@Vulpas | @Jorimel | @Colapse

Valu took a deep breath as the fighting died down, slumping down to his bottom and hanging his legs over the chimera chassis, kicking a corpse off the rusted metal box and into the dirt beneath, smiling under his sack-mask and looking into the sky. Only when the flamboyant leader, most likely the man who broadcasted the message - or so he claimed to have done - arrived, he looked back on even level.

The Lacrymolian couldn't help but rip his khornate-sack-mask off and empty his stomach contents onto the ground next to him. Once he was finished and used his sack-mask as a bib, he discarded it, throwing it to the side. He never could stand the look of flawless people. By Lacrymolian standards this person was disgusting. Smooth features, long fingers, kind of even feminine. These humans were worse the more they believed to be not humans, yet they were as much mammals as dogs, cats and apes.

Valu looked up to Fera as she spoke, revealing his burned and twisted face which looked strongly like a severely mutated human being. One of his eyes was hanging two inches lower on his face than the other. His mouth was lopsided - it was a surprise he could talk normal - and his nose was cut off and left an almost smooth surface, was it not for some leftover bone and flesh on it. There was no hair on his head, as it was all burned off and permanently ruined. But beyond burn wounds there was also a big cut-up scar on the back of his head - the icon of Chaos, the eight-pointed star.

"Well. We came here to get off the world. It seems the deal is to serve them. That leaves us not really an option. Especially since I'm not stupid enough like those idiots over there trying to demand things. Let's just join as regulars on their condition and then show our worth. I don't know about you two, but I guess my skills as a medic would be somewhat appreciated. For all we know these guys aren't as much of a grox shit failure as The Despoiler." Valu shrugged mentioning Abaddon's title with great mock and sarcasm. Furthermore he was obviously not caring about his appearance. Or maybe not aware of how ugly, by human standards, he was beneath that mask.

@Uriel1339 @Jorimel
Fera looked to Valu, as he talked nodding, "Seems like a smart plan, though the fact of this lord being unknown is the only of putting ting that worry's me, Though as its our only mean off of this planet I will go by it, Though as we serve with this lord it might be a good idea to watch each others back for the lords crew or lord himself if he is more malevolent or possibly as much as back stabber as the Abbadon." Fera said adding her own thoughts to the mix of possibly staying somewhat as a group if as time went on or just as allies to watch each others back while on the Chaos lords ship.

A medics skill is defiantly a appreciated skill, Keeping warrior alive on the field to continue there fight and to make sure there own journey doesn't end in the dust pit." Fera added wondering if the same paranoia she felt was going through the other groups head as it was hers possibly something that was usable for them or for her to make allies and comrades that could possibly be trust able.

Satharn wasn't one to care much about aesthetic standards. He shrugged a little as the medic revealed his scars. After all, he had some of his own, though he didn't look like he'd spent an afternoon merrily headbutting a chainaxe.

"I agree," he said, softly, his usual tone when speaking unless circumstances were very dire. "We need an Apothecary."

"You fought well," he said to Valu, "kept your head in a crisis. Keep doing that. It will be good for all of us."

"As for Abaddon, the Despoiler is a fool living in the past. Daddy isn't coming back to save him. I of all people can assure him of that." For a moment, the Night Lord's tone shifted very slightly - was that a hint of regret? nostalgia? something else? "And in any case I doubt Horus would reward such utter and repeated failure."

The same went for the pretty boy up there. Satharn wasn't impressed by beauty unless it also had a function, save for very rare occasions. But he was reminded of Asher, for a brief moment, though the other had a deal more grace and good manners than this fanciful fop. Still, a ride off this hellhole was a ride.

"Vindication you say. Well, I can get behind that," he said, dryly, "though it's not usually offered as an alternative to death."

For the second time that day, Xaviera found herself buried in corpses as the Nurglite's shambling minions overwhelmed her, massing around her at a rate higher than she could shoot and return them to the dirt. Their mangled digits, cold and hard, seized hold of her and the rest of them piled on, the back line sweeping over the front and causing them all to topple. The psyker ended up on the bottom, thrashing and squirming --- shrieking, as well --- as the undead fell upon her like a wave crushing against a shore.

That is, until the Plaguebringer stood down his forces. And Xaviera found herself buried in corpses. She stared skywards with some resignation, and then she started pushing on the corpses to dig herself out --- it was heavy --- and crawl out to the hilltop, where she saw yet another Astartes had joined them. He was blond and fair and handsome. He gave the psyker pause one moment, the ethereal beauty of him taking her aback, but she gathered herself and found that her injured leg was still willing to bear her. She rose to her feet and staggered towards the rest of the mismatched gathering, holstering her laspistol. She clutched her psychic dagger in her left hand to the point of her knuckles whitening, her purple eyes watching the beautiful Astartes with mingling amazement and apprehension. She came to Attelus' side, and looked up to the Speaker. His helm betrayed little. "Acceptable," the Speaker told their supposed savior, and Xaviera turned her eyes on him, brushed rogue locks of similarly blonde hair out of her eyes, and dropped into a curtsy. She winced as she noticed that her leg did not like that particular gesture, but she forced a smile through the pain. "Acceptable, my lord," she intoned after the Speaker's lead.

With a quick nod of his beaked mask he kept the bolter, strapping it to his back. Glancing back at the Astartes that followed Corbulus, Nero - the Alpha Wolf called him, Sobek once again reinvestigated his actions and the consequences. Considering how fast the situation was developing he was glad to have joined a niche within such varied gathering. In a company of two demi-gods, few will think him an easy target. Until he gets to heal his grievous wounds and tends to the inner workings.

As Corbulus motioned them onwards, Sobek glanced back at the Rhino and Land Speeder they were supposedly leaving behind. It also left a bitter taste in his mouth, but even if he had any of his voices now, he would not object. It may mean death for him. Servile manner should be adopted now if one does not desire to overcomplicate the situation further. Complications can also lead to death.

As a herd of mutants - no - beastmen barred their path, Sobek hoped Corbulus would swallow his pride and thus sparring their lives. Despite Nero fiddling with his bolter beside him, ex-Cyrabor remained completly still. He`d rather sacrifice a second to unholster his weapons if it came to a fight, then to further agitate the situation. Working a lot with half-breeds Sobek was well aware how explosive and sudden the violence can occur in situations like these.

<Aboard the night's dearest mistress>
@WanderingJester @DeranVendar @Uriel1339 @High_Adept_Zeth @Jorimel @Maleth @Kalle @Vulpas @Vlayden @Skarboy @Grall_Stonefist

"Don't mind Ghorzkha, he's just following orders. Like all of us, he is a loyal servant of our master and as such, he has a certain number of responsibilities he must attend to if he is to remain useful and hold his position. Like all of you will have to do eventually," the handsome man who apparently was called Viator said. "But I guess this is everyone. Come aboard my vessel and lets get going, I spent too much time here already." Gesturing everyone to follow, the survivors including Orghast's pet dog as well as his old friend Ukris, who listened to Orghast's advice and left the skull artifact back amidst the corpses, would enter the dark Stormbird, plenty of room for everyone inside to get comfortable as pretty much most of its holding bay was empty. Viator went towards the cockpit and took a seat next to another Marine wearing dull turquoise armor while Ghorzkha and his minions remained close by. Soon after everyone was in a voice echoed through the flyer, not more than a whisper, probably belonging to their pilot. "Everyone settle in. It's going to be a long ride."

And he was right. Dusting off, the Stormbird took to the skies which were similarly broken like the rest of the world. Atomic dust, radiation and storms in the upper atmosphere created by the destruction wrought below were enough to make this leg of their journey troublesome, or at least on paper. As it turned out, their pilot was quite experienced and was prepared for what was coming so in the end, the craft survived with only couple of scratches and in a need of a new paint job.

As they flew through the void, through the view-holes they could see the ruin which remained of the embattled fleets and orbital defenses. Broken, floating wreckage, ships of both sides turned into scrap and thousand of sailors frozen were all that remained of yet another Black Crusade. There were more specks in the distance, like stars burning brightly, everyone knowing that those represented Imperial ships returning to claim the system and it was only a matter of time before they would accomplish this task, meaning that if they indeed decided to stay below on this world they would meet their end sooner rather than later. But in the end it didn't matter as their pilot pushed them away from all of that and towards the asteroid field that used to be one of Schindlegeist's moons now turned into hundred of pieces annihilated by the awesome power of captured Black Fortress. And in the middle of all that debris did they finally lied eyes on the ship that is about to become their home.

An ancient ship, built in a time when progress was still a part of the galaxy and not a thing looked down upon, when the Imperium of Man was birthed and went through its golden age, the age of prosperity and knowledge, not darkness and superstition. Large and mighty vessel, its hull long and bristling, not bulky like the majority of mankind's void-crafts but sleek and dangerous, a true predator stealking among the cattle. The design of it was lost to time and only those warriors who served in the Legions would be able to recognize it, being the type of the craft that used to ferry thousands of legionaries into combat all across the empty space back when the Imperium was young.

Alas, its might lasted only for a fleeting moment. Getting closer to the dark hull streaking with lighting bolts, or at least something that used to be a lighting bolt and now was just a mishmash of muddy paint, everyone could see that the ship was not looking all that great. Actually, it was far from it. Enveloped in darkness most likely due to not having enough power to sustain it, its hull was filled with holes and gaps of various shapes and sizes, some even reaching dozen or so decks. Those guns that were still attached to it were offline, two thirds of its many hangars were open to the void and quite possibly empty of any attack craft that in better days would fly out and cause maximum damage to the approaching enemy vessels. All in all, while looking better than the planet they just escaped, the ship didn't look that much like an upgrade.

However while most of the old legionaries could see that they were looking at a broken form of some kind of a Gloriana-class battleship only one of them, Satharn himself, would be able to actually tell what was the exact name of the ship even before their pilot's voice broke the silence. "Touching down in -3 minutes. Get ready to move out." Right on schedule, after three minutes they landed in a desolate hangar somewhere in the upper decks, once the atmosphere stabilized and they got out of the Stormbird they would see that for the most part the place was empty save couple of Thunderhawks that were missing half of their parts and not looking like they were operational. Once Viator was out, he spread his arms and quite happily announced, "Welcome to Nightfall!"

"Now, if you would follow me, you have a meeting with your new master to attend to. Come, lets not keep him waiting," he said and marched out of the hangar, once again gesturing for the others to follow. Leading them into the darkness of the unlit corridors everyone, even those having helmets would have a hard time to navigate through it, everyone except Ghorzkha (since he knew the layout of this part of the ship) and Satharn. However their host would not lead them into any traps or ambushes, nor did it look like he had the manpower to do it since the only other souls they met during the short trip were space vermin and other kinds of rodents stalking the dark halls.

Finally, they arrived at the large double-doors with a winged skull right in the center of it. Opening them with a flick on a nearby console, Viator pointed them to enter the chamber ahead. "My master is inside and expecting you. Be so kind and watch what you say to him, he's not a man known for mild temper," he added it with a grin and let everyone inside before he expertly jumped back and closed the door behind them, locking it in case they tried to flee and remaining outside alongside Ghorzkha, waiting for the events to unfold.

-----------------

The chambers they entered were quite large, the only light was coming through the broken glass on a faraway set of windows, the illumination of a distant star. Most of the chamber's furniture was destroyed or cast away in the corners of the chamber with the exception of a large round table in the middle of it where stacks of paper could be found, filled with all kinds of writing. Besides the paper lied half of a skeleton with mostly its upper part present, acting like some kind of a dead scholar reading through his work. But that wasn't the end of grisly sights because if they actually looked up, they would see rows and rows of chains fixed to the ceiling where more of the skeletons could be seen dangling around, locked in a morbid display, playing out some madman's act.

Most of the remains inside the room were old, however there was one fresh corpse, a simple servitor lied eviscerated on the black marble floor nearby, the pitcher he was holding broken and its dark contents spilled all over a rug that looked awfully similar to dried human skin. On the far end of the room across from where they were standing was a large chair, big enough to fit a man twice the size of the Astartes and as the illumination fell on it for a moment it looked like somebody was sitting on it but then the moment passed and they saw it was only a play of shadows dancing around its edges. Indeed, most of the things inside the chamber looked to set your nerves on edge but the actual form of the "master" eluded their sight, looking like there was pretty much nobody inside. That was until they heard a sound of scratching nearby.

In a corner of a room to their left and hidden from the light they finally saw movement. A dark form sat there, dressed in rags, it looked like one of the skeletons in the room was given new life. One long thin hand with broken nails slowly went up and down the wall, creating that awful sound, while the other was placed on the forehead of the man, looking as if serving to prevent the head from dropping. Long greasy black hair fell well below the shoulders and in between it you could see a gaunt face with cracked lips and skin so thin you could almost spot black veins below.

"Mmmmm? Who comes?" the voice was low, weak even and while it definitely had a place on the wretched figure, there was a threatening undertone, one that could instill fear in the hearts of even the staunchest of men. "Where is my wine? Fetch me my wine." the man spoke without even looking up, those closest ones catching the glimpse of his black gums and sharpened teeth. There were very few of those present which could tell who this man was, some of them perhaps seeing him in the ages past from the distance or having that dubious honor of fighting alongside his sons. But once again it was Satharn who would be the first one to truly know in just what kind of a predator's lair did they manage to walk into.

As the journey through the atmosphere was a little rough, Satharn held on. He was usually pragmatic and saw no reason to come over all sentimental about a dying world and yet another failure. He was alive, and that meant that he got to carry on the work of the VIIIth Legion. That was all he had, so it was all that mattered.

The litter of a thousand ships greater and lesser floated about the world in a slow and grisly ballet. The Night Lord watched it all dispassionately. He'd seen it before. It was another sign of the Despoiler's unfitness to lead. He was no Warmaster, and never would be. At least Lugft Huron had some kind of plan in his reaving, and a little more success. But it was all futile and all senseless if it achieved nothing, if no lesson was ever learned. It all needed a point. Simply spreading terror was the means, not the end. It was as close to philosophy as Satharn usually got and he was soon done with it, turning instead to rummage under his seat until he came up with a bag of some long-forgotten kit - a large paper bag, which he passed to Valu given his previous show of a weak stomach, a couple of defaced Imperial pamphlets and broken lasgun powerpack. Nothing to ease his boredom there. He glanced out of the window again.

He saw something that jolted both of his hearts.

A ship floated in a lazy shark's spin amid the debris, ancient and battered but still proud, like the crown of an ancient king. He felt his breath stop for a moment as he took in the lightning detail, the sleek lines of the hull, the deadly armaments. All damaged and broken, to be sure, but unmistakable. The Nightfall.

"By the False Emperor, the Nightfall," he breathed, his voice as soft as sin. "That old bastard lives after all. I knew it. Sevatar. The Prince of Crows has come back to us."

Satharn looked around, aware that few here would even know who Sevatar might be, and fewer still would care. He chuckled drily. He never had heard confirmed reports of Sevatar's death. Even their Primarch didn't seem to accept it. Well, some of the time. Opinion was divided among the VIIIth Legion's warriors, but the consensus to which Satharn belonged held that Jago Sevatarion was too much of a bastard to die.

"Well," he muttered, grinning under his helmet, "this should be interesting. Lead on."

Once inside, the Legionary couldn't help but feel a shudder as he stepped into the once-grand hulk. He remembered the Nightfall. He hadn't served on the capital ship - his own had been the Dark Epiphany - but he had been privileged to walk upon it when his Primarch had addressed his Legion. When he had still led the VIIIth to blood and glory. Nights long gone. He laid a hand reverently on the hull for a moment, bowing his head. It was enough to instigate a torrent of memories and he took a brief pause to collect himself. Mustn't show weakness in front of the lessers.

Viator, the perfect-perfect showman and egomaniac that all of his Legion tended to be, showed them to an audience chamber to meet his 'master' but for some strange reason didn't want to come in and make the introductions personally. Satharn snorted. To him the reason was clear, he was worried that he might not have brought back enough of a force to please his lord. That, or he might risk breaking a nail. Satharn had no patience with waiting and simply stepped inside.

His hearts stopped.

His breath thundered in his ears as he took in what his eyes had recognised even before his mind had time to process. The tall, gaunt, almost skeletal figure, its long, elegant yet clawed hands, the fall of dirty black hair. The room smelled of decay and old blood and spilled wine. Satharn's transhuman senses registered it, but he did not care. The physical jolt as his system rebooted his hearts was nothing to the pain of sudden emotion. A tsunami of feeling washed through him. He looked around, fearing some dirty trick of the Prince of Pleasure amid rising anger. He took a trembling step forward, stopping as he struggled to understand. His Lord. Primarch Konrad Curze. The one he had watched surge forward to meet his death on the faded, scratched holo-recording over and over and over. The one whom dozens of his Legion-brothers swore they had seen die, his severed head clutched in the hands of an assassin, forced to stand by as he taught his final lesson of vindication.

Satharn strode forward and dropped to his knees before the figure, tearing off his helmet and looking into the black eyes of the figure above him. He did not bow his head, presenting his throat to be torn out if his Lord so wished, his mouth trembling as he struggled to find words. Tears streamed down his face from the black Nostraman eyes that had witnessed so many murders.

"Lord Curze," he whispered, in a rapture of despair and joy and terror. "My Dark King. You have come back to us."

Valu grabbed the paper bag handed by Satharn gladly, took his fingers and poked holes to see into them. "You are right. One shouldn't walk with an ugly visage up to their new lord." The mutant smiled awkwardly because of his messed up face, pulling the oversized paper bag over his face, the holes perfectly for his eyes to see.

He glanced around at the graveyard of ships and the incoming imperials. He would sell his soul to fight them, but in a way he did sell it to Abaddon, even though the return of investment was anything but fair. A heavy sigh left the Lacrymole, memories of when he was a pirate amidst imperial renegades filling his mind. It was such an easier time. Just when would he get his revenge? His hands formed fists, but he relaxed as his thoughts were interrupted by the landing of their vessel and being led into throne hall.

Valu followed nobody's but Satharn's lead. He was intrigued, but knew it was the wrong time to ask about all the things he mentioned. Although unlike his direct lord, he did not throw his 'helmet' off, after all he didn't want to insult anyone with his ugly presence. He stood also tall and proud, over-presenting his throat. For all he knew it was some awkward stance of traditions that these demigods had towards each other.

Fera as she followed there group felt increasingly unnerved, a part of her knew what it was but a part of it wanted to deny that part shove down as deep as she could but she knew she could not as it was something valuable that kept her and most beings alive.

Fear. As they continued on into the throne room she looked behind her as she heard the doors shut knew partially in her gut that they were lead into a room that felt controlled by whoever this lord is, She knew not who but knew this was his room, looking up she felt unnerved by the amount of bodies on the the chains on the roof.

She heard Satharn speaking and looked to him as he said Lord Kurze, She was for a moment surprised, This man this being was one of the legendary primarchs rumored dead by many traitor and loyalist alike. Was this what truly what one of the primarchs looked like, looking so degraded over time. If it was truly one he is defiantly one of the dangerous people in the room, due to age, experience, and possibly knowledge of all the time he was alive.

Fera knew when to finally bend her knee defiantly against a greater warrior or tactician she heard just from storys but if that man was truly a primarch she would never be under a sharper blade or warrior. Her bolter was sheathed on her back as she learned who he was she stood behind Satharn with Valu knowing she could say little much but to offer her weapons and service to him deciding to let Satharn speak for them she stood behind him.

The Prosperan hadn't payed much attention to really much as they entered the Stormbird - keeping to himself unless spoken to through the ride, and doing his best to keep his head up high through the entire walk to whoever this leader may be.

However; once he'd seen the Night Lord's reaction, he glanced over to his side. Was it really so--

And then that name was spoken. The name that a thousand worlds, ten millennia ago, were horrified to hear. The very reason that the Night Lords were so horrifying, whom birthed their legendary status.

...

It was almost, pitiful, to see. ​

Perhaps endearing at seeing his reaction to this, but the sorry state of this man was less than ideal. And yet, he didn't show any of this displeasure or disappointment. Even he knew that in such a state, unless he was crippled to a point where he may as well be in a wheelchair, at least capable of killing a fair few of the Astartes on his own.
Still; to think that this was to be their leader, was perhaps something he'd hoped to avoid, for the sake of actually being productive.

All the same, Ausarius did his best to remain with his head held high and his chest pumped up, maintaining a respectful and firm posture. The cracks in his ceramite plating crunched and scratched against the shards, though it mattered little to him; so long as even with his tattered robes and cracked headdress upon his helm that he kept a somewhat positive impression, he felt confident as is.

He couldn't let this go affecting him - even with the mild shaking in his right knee that fortunately was hidden by the power armour, the need to take in slow breaths. The knowledge that he could charge forward in but an instant and deliver a blow to the man's skull, and that the Primarch could do the very same in even less time - that by the time he'd mustered enough psychic strength to deliver something that could possibly harm him, the Night Haunter will have already gotten into melee and most probably killed him in less than five strokes.

"....Well; if it is truly you," he started, taking a single step forward and bringing his free hand up to his breastplate, "then I would like to know as to why we are here; why we, random people have garnered your interests. If we even have, of course."​