"Just remember failing me is the same as failing her. We all fail or succeed together. No middle ground. " With a haggard wheeze Orghast stomped up a Thunderhawk's loading ramp, mouth forcibly twisting so that it flattened into something of a lopsided smile. Those boils that had broken up one of his shoulderguards jiggled as if something underneath was breathing.
Having heard Orgahast's orders and plan Makrak put his book and pen away back under his cloak and walked onto the ramp of the Thunderhawk Orghast had gotten on. While this wasn't as elaborate or refined as one of his own plans he had to admit the nurglite knew what he was doing. He sat down on one of the many seats within the cargo hold of the drop ship and unshealthed his bayonet. While not the most impressive blade it most certainly had it's uses as a hold out weapon or in case he couldn't fire his laz pistol or didn't feel like having to use his claws or powers. He put it back into it's sheath attached to his belt hidden by his cloak and upholstered his laz pistol next, it was a simple model that was most like made on some unnamed remote forge world the only thing that stuck out about it was the Tzeentch Star of chaos etched into it by Malrak. Having finished his small equipment check Malrak holstered the laz pistol and waited for the rest to get aboard the large drop ship. His excitement for the nearing battle caused the marks of Tzeentch on his cloak to glow dimly.
Thermidor would enter the bay of the Thunderhawk, once again making sure his re-breather was functioning for being in such close proximity to a servant a Nurgle for any period of time, even one so short as a ride to the planet. He would then magnetically clamp his feet to the bay's floor, obviously not trusting whatever was piloting the craft. "I would greatly appreciate it if you all attempted to avoid destroying everything in the facility. Do try and keep any machinery intact so that we may use it ourselves, particularly any servitors you spot, I wish to re-purpose them for various tasks that may aid both myself and the Eldar warlord, and by extension, you all as well, I suppose."
Izakdor surrounded himself in a red cloud of blood-incense, and breathed deeply. He removed his mask and hood, revealing his (currently unknown) features. As a miniature Discord machine wraps around his head like a set of headphones, blaring the sound of Chaos directly into his ears, he uses a ritual dagger to cut eight slashed on his left cheek, forming the eight-pointed star. "Gods of the Ether." He began. "Hear my prayer. I am among warriors far greater than myself. I am outdone by the others in almost every way. Yet, this is the first battle I shall participate in within the Mistresses' warband. Give me your strength, here and now. Let me prove myself worthy of becoming a true Champion of your divine will. Today, I prove myself, or I die. Either way, I give myself, body and soul, to whatever fate you will for me." Opening his eyes, Izakdor could see the snarling faces of daemons appearing in the mist, flickering in and out of existence. He could see the angelic, fey faces of the Daemonettes, the snarling, wrathful eyes of Bloodletters, and the laughing, bloated form of a plaguebearer. The Gods truly did favor him. He could sense the Neverborn crowding around his soulfire within the Ether, lapping at his very essence like a kitten would drink from running water. The Gods are with him, and he will not fail them. With his prayer and sermon done. Isakdor takes one last breath of the Incense and puts his mask back on. He then exits his quarters and enters the Thunderhawk. "Upon this rock," Izakdor said, looking down at the planet below, "We shall build our church."
Macers helmet had removed his helmet prior to the fat basted giving information, sure he could smell the stench of him more, but it smelled even through the filters. "A dreadclaw, haven't used on of those in ages" Macer said, the thought of it, put a short lived smile on his face, but like with everything else, it was not a pretty one, his jagged features not contorting right as his set of sharpened metal teeth where showed. He immediately moved towards the part of the bay where the dreadclaw lander would be, those massive suspension legs always gave a very different experience compared to a drop pod, for better or worse, and usually where able to house many more warriors, though that was a resource they lacked, lots of strange individuals and ugly mutants, but few warriors.
The ogryn just folowed the comand and looked at his comander "tell me where to kill and i shall reap as many servents of a corpse as i can" as he spoke he walked to the thunder hawk
Nehelith limped towards the thunder hawk not caring about the role he was given, he was happy either way so long as he got to kill something. When he got inside he pulled out a small strange pendant from his pockets and began to stare at it, it resembled a small stone with a design not related to chaos with a small orange gem at one side of it but it was broken, cut down the middle. It was a pathetic thing, but Nehelith found a sense of comfort from it, he stared deep into the gem seeing writhing shapes in it and then he would quickly hide it away in his pocket.
Izakdor opened his spellbook with the star of Chaos Undivided on the cover, and began a pre-battle sermon within the Thunderhawk. "We are the chosen warriors of the Gods. We live to spread their Dark Creed across the entire Galaxy. We beat the Word of Truth to those who would hear it, and death to those who would not. Like angels of fiery vengeance, we-" The sermon continued on, probably annoying the less fanatical members of the Warband.
@DeranVendar "At least you haven't completely misused my talents." Khelthera said, an undertone of anger in her voice giving a small hint that being assigned to the team that was meant to cause general mayhem and destruction, rather than attacking the command centre was something the Wych had perceived as a slight to her skills. However, her assignment also meant that she also had to share the ride to the station with that idiot of that pus-bag, of that Mon'keigh of a leader. @Uriel1339 "It is a shame indeed, I was hoping to see how you fought well enough for the Arenas. At least, we're much more likely than the rest of these fools to survive. May you have a safe return to our mistress' side as well." Khelthera said in Eldarin , before making a quick departure to her quarters to pick up the rest of her weaponry: Her trusty staff-weapon that had one end taper into the pointy end of a sword, and on the other end was a flail for those moments when she needed to knock some heads around. Good thing it was also a Power weapon, for the tougher targets. Also, while there she also nabbed her Splinter Pistol, which while useful, wasn't a 'companion.' The Wych did not trust any staff on board the ship to actually take care of her weapons due to the risk they'd keep them for themselves, hence why she kept them in her quarters. Once Khethera had collected her weapons, she headed over to the hanger and boarded the Mon'keigh transport that would take her to the station, while refusing to acknowledge the Mon'keigh she'd have to share the ride wit, gaging at the stench of the Nurglite already in the craft. At lest she would hopefully get off the Thunderhawk before that smell made her do something drastic And as for her other 'allies' , Khethera considered the others that she was forced to work as idiotic and blundering fools that were by their very nature inferior to her, and frankly anyone that offended her.... Well, in Commorragh she would be taking them somewhere nice and quite so that they can be used to sate the Thirst and various other desires, but Khethera thought that the chances of Erythea approving that.... Was slim.
Dyrhildr followed the flock of warriors to the Thunderhawk, already familiar with transit shuttles and the like, but bearing no love for these small, cramped things. She dragged her feet as she moved inside, and growled before letting herself fall into one of the seats, her blade awkwardly placed between herself and the other seats. This cramped situation was bad enough, but for some reason, one of the men just wouldn't stop yapping about truths, creeds, and angels. She twitched, and ground her teeth. The promised battle could not start soon enough.
