Pffff nothing like fresh xeno blood to adorn a battle barge anyways some one hurry that servitor its starting to smell like flowers....
Without knowing further intelligence on the battlefield we cannot plan as accurately as we would like, brother. Our priority now should be to sharpen our skills and pray for the Emperor to bless our campaign. We should also beseech the Machine God of Mars to lend us the aid of the forge world.
Ha ha ha ha fight in pack you space marines will die in the first battle against chaos you loyalists dogs and your faces look like this
My advice to you would be to blindly trust the advice of that old book of yours. The Codex Astartes, is that not it's name, in your harsh tongue? Oh, of all your follies, children of the Earth, the fact you still cling to that tome is among the greatest. What riotous madness! What blissful ignorance it must be, trusting a book to teach you all there is to know of war. Trusting a book to shield you from the fury of the foes you face! Trusting a book to be the ruin of your foes! No, my good primitive, no; war lies not in written word, but in one's mind. Of course, your minds are sluggish and weak by the count of Eldar, so perhaps I should not blame you overly much for placing your faith in your precious book. What became of he who wrote it, I wonder? Ah, yes - he sits upon his throne, like a maimed giant; once great, but now nothing more than a broken, slowly bleeding relic of a time long past. He may bleed slowly, yes, but bleed he does. Much like his father on your homeworld. It is simply endearing, watching you scurry about, trying desperately to keep your past heroes alive by your crude, failing craft. So easily are your spirits broken, that you must constantly be given reassurance that their tormented spirits still cling to their ruined physical forms. I can only imagine the squealing and wailing when one day, your technology inevitably fails, and your heroes of the past all pass on, away from your grasp for all eternity. And on that day, I shall allow myself the rare pleasure of laughter.
[didn't that smurf primarch fella write that book and not old dying on a slab worshiped as a god fella?]
