As Marcus helped up a Blood Angel, he yanked his bolt pistol up and emptied its magazine into an oncoming Night Lord, uncaring for its intimidating appearance; having pushed his patient over to Herstius and sidestepping, his sword was brought up and amputated the traitor's arm before kicking him down, the blade being used to impale him directly through both hearts without a second thought.

"Get back to safety," he said to the Blood Angel now, patting his pauldron and loading in one of his last magazines into the bolt pistol; even what brief moments of scavenging for more he did amongst the dead, he was running out of bolts at an alarming rate, and he knew that Herstius' melta canisters wouldn't last forever either.

Still; he couldn't stop now.

Dear god; help me save one more.

With that he twirled his sword in his hand and marched on, uncaring for the sore muscles from the fighting and bruising through his artificer plate. He saw even the others who followed him, what few there was; it was a fascinating sight, to him.

Blood Angels with their chainswords, Imperial Fists with their boltguns and Blackshields with their own assortment, it was like a menagerie of the Imperium. Each fighting to save each other's life, each struggling to push forward against the horde of heresy ahead of them; one of them was even simply scavenging for more bolt rounds off the dead, constantly shaking his head in clear self-disapproval.

Still; he couldn't stop now.

He pushed on and saw more of the loyalists, jogging through the rubble and rushing to the aid of another Blackshield, yanking him up over his shoulder. He pulled up the combi-bolter he wielded and opened fire without any remorse on the World Eaters ahead of him, not even paying attention to the dents and cracks that swelled with their own blood that his firing caused, not even caring as they fell; just giving off a glare of death beneath his hood, the last thing they'd seen from the Dark Angel before hopping back up over a boulder and handing the injured man to one of the Astartes.

"All of you get going," Marcus said with a deep breath, handing the weapon back to its owner and gesturing them all off, "I'm going to go get one more."

"That was what you said last time." One of the Blood Angels remarked, his lack of an arm not making him any less chatty or reluctant to leave the man who'd saved his life; who'd saved all theirs, and some more.

It was a moment that gave him pause now; how long had it been since he'd said that? He looked to his narthecium briefly and noted its critical condition - the low amount of medical supplies left, its cracked plating and the damaged saw. A glance to Herstius' let him know that his was in far better condition, and caused him to simply shrug his single pauldron.

"Then I suppose that I may lie a few more times about 'one more'." He said half-jokingly, twirling his blade and hopping off the rock - he could see more bodies of red, yellow and black all around. He wouldn't leave them to die. All he could hope for was to save one more.

Help me save one more, he thought to himself as he charged forth, his hood covering his gaze and solidifying the swordsman's place as one of the First Legion in the traitor' eyes, his blade hacking and slashing through berserkers and havocs alike without a second thought.

Even as he stepped to the side of a berserker's chainaxe, he bashed the pommel into his faceplate and shattering it - not even wasting time with him as he ducked under another's chainsword and cut his legs in two, firing off a salvo of bolt shells into a distant foe before pistolwhipping another, cracking his bolt pistol's frame slightly.

He was so close, he could feel it; he couldn't bear letting one more be left behind, and there was little anyone would do, even as those who tried to follow him were left behind in his struggle to save more.

Sour ​

"Again I have to disagree. I think it would be most appropriate for our bones to be ground down beneath the boots of millions here and now. Although you are entirely right on the first point. Sour is quite fitting." A professional level of grimness took over the man's features. Gloran hefts up his combi-bolter and chews into the traitor ranks, not aiming at anyone in particular, taking pot shots honestly. "At least we are doing what we do best: piss everyone off." That, that earned a smile.

One of the Death Shroud stepped up onto the fallen Contemptor, heaving Man Reaper overhead and began carving open the sarcophagus. Custodes strode forth without a concern for anyone else there, spear the hand of death itself as the enemy fell left, right, and center.

Where did you learn how to use that? Are you one of Garro's? One of mine? Kremnar looked up as the voice invaded his thoughts. Without warning he stood before a Primarch: Mortarion hung in the air on rotting wings. Censers spewed more of the ill mist across the war torn landscape surrounding them, and tattered robe fluttered several feet off of the ground. Death Shroud advanced still, scythe whistling through the air towards his neck.

Marcus tumbled over a bent armored plate from a Rhino. Something had exploded behind him, tossing Apothecary over a piece of cover where he had been treating another wounded Blackshield that he did not properly recognize. Rolling down closer to the breach he came to in the grips of Death Guard smog. A White Scar and his bike loomed over the Apothecary, ignorant of his presence and focused ahead on the likes of Mortarion and his Death Shroud; they and a Custodes, Kremnar, and Har whom were the furthest friendly forces lodged like a thorn in the enemy advance.

Kremnar Eranite growled quietly as the initial uppercut missed with the blade of his power scythe, the Death Guard terminator elite stepping back just in time to avoid being carved from groin to chin. However, whether due to conscious choice or not, the retaliation didn't come after for him to deflect. Taking advantage of the moment, the sternguard veteran slid the handle outward, jabbing the end of it hard towards the Deathshroud. The blunt end impacted the terminator's diseased helmet, cocking back the head and making the terminator take a step back. This gave the loyalist all the time he needed to increased the space for optimum striking distance and power, and he shifted his grip together at the end of the handle, opposite of the blade.

With a fierce determination in his eyes, Kremnar brought the power scythe down with all the power in his arms. The weapon's blade drew back to behind his head, before slicing down onto the Deathshroud, cutting directly into the base of the helmet and slicing all the way into the torso. The Death Guard stood still for a moment, even as the power field of the weapon fried his insides, before going down on both knees, dropping his own power weapon onto the ground. Gripping the handle closer to the middle now, the sternguard veteran placed a foot on the chest of the dead traitor, before pushing the body away, ripping the weapon free from the cesspool of diseases and decay. With his current fight finished, he turned to take note of what had transpired around them, and only managed to spot the fallen dreadnought with his own problems, when a shadow cast itself over him.

Pausing, Kremnar turned just as a voice forced itself into his head. The smile on his face, which had appeared when he cut down the Deathshroud, disappeared. Turning, the sternguard veteran gazed up to what must have been the remains of one Mortarion. The Death Guard primarch had always had a grim demeanor and presence, but now, corrupted by whatever befell the rest of his legion, he oozed in disease and pestilence. A pair of blighted wings kept him levitating off of the ground, making his stature even higher than Kremnar's. The questions from him buried itself into his mind, and yet, in the face of inevitable destruction, he couldn't help but laugh. If nothing else, he had surprised one of the arch-traitors following Horus, and that in itself was a feat that would resound through the ages.

Kremnar didn't know whether the very fact that Mortarion had spoken to him in his mind meant that he could read the rest of it like an open book. In either case, he took precautions and buried the thoughts of his true identity, along with that of his brothers, as far down into his own mental plane as possible. Still, the questions of the Death Lord spawned more questions within his own mind. The sternguard veterans had heard of other rumors, ones where those within the traitor legions stood defiant against their treacherous leaders and brothers, and clung to the Emperor and the Imperium at the risk of fates worst than death. Had this Garro been one of them? Or was he Mortarion's champion, the greatest executioner of this foul being's orders? It mattered little, as Kremnar did his best to construct and quickly imagine false memories of serving with the Death Guards, if only to place one last deception in the mind of the primarch before he died.

Kremnar remained silent, as the ploy would only work should he fight similarly as the one he struck down moments ago, and he gathered as much information as he knew about the XIV legion as he knew, filling in the blanks with logic as he went, hoping that he would not overstep and give himself away. However, he thought as loud and defiantly at the primarch as possible, so as to cry out in a challenge to one's former master. One of yours? That rot must have gotten to your brain, my lord. The last words laced with sarcasm. Even when you struck my name from the records and pulled me through the veil of death to be part of the shroud, my vow had always been to the Emperor, just as yours had. As you placed me in death, he has given me new life. The sternguard veteran gripped his power scythe at ready, doing his best to mask any emotions and to copy the machine like efficiency of the Deathshroud. In honor, there is true freedom. In duty, oppression fades. In death, terror ends. Even should you strike me down now, you'll do so knowing that your hand picked son would not follow you into treachery like so many others, that you did not slay all of us at Istvaan, that you had failed to bring the true XIV Legion under Horus and his betrayal.

Kremnar knew if it came down to the actual fight, he would be fortunate to scratch the armor of the primarch, let alone hope to survive or win. The massive power scythe in the primarch's hands would tear apart his own at the slightest touch, not to mention the filth ridden pistol in his other hand. The legio custodes around them would stand a better chance, but even they paled in comparison to a primarch, corrupted as he was. Still, victory came in many forms, and he struck one last gambit in order to sow doubt and discord within Mortarion's mind. It gave him the greatest chance of success, and maybe, just maybe, he could buy an extra second or two for his brothers behind him.

In battle, that second could very well decide victory or defeat. For their brotherhood. For the Imperium. For the future of Mankind.

Blessed is the mind too small for doubt.

Admittedly, the sight of the Death Shroud - let alone their Primarch, Mortarion of the Death Guard - was a sight that gave Marcus pause. He thought for a moment as he watched them fight, even as Herstius finally caught up with him, what the thought process would be in even contemplating such a thing.

A moment of cowardice came and scolded him for thinking such a thing, to think of fleeing.

No, he thought back, It's just common sense. I'm one man against a Primarch, empowered by some monstrous God, along with his honour guard. And I have men to save.

Naturally, he just gave a very slow nod, mouthed "Okay" at himself and went about his business.


Ooh; a bolt pistol mag.

"Then if you are feeling like it do leave your bones here, I'm sure our daemonic "friends" will love to gnaw on them," Seth replied, the last thing he needed now was to get in an argument with another Iron Warrior now when they were supposed to defend the breach, or get back towards the gates, depending on who you ask.

"We'll piss them off aye, and do something more," Soul Smith kept his guard up, twin Excoriators not the best choice of weapons at the moment when the only thing he could do was stand and wait for the enemies to get in close. He felt his ire rising once again, he fought hard to prevent that from happening during the past couple of days but as the time dragged on so did his patience ran thin. "Come on, where are those heroic bastards from other traitor legions who should try and storm the breach. I need to kill some cocky hero to calm my nerves."

My Name Is Not Important​

Almost amusing. Almost. Mists parted before Mortarion's massive scythe. Tip hovered just a few inches over the ground drawing up a storm of debris in its passing. Strike finished well and far from Kremnar, yet shockwave surfed onward and struck him flat against the ground. Pressure from the attack alone left veteran feeling as if his armor and bones might be pulped, Krem forced to weather several punishing seconds of traveling force before it at last passed over him fully. What remained of the energy spent itself catapulting one of the White Scars from his bike and smacking warrior against a ramp of rubble. Marcus, being nearby, was forced down into cover as multiple bricks carried by the wave nearly struck him down. Crawling forward he flops over the fallen son of Chogoris, and looks him over for wounds. Front side looks fine, scraped and tarnished plate the seeming extent of the wounds; a quick flip reveals back of helmet has caved in and compacted a great deal of skull and grey matter into Scar's face. Cursing Marcus urges Herstius and the others rise to move on.

Custodes strides towards the Primarch, head raised proudly and spear presented to strike. Mortarion thrust forward an open palm and conjured forth a cloud of vermin and pestilence that slapped golden warrior from armored feet. Armor corroded upon impact, wrought into an ugly mixture of reddish-browns and pale white. Kremnar rose in time to see the strike, three Plague Marines having moved up to surround him. Bolters raised and Sternguard seemed set to face death by firing squad. Death is derailed by the flight of a Terminator, Death Guard bowled over or crushed by one of the Shroud entering the fray via Contemptor pattern throwing arm. Har growls out words distorted by a ruined voice caster. Mortally wounded Astartes within is exposed through a diagonal gash crossing from shoulder to opposite hip. Already contact with ruinous winds decay Har's flesh; prepared to fail him once more. Mortarion draws the Lantern and discharges a blast of energy into the Dreadnought that disintegrates Har and much of his shell without a second thought. Kremnar now stands alone against the side: White Scars riding offin the face of Nurgle's tally men and the Mortarion's sons, Marcus and co are withdrawing, and the Custodes is critically wounded.

Retrieve Him
​

Marcus is briefly struck dumb by the intrusion. Head turns to look and sees Kremnar in the sights of the Lantern. Something instinctively guides him to look away, realizing that the voice had not meant the Blackshield. Heart skips a beat spying wounded Custodes, Apothecary leaping into action without conscious awareness. Medic had been talking to God, and one of sorts spoke back at last. Joined by Herstius the pair of Iron Warriors haul a massive arm over their shoulders and begin lugging venerated guardian back towards friendly lines. Such is Marcus' focus that when Mortarion fires, and in his heart of hearts he is sure that Kremnar has been slain, he does not even look back. Not even the mighty gust overhead of a living typhoon sailing into the fray rouses him from the Emperor's command.

Kremnar looks into the face of death: and its an overgrown las-pistol as far as he is concerned. Scythe hangs low in hand, grip loose and arm refusing to muster up the same strength as his spirit after being pounded by the mere aftermath of a Primarch's attack. Trans-human eyes pick out tightening of finger coiled about the trigger, mere milliseconds out from oblivion. Something faster than that saves him. Someone riding a jet bike. Heavy bolters bracket Mortarion, Daemon Primarch's aim cast wide and causing Lantern to blast off into the distance. Kremnar is instantly forgotten as Dusk licks out towards Jaghatai Khan and his steed. Not so arrogant as to believe his safety means anything to either combatant, Sternguard books it back towards the breach before the rest of the Death Guard might overrun him.

The Levee Bursts​

Marcus' arrival signals the retreat. Orion takes note of their honored company and sounds the call to retreat. Many are uncertain, momentarily questioning the order and looking to Seth. Orion's name is known by chain of command and some deeds; likewise Soul Smith is known by the quantity of and quality of heads he has taken. Any conflict is quashed as head and heart of the Forty-Fourth act in concert and Chaplain reinforces the order, seeing that most of their brothers who might of survived the collapse are in attendance and that the bulk of the enemy bodies are coming forth. Not long after they turn tale the Reactionary Force does as well, Blood Angels having fallen back and no longer needing cover. Bringing up the rear, edging out just ahead of Horus' invaders are the White Scars. Upon a lone jet bike Kremnar clings for dear life to one of the Khan's wild riders as they corkscrew blindly through towering titan wreckage while being chased by countless munitions.

Forty-Fourth battalion consolidates before the great walkways leading into the Palace proper. Each one a massive gilded bridge lined with statues and plaques honoring countless heroes of Mankind. Roads broad enough, sturdy enough, and worthy enough to support titans became crowded with bodies forming up behind Dorn's fortifications. Barricades were manned, stationary weapons taken up, and vehicles seated into reinforced cradles turning them into powerful defensive bunkers. The Iron Warriors would not receive the comfort of being bound to solid ground and stationed among the sturdy defenses, nor would they be allowed to stand shoulder to shoulder with their cousins; instead their place and honor was staked on the defense of a titan.

Knight of Terra was an honorary moniker. Original name and legion had been scrubbed and now new title was only identifier the Warlord wore. Within and without the remaining members of Warsmith Orion's battalion scrambled into position. Deployment was a sudden and jarring shift in plans compared to what was expected and command was doing the best it could to set up re-arming stations and supply depots wherever they could. It was a different sort of chaos to the one knocking on the gates and pouring over the walls, but at least it was a familiar one that the siege masters of the Iron Warriors were equipped to handle.

Seventh Squad, official and unofficial members, were given a prime view of things standing their ground on the shoulders. Herchel and his own squad joined them, fate aspiring to keep brothers of over a century close to one another on the hell that Terra had become. Marcus had been sicced on his brothers after Custodes was taken off his hands by Palace personnel. Without a proper lab and given only a small ration of spare chemicals and tools Apothecary was woefully under-prepared for patching up his allies. Better than nothing wasn't much more as it turned out. The distinct lack of Kremnar, and one of Nathiel's arms, did little to ease the burden on their supplies.

Vera remained attached to the team. With her own squad slain to the woman and extensive time put in at the side of the Seventh, and perhaps a bit of negligence from master command, the Pursuer was stationed outside of the titan's hide and on a thinly railed platform outside an artillery housing unit. While standing about and doing their best to recuperate before the next storm broke upon them, a Servitor scuttled up and deposited a half-full crate of ammunition and then saw itself off without any warning. Replacement bolts for everyone and only a meager amount of special ammunition and explosives.

​

@DeranVendar

On The Shoulder of Giants

The destruction to the world of Terra had always been apparent to Dyzek, yet, it was not until he'd come to see the view from his current posting, that he'd come to know of it's scale. It was hard to imagine a planet completely under siege, even as one of the IVth Legion, yet, gazing from the vantage point offered by the Knight of Terra, the Blackshield would see the ruination that the traitors had brought to his homeworld. Scars carved into the earth, craters the size of hab blocks from orbital strikes, corpses that stretched onwards to the horizon, and the legions upon legions of foes baying for the blood of those who stood in Terra's defense. He'd always known the numbers, known the odds against them, yet, to see it here now, in clear view, the warrior would find it very enlightening of their situation. As the resupply came in, meager as it was, the sergeant of this single squad would not take his gaze from where it lay, the plains of battle. They would never forget this moment, he'd consider to himself, he and his squad, the armies arrayed, both traitor and loyalist. Humanity itself, if it survived the corruption and betrayal of Horus, this siege would ingrain itself into the very fabric of Mankind, for all time, generations to come knowing of the struggle that had occurred here for it's very spirit. In a way, Dyzek would be thankful that he was here, and able to make his small mark on history, once more steeling himself for the future to come, and the challenges that would await all those who survived.

Shifting about to look down on the collection of ammunition and equipment, the assault sergeant would feel a smirk growing upon his bare face. Flexing his fingers, he'd note that with the loss of Idomeneus, and with him, his zeussar bolt pistol, he'd not be in any need of the things displayed here. He had a single fuel canister left for his flamer, all it would seem he'd be able to rely on, and as he quickly reached down to pluck a single krak grenade, he'd be finished. Hefting the explosive in his palm, he'd speak softly, his voice fully free of the vox snarl that he'd become accustomed to during his service.

"Make it last Seventh, we do not know when next we will receive such a bounty."

Placing the grenade in a small pouch at hip, he'd turn back towards the distance, falling silent once more.​

Kremnar Eranite watched as the reply came from the Prince of Decay, and his eyes narrowed at the seemingly uncaring primarch. Accompanying what might as well had been a shrug, the massive power scythe in his hand, Silence, came, slicing through the ground without touching it, and leveling off mere feet from where he stood. The shockwave from the blow rushed forward towards him, and the sternguard veteran slammed the handle of his own power weapon into the ground, even as it slapped into him. The sheer force of the impact made him felt as though the world was simultaneously imploding and exploding at the same time, and, though he had driven the handle of his weapon a foot and a half into the ground, he felt himself sliding back from the sheer force of it, a line forming in the ground from where the weapon dragged through the dense earth of Terra.

When the blow finally subsided, Kremnar breathed hard as he went to one knee. Looking up, his vision cleared just in time to see a custode's armor wither and decay at the mere psyker power of the primarch's open palm, and the trio of Death Guards formed up in front of him, weapons leveled in his direction. The head of this army of abomination had decided the toy with him, to cast him off as scraps to his own dogs. Gritting his teeth, the sternguard veteran couldn't help but smile: at least these ones would spare him the pain of listening to whatever rotting patron empowered them, unlike that sergeant from back on the wall. Just as death came, however, another delay forced its hands off of him; this time in the form of another Deathshroud colliding with all three of the enemy, crushing them with the sheer weight of his armor and the velocity in which he traveled. Managing to stand now, the power scythe in Kremnar's hand slid out of the ground, having been driven up from the ground's depth during the slide.

Slightly confused, Kremnar looked over to see Har's own eyes staring back at him through the gap created by the Deathshroud moments ago. The plague of the XIV legion had already tightened its grip around him, and yet, even through the agony, he managed a growl from his ruined vox box and a nod. Although he couldn't decipher the words, the sternguard veteran nodded back; if he survived this war, he would induct the legend of Har into their brotherhood's history personally. Just as suddenly as the intervention from the dreadnought, a blinding blast from Mortarion's pistol vaporizes Kremnar's only remaining ally, and the lone loyalist closed his eyes, hoping that Har would find his peace now in a quick death. Turning back to the Death Lord, Kremnar tried to raise his power weapon once more, only to find his flesh failing him where his resolve didn't. He felt like he tried to lift a land raider rather than a simple power weapon, and could barely grip the weapon harder, let alone lift it once more.

Still, Kremnar would not give his killer the satisfaction of seeing weakness, not even a primarch. As Lantern turned its head in his direction, he stood tall and straight, as proud to claim the defenses of Terra against the dark as any son of the Emperor. All around, dead astartes, bones of auxilia, even the shells of dreadnoughts and custodes laid, and the tide of enemies rushed to consume him. The sternguard had spotted Brother Marcus earlier, though from the cursory glances to those around him, he could not find the astartes amongst the pile of corpses all around, and his heart lifted at knowing one of them lived through his ordeal. Looking forward, he stared directly into the eyes of Mortarion, unwavering even unto the point of oblivion. Even as the finger squeezed the trigger and the barrel lightened, the Prince of Decay would not see Kremnar look away.

Whatever Kremnar's ultimate fate lied, the Emperor had not deemed his end before the bloody ruins and breach of the Imperial Palace. A burst of heavy bolters rocked into the chest of Mortarion, forcing the Death Guard Primarch's shot to go wide. A massive jetbike, though the loyalist would always swear it was more of a land raider that could fly, flew over his head, and a roar of a glorious battle cry followed it into the fray, along with another few dozen smaller version flanking it. The red lightning bolt of the V legion flashed the sternguard veteran as his mind tried to comprehend the idea of terminators riding as swiftly on jetbikes as any regularly armored fighters from any of the other legions. Before his mind could piece everything together, one of the latter arrivals, this one not in a tactical dreadnought armor, swerved back and flew directly at Kremnar, one hand extended down towards him, shouting only two words. "Come on!"

One of Kremnar's hand, as though from reflex alone, released its grip on the power scythe and reached up, just in time for the White Scar to grasp it and drag him up from momentum alone. Watching as the Khagan proceed to engage Mortarion in the rapidly shrinking earth below, he looked back to see them rushing headlong towards the wall itself. Munitions of all type flew at them, as well as the monsters that loomed the skies now. Winged abomination attempted to swarm them, only to be outpaced by the speeding jetbike. Everything from lasgun shots to artillery shells got lobbed at them, yet most failed to impact the vehicle. Those that did couldn't manage to affect the performance of the V Legionnaire, and the world spun as they corkscrewed back and forth, dodging and avoiding the attacks on their hell freezing charge back to their lines, all the while the White Scar drove the thing with one hand, the other holding on to his passenger.

One hand gripping the arm of his rescuer, Kremnar only realized after the spinning stopped that his other hand had locked the power scythe within its grasp. Impossibly, the limb refused to let go of the weapon, as though he had developed a kinship with it formed only through facing certain death itself. He looked down at the weapon and arm incredulously, and only after a few seconds realized the White Scar's yells at him. "Hey, you daft? Holy Chogoria, did I just busted my baby's speed just to save some brain-dead astartes?"

Blinking at his rescuer, and unsure of what to say, the sternguard veteran managed out only a "what?"

"I said, I'm going to have to drop you off early. Got orders to regroup with my legion for a surprise on the whoresons, so I need to double back as soon as possible. Don't worry, I spot a landing zone up ahead." Kremnar turned to look and saw nothing, just air, the backdrop of the Imperial Palace's innards and a... titan?

"Wait, you don't mean-" The rider cut him off.

"Hang on!" and with that, they swooped down towards the god-machine. Over the sound of the roaring wind, Kremnar shouted.

"Can't you just drop me off on the ground somewhere?"

The manic White Scar shook his head. "No time, besides, you're lucky my FoF indicators still worked, else our own guns would've shot us out of the sky by now. Okay, try not to overshoot the LZ, I can't catch you if you fall off the back end."

"No, no, no!" But it was to no avail. The Titan rapidly approached, and as they neared the shoulder, Kremnar managed to spot a familiar figure. "SARGE?!?!" Half a disbelieving question, half a warning, he shouted at the top of his lungs, hoping that Sergeant Dyzek would get out of the way in time for him to not knock his own NCO off of a titan's shoulder along with him. The sternguard veteran needn't worry though: as the White Scar released his grip on the blackshield, and he went into freefall for just a second, flying a foot above his own sargeant's head and crashing onto the shoulder of the Titan. What would normally be a simple tuck and roll landing turned into an uncontrollable slide and tumble across the platform. In a miracle where no one's body part got taken off by his power scythe, Kremnar thought for sure he would go over the side when he slammed into the solid form of a certain combi-Volkite and Thunder Hammer toddling terminator, stopping his momentum completely.

In the distance, from the rapidly disappearing jetbike, came a single farewell. "You're welcome!" the White Scar shouted, even as he went back to rejoin his legion.

Kremnar gave the V legionnaire a look. "Thanks!' he shouted weakly, unsure if the White Scar heard him or not, before looking up at the terminator standing over him as well. "You too Herchel," he added before his helmed head collapsed on the deck of the titan, taking the time to rest finally, uncaring that he was still sprawled across the floor like a corpse.


@BruticusTheGoreHound
@Vulpas

Even upon her newfound perch, Vera would already be silently preoccupied. There were names to be recorded, missing to be tallied. Though from a distance, the woman would seem doggedly calm as she did her best to resupply from their meager allotment, the occasional twitch that occasionally interrupted the woman's movements would speak volumes about her shaken state. It wasn't just her squad that had been decimated in the Fall. The battle had been a weary one, and their losses were much greater than expected.

Though, she supposed, it was the same across the board.

Vera made a half-hearted attempt at gratitude for the moment of security she'd been granted, trying to keep the on setting grief at bay with the practiced dance of her deft fingers. It begins with her armor--scorched and battered, but in better shape than it's been before. The same goes for Vera herself: just about everything ached and stung, but there's been worse days.

For a few minutes, the charade works. If she could just keep their names from echoing in her ears, perhaps her limbs would not feel as leaden. But the effect soon wears off, as even the familiar weight of her bolter brought the woman no comfort. A near endless tide of the missing and dead murmured in her ear, each click and tap of Orskode driving yet another stake into her already heavy heart. As she looked over the ravaged landscape, all the Sister could think about was where her own may have been buried, where their bones may lie beneath the mountains of ruin. Her lips moved silently as she worked, mute, yet in time with a familiar prayer. Such was their price for duty.

But now was not the time for mourning. It never was. The great gears of the Machine of War turned on, and so Vera must follow. It would be the steely visage of quiet resolve that met the members of the Seventh as Vera join them to resupply, the woman's presence stubbornly asserting itself even among the towering figures of her transhuman peers. She had earned her place.

The killing fields may have been drowned in blood, but as much of it had been drawn forth from the traitors as their own. This was their ground, the Holy Jewel of the Imperium itself. Terra, the culmination of a thousand generations' effort, a planet paid for and defended by centuries of suffering and warfare, shall not suffer at the hands of treachery any longer. Her sisters had died for this cause, as had her battle brothers. She will follow their steps into the depths of the Warmaster's hell itself, as was her place.

As Marcus 'gave' his patient away - the Custodes - he finally felt himself slump over and nearly fall on Marcus. His muscles ached beyond anything he'd ever experienced, having ran and fought endlessly, the bruising from incoming bolt shells that hammered his artificer plate making him feel all the more exhausted.
Still; he was satisfied. His --- Arkon's --- blade would be mag-locked onto his side and slowly shaking his head a bit, now wrapping an arm around his companion and giving off a hearty - if tired - laugh.

"...Two dozen men; think we can break that record sometime?" He asked Herstius rhetorically, patting him and finally getting onto his own feet. Still, he looked back to those he had aided and said his goodbyes, offering them 'good luck's and salutes before rejoining his squad.

Still, Marcus was content with what he'd accomplished; despite the comparatively low amount of people, and with that he continued on his duties; for now he generally did his best to try to keep his usage of the medicines in his Narthecium to a minimum (for he had relatively little remaining), instead giving slight injections when needed and allowing the sturdy Astartes form to do the rest.

Still; he did his best. Most of which admittedly was a slight stab and poke, before giving a comforting pat.

Though he'd managed to gather himself a boltgun - a nice looking one, at that - and with that would find himself feeling as he did back in his earlier days. With a boltgun, a bunch of lunatics charging at him from time to time, little to no idea on where he should be, and grumbling to himself.


Ahh, the good old days...

The recollection of the voice he'd heard of course, had lessened his grumbling considerably, if not outright stopping it; such a thing was almost a perfect way to calm his nerves, now with such 'proof' in his heart he set to praying every so often for a bit of good fortune and to have that bit of luck and speed to save those in need.

He did not worry of not hearing a voice this time; simply having heard it once, was all he needed to continue on his benevolent path.​