Old Dog, New Tricks.
ArchAIngel
Sorcerer Supreme.
- Location
- Right behind you.
Well, this is unlikely to be canon, given what cracked up earlier. Still. The Fell-Handed is fell indeed.
My music while writing this.
Old Dog, New Tricks.
Abbadon the Despoiler stood in his fortress, ancient armor cracked, chipped, and half-way sundered, blood flowing from a half-dozen wounds even as the True Gods' beneficent gifts melded with the bio-skill of the False Emperor.
It was a ruin. The gates and walls had come down, rent apart by ancient strength. The fields were soaked in gore that wept and pulsed as it moved, so corrupted had been the flesh it was wrung from over and over.
The ground?
Corpses, and nothing else. Lords and legends, ancient soldiers that remembered the visage of the Emperor and spat at the memory, lain out besides neophytes seeking glory and finding death, all of them sundered, shattered, and hacked apart with an efficiency the Arch-Traitor had last seen when Horus had taken the field.
Daemon Engines lay in smoking ruins, even an Abominatus Titan cored out and burnt into a hulk by throwing a Greater Daemon into the reactor, and the hulking metal masses had split apart like rotting fruit, despite the blessings heaped upon the God-Machine turned to the True Gods.
Some amongst the survivors asked "How?" at the sheer slaughter, even though they had burned Sectors with glee.
Abbadon knew better.
Some amongst his followers, the more Khornate in particular, thought of the Crimson King as a weakling, for he bore sorcerous powers as his main weapon, a hideous force that the Despoiler had seen personally wielded, and one of the few things he feared.
Yet the shattered, mangled hulk in the center of the slaughter, brimstone-scented from the panicked summonings of his underlings and their butchery, limbs bleeding hydraulic fluid, armor with meters-deep rents in it, paint and heraldry long corroded off by Nurglite toxins and tides, weapons broken and blunted from cutting through Hellplate over and over after the power fields had failed, and reservoirs of ammunition drained via uncounted bodies?
Well, this kind of carnage was to be expected of one able to duel the Cyclops Lord and hold his ground.
But Bjorn's chassis of blessed adamant was not able to stand up to The End of Empires. Even with that, the fight had been the closest the Despoiler had come to death in a long, long, long time.
He had not his usual advantage in age-forged skill, for the Fell-Handed hailed from his own time, when the Primarchs walked and the Great Crusade boiled through the stars.
His own equipment, drenched in the effluvia of his uncounted victories? The Old Wolf had matched it.
It had not been his hardest fight, no. That honor belonged to the copy of the First Warmaster Fabius Bile had made, and he himself had felled, alone.
But this had been a close second. And one far costlier, for the destruction wrought there had been to others, not his own cowed underlings.
Still, there was a benefit, he mused, walking over to the wreck of the Dreadnought.
A Daemon Engine made from one like this... A very useful tool indeed.
Two slashes with Drach'nyen left the amniotic chamber open, and his gauntleted fist reached in to grab the corpse of the challenger, Warp energy coruscating around his form as he forced the Blessings of the Gods into his hand, to take hold of this old warrior and make him his own.
But before that... Oh my. A hideous grin stretched the Warmaster's face. He was still alive?
The hissing hand grasped the skull of the old Marine, and Abbadon's grin widened, as he spoke into the Old Wolf's mind.
"Hello there, failure. How does it feel to know I will take control of this broken form of yours, simply because you could not fight well enough?"
getout
"So that is what you sound like in truth, old corpse? You followed a corpse, and soon, you will be a corpse, puppeted by my will, slaughtering the Vylka Fenryka for daring to stand against me."
getout
"You cannot deny me. Chaos cannot be denied. You gave those who followed you hope. Now you will break it, and I will break-"
His thoughts were interrupted by one of the sundered claws grabbing him from behind.
A gurgle broke through the amniotic fluid. "nnoot YET."
Then it flung him down to the ground, and all his reflexes and skill barely kept him from being stomped into the ground as somehow the rotting hulk moved.
The surviving Chaos Lords charged, eager to earn the favor of the Warmaster, and perhaps to slip in a knife whence the battle was done if he looked weakened enough.
Thirteen of them remained.
The first died with a lightning-fast kick, of all things, turning darkened plate into a shotgun barrage that shredded the one just a step behind him, about to vault over and plunge into the open scar upon the old Dreadnought.
"ssshhhh a saying about THIS" The Old Wolf said, before hacking up a visible gobbet of blood, demolishing the next by simply squeezing and chucking the corpse at the Warmaster, who hacked it in half, The End Of Empires uncaring of what it cut, only that it cut.
By the time he re-reached the Fell-Handed, the remaining Lords were dead. Hearts punctured by punches thrown with hideous speed, skulls slammed into one another hard enough even the Blessing of Nurgle could not have saved them, or their weapons snapped like toothpicks and jammed into their forms.
Thirteen of the most powerful Chaos Lords the galaxy had to offer.
Dead, in an instant.
One of those killing arms swung towards the Despoiler, and he swung Drach'nyen with the confidence of one who had never seen it stopped.
It was not. But the bulk of the Dreadnought was still enough, even after the battle damage, he was the one slammed back, and Bjorn quite literally dropped himself on top of the Archfiend, shattering all four limbs as the hole cut by the First Daemon rent Abbadon's limbs like some insane cookie cutter.
"thy sy old dogz doont learn new TRICKS" sputtered out the voice, eyes only kept staring by raw willpower meeting ones filled with fear for the first time in millennia.
"Hrs on. PLAY DEAD."
Abbadon clenched his jaw and activated his teleporter, ripping through the Warp even as the Fell-Handed punched himself up for a bodyslam that would've finished the Warmaster of Chaos.
"My lord! What-"
Drach'nyen cut as his bridge sealed his wounds, the Mark of Chaos Undivided drinking in the foul currents.
"Kill. That. Planet." Abbadon snarled out, before marching off towards the crew quarters of the ship, blade and gun ready to kill quite literally everything onboard if his wroth did not falter.
My music while writing this.
Old Dog, New Tricks.
Abbadon the Despoiler stood in his fortress, ancient armor cracked, chipped, and half-way sundered, blood flowing from a half-dozen wounds even as the True Gods' beneficent gifts melded with the bio-skill of the False Emperor.
It was a ruin. The gates and walls had come down, rent apart by ancient strength. The fields were soaked in gore that wept and pulsed as it moved, so corrupted had been the flesh it was wrung from over and over.
The ground?
Corpses, and nothing else. Lords and legends, ancient soldiers that remembered the visage of the Emperor and spat at the memory, lain out besides neophytes seeking glory and finding death, all of them sundered, shattered, and hacked apart with an efficiency the Arch-Traitor had last seen when Horus had taken the field.
Daemon Engines lay in smoking ruins, even an Abominatus Titan cored out and burnt into a hulk by throwing a Greater Daemon into the reactor, and the hulking metal masses had split apart like rotting fruit, despite the blessings heaped upon the God-Machine turned to the True Gods.
Some amongst the survivors asked "How?" at the sheer slaughter, even though they had burned Sectors with glee.
Abbadon knew better.
Some amongst his followers, the more Khornate in particular, thought of the Crimson King as a weakling, for he bore sorcerous powers as his main weapon, a hideous force that the Despoiler had seen personally wielded, and one of the few things he feared.
Yet the shattered, mangled hulk in the center of the slaughter, brimstone-scented from the panicked summonings of his underlings and their butchery, limbs bleeding hydraulic fluid, armor with meters-deep rents in it, paint and heraldry long corroded off by Nurglite toxins and tides, weapons broken and blunted from cutting through Hellplate over and over after the power fields had failed, and reservoirs of ammunition drained via uncounted bodies?
Well, this kind of carnage was to be expected of one able to duel the Cyclops Lord and hold his ground.
But Bjorn's chassis of blessed adamant was not able to stand up to The End of Empires. Even with that, the fight had been the closest the Despoiler had come to death in a long, long, long time.
He had not his usual advantage in age-forged skill, for the Fell-Handed hailed from his own time, when the Primarchs walked and the Great Crusade boiled through the stars.
His own equipment, drenched in the effluvia of his uncounted victories? The Old Wolf had matched it.
It had not been his hardest fight, no. That honor belonged to the copy of the First Warmaster Fabius Bile had made, and he himself had felled, alone.
But this had been a close second. And one far costlier, for the destruction wrought there had been to others, not his own cowed underlings.
Still, there was a benefit, he mused, walking over to the wreck of the Dreadnought.
A Daemon Engine made from one like this... A very useful tool indeed.
Two slashes with Drach'nyen left the amniotic chamber open, and his gauntleted fist reached in to grab the corpse of the challenger, Warp energy coruscating around his form as he forced the Blessings of the Gods into his hand, to take hold of this old warrior and make him his own.
But before that... Oh my. A hideous grin stretched the Warmaster's face. He was still alive?
The hissing hand grasped the skull of the old Marine, and Abbadon's grin widened, as he spoke into the Old Wolf's mind.
"Hello there, failure. How does it feel to know I will take control of this broken form of yours, simply because you could not fight well enough?"
getout
"So that is what you sound like in truth, old corpse? You followed a corpse, and soon, you will be a corpse, puppeted by my will, slaughtering the Vylka Fenryka for daring to stand against me."
getout
"You cannot deny me. Chaos cannot be denied. You gave those who followed you hope. Now you will break it, and I will break-"
His thoughts were interrupted by one of the sundered claws grabbing him from behind.
A gurgle broke through the amniotic fluid. "nnoot YET."
Then it flung him down to the ground, and all his reflexes and skill barely kept him from being stomped into the ground as somehow the rotting hulk moved.
The surviving Chaos Lords charged, eager to earn the favor of the Warmaster, and perhaps to slip in a knife whence the battle was done if he looked weakened enough.
Thirteen of them remained.
The first died with a lightning-fast kick, of all things, turning darkened plate into a shotgun barrage that shredded the one just a step behind him, about to vault over and plunge into the open scar upon the old Dreadnought.
"ssshhhh a saying about THIS" The Old Wolf said, before hacking up a visible gobbet of blood, demolishing the next by simply squeezing and chucking the corpse at the Warmaster, who hacked it in half, The End Of Empires uncaring of what it cut, only that it cut.
By the time he re-reached the Fell-Handed, the remaining Lords were dead. Hearts punctured by punches thrown with hideous speed, skulls slammed into one another hard enough even the Blessing of Nurgle could not have saved them, or their weapons snapped like toothpicks and jammed into their forms.
Thirteen of the most powerful Chaos Lords the galaxy had to offer.
Dead, in an instant.
One of those killing arms swung towards the Despoiler, and he swung Drach'nyen with the confidence of one who had never seen it stopped.
It was not. But the bulk of the Dreadnought was still enough, even after the battle damage, he was the one slammed back, and Bjorn quite literally dropped himself on top of the Archfiend, shattering all four limbs as the hole cut by the First Daemon rent Abbadon's limbs like some insane cookie cutter.
"thy sy old dogz doont learn new TRICKS" sputtered out the voice, eyes only kept staring by raw willpower meeting ones filled with fear for the first time in millennia.
"Hrs on. PLAY DEAD."
Abbadon clenched his jaw and activated his teleporter, ripping through the Warp even as the Fell-Handed punched himself up for a bodyslam that would've finished the Warmaster of Chaos.
"My lord! What-"
Drach'nyen cut as his bridge sealed his wounds, the Mark of Chaos Undivided drinking in the foul currents.
"Kill. That. Planet." Abbadon snarled out, before marching off towards the crew quarters of the ship, blade and gun ready to kill quite literally everything onboard if his wroth did not falter.
