them bending their knees slightly as they awaited their arrival.
These were the Thousand Sons; and they were alive once more, upon the verge of battle.

A few moments went by before vox-channels opened up in the Thunderhawk, clearly Imperial in their tones.
"What is-- Are those thunderhawks? Where in the Emperor's name did they come from?!"
"Starboard side, look!" "Are those-- Those aren't Ultramarine transports. Ready guns!"
"Don't let them get close!"

Mere moments later the Thunderhawk started to shake violently, swerving around in maneuvers that any mortal could only dream of.
"Going to need to take evasive action, Lord Pherosh." The Iron Warrior pilot said with a grunt - the monitors on either side that had the Astartes' helm in view clicked off and turned to the outside cameras, showing the frigate in question.
Numerous cannons were opening fire at their position, gargantuan shells howling by the transports - the twin macro-turrets atop the bow of the ship having turned to face their direction. The fire-rate was, for something so large, rather astounding were it not for the fact they were shooting at them.
A full minute of the horrendous evasion went by as the Thunderhawks got closer and closer before the monitors snapped off and the entire ship came to a crashing halt, smashing directly into the ship and jarring violently. The front turned red from sheer heat as the melta charges at the front burnt straight through the hull armour, burying the thunderhawk further and further in, even as the wings snapped off. When the ship finally did come to a stop, a whispering voice was starting to be heard -- No, dozens of them -- at the back of everyone's minds, the Rubrics preparing themselves.

"All is Dust." "All is Dust." "All is Dust." "All is Dust."
The voices within the Renegades' minds were but whispers, though it somehow became deafening, as though such a small sound was as loud as any Astartes battlecry.
And then, the transport opened with a 'snap', the doors blowing forward to the sight of what seemed to be a 'crossroads' of sorts, a large room from where numerous hallways all ended up; to the right were stairs that looked to go 'up', whilst there was a hallway that went to the left, straight ahead, and the right.
The most prominent figures however, were dozens of Guardsmen - armsmen in fact, not having the same flak-armoured uniform but these men & women having a bone-white/gray uniform with flakjackets and lasguns - all stopping in their tracks. Many seemed to be holding their head with at least one hand, showing that the psychic cries of the Rubricae were affecting them as well; in fact as the doors opened, the deafening whispers within the group's minds turned to little more than true whispesr now, barely noticed at the back of their skull.
"All is Dust." The Automatons spoke out once more as the two in the front held up their flamers, incinerating a great many of the crew in a single blast - horrific screams of agony went through the halls as lasblasts pinged off the Rubricae's armour, doing little more than scorch the paintjobs and cause limbs to twitch from the miniature explosions on impact.
The Assault-Cannon wielding one marched towards the leftmost hall - which judging by the sign above, lead to the Crew Quarters - and stood watch, opening fire upon the long hallway. A loud roaring sound came from the weapon as its numerous barrels opened fire, the high-pitched whining of the spinning rotary mixing in to create a sort of 'scream'; not that it mattered much, the hundreds of rounds going downrange shredding through many dozens of Armsmen.

The two Rubricae at the back pushed the Helbrute's box forward, and without wasting much time, Sorcerer-Lord Pherosh tapped his force staff against the back of it - the entire front of the 'box' immediately bursting off, opening it for Rotticus' own ends.

"Chaos! I-- It's Chaos!" One member of the Armsmen shouted in panic, the large Helbrute immediately gaining the focus of the many around, their lasguns firing harmlessly at the Dreadnought plating whilst (relatively) few others were trying to deal with the Rubricae.
The Inferno bolts fired out by the Rubric Marines made short work of those that it hit, though there surely was more in this large expanse for the rest to deal with; the Psychic cries were more than enough to be a distraction. One dangerous enough that all those within the assault could make short work of them with ease.