The Shadow Legion

[onilemur]

Originally posted by Mentirius

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The battle for Fondor had been won, the last act of Inquisitor Qenobee destroying the Tyranid Hive Ship that had threatened the planet. Exterminatus had been withheld. But on the surface, in the cities that covered most of the planet, a secret war still raged. Slowly but surely, the PDF forces were being pushed back, an expanding circle of territory driving inexorably outwards as it swallowed city after city.

Their enemies moved by night, attacking in unstoppable waves and slaughtering entire platoons with few casualties. Lasguns would not stop them, and they fought with savage combat weapons, tearing men in half in a single blow. Terrified soldiers spoke of cannibalism and blood drinking, of men scaling 20ft walls in a single leap and tearing out throats with their bare hands.

The Shadow legion wore no uniforms; from a distance they appeared as civilians, and were able to hide unseen in crowds of innocent people. But in conquered territories, a symbol could be seen sprayed onto walls, and painted onto tattered banners of human skin. The symbol was a dark hand, a burning green eye staring from the palm. Reconnaissance missions during the daylight gathered little, other than the wanton destruction that had been visited upon the fallen cities. Buildings lay in ruins, the green eye stared from every corner, and blood stained the streets. Not a man, woman or child remained.

[onilemur]

The threads of fate twisted and entwined, rippling and changing as the slightest action closed off some paths and opened others. A web of possibilities, infinite in number and so finely woven they appeared simply as a mass of writhing strings. Amaurn let them flow around him, through him, as he searched for an answer. Corruption infested this place, he could sense it as easily as the blood that hung in the air. His enemy was here, tugging at the strings of fate and digging his tentacles into the very fabric of the city. This was a cursed place. But Inquisitor Amarn was a cursed man, and he would not be daunted…<br>
“Daemons, forty yards. Prepare to engage.”

Delat turned to glance at Amaurn, as his eyes snapped open. He nodded, signalling to the Bridgeburners to ready themselves. Marching in two columns down the narrow street, the Inquisitors’ escort were the most hardened, most loyal guardsmen in Delat’s retinue. The cream of the Bridgeburners, men and women chosen for their unique abilities and courage to the point of death. To each Bridgeburner’s weapon was affixed a torch, their glow the only light save for the distant moon.

[onilemur]

In the lead, Captain Paran and Sergeant Whiskeyjack. The first of the officers was a young man, his uniform perfectly clean and pressed. His badges displayed proudly, and his lasgun lovingly maintained. At his side hung a short sword in an ornate scabbard, and a shield was strapped across his back. Unusual equipment for a guardsman, but these were unusual guardsmen.

Whiskeyjack was an aging man, his hair silvered and his face pitted and weary. He wore a faded trench coat with ornate cuffs and collar, the uniform of an important officer. But a Sergeant’s stripes were all that adorned his bizarre attire, and the grizzled veteran’s appearance spoke of a complicated past. He also wore a sword, though his was simpler in appearance, and carried an ancient pistol in scarred hands.

If one were to cast an eye over the warband that now readied their weapons and formed up for combat, they would not appear as a squad of Imperial Guard. But the Bridgeburners had been veterans even when they had come under the wing of Lord Inquisitor Delat, and had been allowed to develop their personal skills and fighting styles in his retinue. The perfect example of this was Private Trotts, a hulking man of enormous strength whose face was painted blue for battle. He wore minimal carapace armour, and dragged a crude bionic leg as he moved, his face set in a fierce grin. In each hulking hand, he gripped a bulky axe, and the only sign remaining of his uniform was a tattered beret. Muscles bulged and rippled as he anticipated combat, flexing his huge arms experimentally.

At Trotts’ side, the only woman in the squad. Private Apsalar, a young woman seemingly untroubled by the imminent battle. Her eyes were bright as she gripped her lasgun, a pair of ornate knives strapped at her slim waist. Though she appeared smaller and less threatening than many of the veterans, the newest recruit to Delat’s retinue was perhaps the most deadly. When those knives were drawn, few could match her deadly skill.

Supporting Trotts and Apsalar, came Fiddler and Hedge, each man laden down with grenades and explosives. Hedge resembled Whiskeyjack somewhat in his grizzled appearance, and his back was bent with the weight of his burden. But he was a heavily built man, and cradled a pump action shotgun in his burly hands. A naval cutless was sheathed at his side, though where he had obtained it was anyone’s guess. Fiddler wore a gas mask that hid his features, and a flak helmet where Hedge was content with a beret. He was short of any exotic weaponry, save for some unusual explosives, and scanned the street with his lasgun, the torch beam carving a line of white light in the darkness.

The second of the Sergeants carried less of the nameless authority carried by Whiskeyjack, and he followed near the back of the column, his eyes darting about like a rat. He wore a rather motley collection of garments, topped off with an immaculate beret, and carried a pair of ornate laspistols, gripped tightly as if to ward off the evil that surrounded them. Sergeant Ansty, his stubbled chin and moustache serving only to accentuate his appearance as something of a shifty character. But he had proven his mettle a dozen times over, or he would not have been here.

The Medic was a man by the name of Mallet, the only signs of his position the black headband he wore, and the medi-pack strapped across his back. He wore a well-kept uniform, and carried a lasgun with the same familiarity as any of the squad. But the right half of his face was a grinning metal skull, the bionic eye glowing a dull red in the dim light of the torches. A grievous wound, suffered in the call of duty, had forced Mallet to receive these bionics, and he bore them proudly, a symbol of his dedication. Beneath the uniform, his chest was largely composed of metal plating, and mechanical organs had replaced his heart and lungs long ago. But the more of himself was replaced, the more the squad’s respect for Mallet grew.

Alongside Mallet marched Private Shard, a rather unstable man with wild eyes who gripped his lasgun with white knuckles. So long had the man fed his addiction to Spook, that he seemed almost constantly to be on a different plane, and would occasionally manifest unnatural powers. The Medic always kept a close eye on his condition, ready to administer the necessary injections should Shard begin to suffer any harmful side effects.

Bringing up the rear, the two snipers cradled their weapons in a practised grasp as they sought a vantage point. Private Aimless, his name belying his skill, wore heat sensitive goggles that turned the darkness into an expanse of cold blue, the bright glows of his squad showing clearly. His arms were bare, and he wore a black tank top in contrast to the standard uniform, caring little for formality now that he served in Delat’s retinue. But he followed slightly behind his companion, Corporal Mekhar, awaiting a command from the more experienced sniper.

Kalam Mekhar had spawned many rumours about his past, and there were those among the Guard who whispered that he had once been an assassin. His uniform was black as night, and his dark skin was weathered from years of hard service. A giant of a man, he moved like a cat, silent and menacing, and few were those who dared to cross him. His rifle was a heavily modified lasgun, and a brace of jagged knives, their blades stained black, adorned his chest.

As the Bridgeburners formed up for combat, Amaurn and Friedle looked to their own retinues, who swiftly took their position. The two Inquisitors had worked together for years, under the guidance and political protection of Delat. They had fought Bauchan before, and it had been Amaurn who had slain Inquisitor Khanor, one of the heretic’s lieutenants. Though they had wiped out the cult Bauchan was fostering, with the aid of Delat and the Bridgeburners, their enemy had escaped into the warp, and now waited for them in the depths of the ruined city. The very heart of the conquered territories, infested by the mysterious Cult of Hidden Hands, and guarded by the menacing Shadow Legion.

Friedle wore black carapace over heavy blue robes, the hood pulled up to shroud his scarred face in shadow. In one hand, he gripped a pulsing daemon sword, the blood red blade encrusted with golden runes. In the other, a chainsword lay silent, ready to whir into life at the flick of a switch. His shotgun holstered across his back, the Xanthite was a forbidding presence, his dark eyes daring an enemy to show itself. Two servo-skulls flew around him like satellites, their orbit regular and swift as they kept pace.

[onilemur]

Amaurn wore black robes, trimmed with gold, in colours that mirrored Mentirius. His head was bare, and strands of white hair lay across his balding scalp. But his ancient, wrinkled face had been given a new look of youth, and his eyes glowed a faint red. Long, pearly fangs protruded over his bottom lip, and his skin was deathly pale against his dark attire. Across his back, an ornate sword, still sheathed for the moment. In his hands he held a lasgun expertly, though no torch adorned his weapon. His unnatural eyes pierced the darkness as surely as daylight, and he moved slowly and carefully, like a coiled spring waiting to be released. All who regarded him saw something not quite human, yet possessing a terrible power. He could sense Bauchan, sense the taint of Amon Dull. They were getting close.

Nearby, a tall man in a brown trench coat, no weapons drawn though a pair of holsters hung at his waist. His face was as pale as Amaurn’s, and his fangs were bared as he sniffed the air. Zhang could sense others of his kind, half-bloods. Daemonic vampires would always be inferior to such s he, and the dogs of Amon Dull would be culled this night. The pureblood had stayed at Amaurn’s side ever since Auron had abandoned him, on the cursed world of Aestimus IX.

His gift of blood had preserved the Inquisitor’s existence, granting him immortality and increasing his power still further. But it had come at a price, and Amaurn felt the unspoken authority Zhang now held over him. The craving for blood united them in battle, but given the chance Amaurn would see the end of the vampire and the return of his freedom. Perhaps there would be such a chance this night…<br>
Following closely behind Amaurn and Friedle, was the hulking shape of Magos Vatolev Gotes. Built into a suit of artificer armour, a bolt pistol held in each powerful iron fist and a specially crafted eviscerator strapped across one shoulder, the Tech-magos was a force to be reckoned with, and his expertise was unparalleled. The armour was blue, trimmed with gold, mirroring Friedle, for the Magos had not left the Inquisitor’s retinue for many years. At either side of the Magos, walked his two greatest creations.

The first had once been a man, but was now almost unrecognisable. One arm was a hulking bionic, ending in a taloned power fist, and the other bulged with enhanced muscles. It gripped a chainsword in its free hand, and trotted at its masters heels obediently, leather boots thudding on the road. But its head was that of a cyber-mastiff, canine in appearance and fashioned from gleaming metal. Though a fallen Bridgeburner had been used to create “Rover”, its mental capacity was that of a mindless servant, and it waited only for a command from Vatolev.

The second construct was a marvel of Imperial technology, and many of Vatolev’s fellow Tech-priests suspected the use of xeno-tech in its design. It was a combat servitor, of sorts. The artificial shell of Interrogator Wysp, Amaurn’s unwilling acolyte. The young woman had fallen in battle on Aestimus IX, decapitated by an arco-flagellant. But through some unknown means, the head had been preserved and sustained, and a machine had been built to house the brain. Such had been the Interrogator’s rage, she had demanded only that she be given the means to destroy the servants of Amon Dull, thus it was built for combat, and combat alone.

Swift and streamlined, the shape of the machine was more akin to an Eldar construct than a bulky Imperial device. Its light armour was polished gold, and the helm that housed Wysp’s brain and the complex neural circuitry was of almost medieval appearance. But on the left shoulder, an MIU implant housed a heavily modified bolt pistol, the laser sight projecting a tiny red dot into the darkness as it searched for a target. The left arm culminated in an enormous blade, humming with energy as the in-built power pack kicked into life. The right was a sleek power fist, a smaller blade mounted on the wrist. It took on a blue glow as Wysp flexed the fingers, readying herself for the coming battle.

Overhead hovered the bizarre construction that was Vatolev’s brother, Gnarus Gotes. The upper half of the Tech-priest was mostly human, save for his bionic arms and implanted weaponry. But below the waist, he rode an enormous metal shape bristling with guns and mechandrites. Built-in anti-grav engines kept Gnarus hovering in mid-air, as his array of weapons scanned the street. A low hum emitted from the engines, and the whir of machinery from within kept the silence of night at bay.

[onilemur]

Ahead of the two radicals, Delat and Windstrider stood side by side, drawing slightly on their formidable powers as they waited for the storm to break. Windstrider held a glowing runestaff in both hands, a mad gleam in his eyes as he tapped into the warp. At the back of his mind, something tugged, but remained securely bound. For now…<br>
Delat himself wore simple grey robes, as always. In one hand, a short black force rod, his only weapon. Looking much the same as he had at the meeting of the cell, he now stood at the heart of a warzone, Bauchan and his master almost in his grasp. His best men surrounded him, and Amaurn’s unnatural powers guided him inexorably towards his enemy. They were getting close, and so far had encountered no resistance. But he had known better than to relax where Amon Dull was concerned, and with Amaurn’s words of warning a shiver of excitement ran through him. It was time to face the Shadow Legion…<br>
The combined light of the Bridgeburner’s torches drove back the darkness, clearing an area of the street directly ahead. But beyond the light, the scurrying of inhuman feet could now be heard, and eyes glowed in the darkness. A tortured cry echoed around the tall buildings, and Apsalar fired into the shadows, hearing a wet thud as the shot connected. Paran followed suite, picking off a dark shape with a snapshot as his torchbeam cut a path through the darkness. Then the enemy was upon them, with a collective snarl that sent a ripple of fear through the warband.

A tide of mutated beasts, resembling rats or dogs but almost man-sized and slavering for blood, pelted towards the Bridgeburners. Monstrous fangs dripped with mucus, and a mass of green eyes glowed as the pack attacked. Trotts gave an almighty roar, and charged into them, breaking ranks to meet the tide. His axes hacked into the first of the beasts, sending it reeling away with a spray of gore, and he plunged into the fray with tireless fervour.

For a moment it looked as though Trotts would be lost to the pack, but even as he charged forth, a second warrior trailed in his wake, the glow of power blades glinting off golden armour. Wysp flung a creature aside with a back-handed swipe of her power fist, and waded in at the guardsman’s side, their weapons taking a brutal harvest as the tide washed around them, and broke against the line of Bridgeburners.

“With me!” yelled Paran, drawing his sword and shield as he pressed forward, fending off the snapping jaws that sought his throat. The squad moved with him, and battle was joined in the dark street, guardsmen grappling with mutated beasts as Trotts and Wysp carved a path deep into the pack. Behind the tide of beasts, loomed the hulking shapes of something more terrible. Hunched, scaled monstrosities, enormous gnarled talons lashing the air as wide jaws gaped in anticipation. And a malevolent presence driving the daemonic creatures forward, as they attacked with mindless ferocity.

[onilemur]

***

Kalam scaled the stairs in a series of silent bounds, Aimless trailing behind as they ascended the spiral. Not even pausing as he kicked down a door, the Corporal stormed into a room on the top floor and made for a window. The sounds of battle drifted from the street below, as he streaked across the derelict library, kicking moulding books aside before him. The domed building stood on one side of the street, and Kalam smashed the thin glass of an overlooking window, seeking a target in the melee.

A tide of daemonic and mutated beasts threatened to swamp the Bridgeburners, snarling and howling as they attacked. But a single shot, a single kill, would be as nothing to the pack, and after all…they were the Bridgeburners. Turning away from the battle, he moved quickly across the library, and surveyed another road through the opposite window. Parallel to the street, on the other side of the row of buildings, he saw…<br>
“Aimless! Get over here!”<br>
Gently pulling open the window, he rested his weapon on the sill, sighting down the scope as he scanned the darkness. There were dozens of them… The Shadow Legion, formed into packs that ran at the heels of robed leaders, filled the street. And they were making for the Bridgeburners. Blades glinted, and red eyes burned with bloodlust as the vampire army moved silently towards their quarry.

Kalam drew a bead, and fired. A single shot lit the darkness for a second, as one of the vampires fell. Even as it leapt back to its feet, snarling with rage, shots began to fire, shattering windows and glancing off the brickwork as the Shadow Legion returned fire. Damn vampires…he had been seen… He ducked back below the sill, signalling to Aimless as the Private entered the room.

“Get to a window! The street’s crawling with vampires…”

He waited for the shots to cease, then jumped back up, sighting down his scope as he sought another target. A shot rang out, grazing his arm, and he grunted in pain, bringing the weapon around to track the attacker. It was a vampire in ornate black robes, leaning on a staff and holding a stubber to bear on the sniper.

“Bastard…”

He fired, and the shot struck the vampire squarely in the face, throwing it heavily to the floor. Its fellows began firing again, and he ducked back below the window sill, muttering to himself as he tied a tourniquet around the wound, and prepared for another shot. Across the library, Aimless smashed another window, bringing his rifle into position as the Shadow Legion advanced.

Originally posted by Mentirius

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Zhang sniffed the air, feeling the half-bloods approach as the Bridgeburners pressed forward. Slipping into the shadows, he left the squad, cloaking himself with the night. The scent of blood carried on the wind, and it would not be long before their true enemy was revealed. With a single bound, he leapt gracefully through a first floor window, dropping into a crouch as he landed. He could hear shots, feel the very footfalls of the advancing foe. Pressing an ear to the dusty floor, he waited.

[onilemur]

***

Outside, the veteran guardsmen grappled with the pack, battling to clear a path down the street. Trotts and Wysp had been joined at the fore by Paran and Amaurn, the latter literally hurling the monstrosities into the air with sweeping blows of his blazing sword. Slowly but surely, their training was beginning to tell, the savage creatures swiftly falling to the experienced fighters. Delat had expected no less. They were the Bridgeburners, after all.

The Inquisitors pressed in behind, as shots began to ring out. The snipers had found a target, it seemed… Delat closed his eyes, letting himself slip deep into his mind. Suddenly, he floated above the city, an eerie glow lighting the streets as he looked down on the battle. The soulfire of tiny rats and other creatures speckled the landscape, but he was immediately drawn to the cluster of flame in the adjacent street. Enemies, in great numbers. It seemed they had found the Shadow Legion.

Behind the pack that now engaged the Bridgeburners, savage daemonic beasts strained to reach combat. They were simple, primal beings, but their bloodlust knew no bounds. They were driven by the will of another, a hulking shape that laughed as it herded them forward. And from whence them came… Delat shrank back from the three beings that floated down the dark streets, their whispers infesting the minds of the vampires and whipping them into a frenzy. Then he steeled himself, and plunged downwards, choosing the lead daemonhost as his target.

Knowledge flooded into him as he probed the creature’s mind. Its name was Kreltor, and it served the Cult of Hidden Hands. It carried no weaponry, but its power was a malevolent force that polluted the night as it advanced. It looked up with sightless eyes, seeming to mock Delat as he closed in.

“Nine eyes see all…"

Dispassionately, he took hold of it, and a surge of power coursed through his soul. Ignoring the daemon, he attacked the host body, accelerating its heartbeat and breaking down its muscle structure. The daemon tried to repulse him, but Ben Delat had done this too many times. As it crumpled to the ground, bones crumbling and organs rupturing within its wasted body, Kreltor screamed. Then the host broke, and was no more.

***

[onilemur]

Delat awoke with a start, staring wildly around at the sudden roar of battle. Once again he looked out of his own eyes, the darkness feeling suddenly oppressive and dangerous. Then he remembered…<br>
“The next street! Vampires, a horde approaches! Watch that alley…”

Even as he said it, the tall building that overshadowed the street echoed with the soft footfalls of the Shadow Legion. Red eyes burned in the darkness, as the jaws of the trap closed.

Originally posted by Mentirius

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Zhang launched himself from the window, rolling as he hit the floor and coming up with a pair of knives in clenched fists. Snarling like a savage beast, he sprang into the darkness of the towering structure. All was dark, but the pureblood’s vision saw them as plain as day. Six dark shapes, their eyes glowing a faint red. They clutched an array of vicious blades, and sprang forward with inhuman speed as he yelled a bold challenge.

“Half-bloods! Face a true warrior!”<br>
Before they could touch Zhang, he was among them, moving with a grace and speed that put the Shadow Legion to shame. They were as lumbering cattle to his fluid dance of death, and the first to fall under his gaze was butchered in seconds. Leaping back in a vain attempt to dodge his blows, the vampire’s head was hacked clean from his shoulders, the corpse crumbling limply to the floor as Zhang laid into the next.

The second vampire almost took the pureblood’s neck with a heavy axe-blow, but he twisted aside and chopped clean through the wooden shaft, stabbing up with the other blade to punch into the creature’s throat. The knife passed clean through the spinal cord, Zhang’s mighty strength severing a second head in as many seconds. With a bestial laugh, he laid into the next.

His enemy was a lithe woman wielding a sword and axe, her eyes glittering with savage exhilaration as she somehow parried his first blow, leaping back as he followed through and nearly took her heart. Forced against the wall, she crouched like a cornered rat as he leapt at her, knives raised high. But suddenly his eyes were filled with blood, and he fell heavily backwards, the vampire’s jaws locked around his face.

His vision clouded with red haze, Zhang hurled her from his chest, tearing the flesh from his face as her fangs ripped through him. Rolling over, he leapt up blindly, lashing about himself with bloody knives. Then something hit him, and there was only darkness. And a brief memory of pain.

***

[onilemur]

The vampires drank deeply as his head hit the floor, and the severed neck sprayed Zhang’s blood into the air. Blades hacked into the corpse, and the pureblood’s heart was torn from his chest, the Shadow Legion gorging themselves upon that most precious trophy before charging from the doorway into the street. But as they emerged from the darkness, a hammer-wielding Magus in the lead, a storm of explosions engulfed them, and the foremost was literally blown apart.

Magos Vatolev Gotes stood with his bolters raised, a steady hail of fire meeting the attack as the Shadow Legion leapt into his sights. The Magus was the first to fall, his torso exploding in a spray of gore. Bolter shells slammed into the warriors that followed him, tearing heads from bodies and shattering hearts in cold chests. As the pistols gave the ominous click of empty chambers, and the smoke began to clear, not one of the five remained standing. Coldly, without a trace of emotion, the Tech-magos reloaded his weapons, and stood ready.

***

[onilemur]

Amaurn tore through another of the rat-things, his burning blade immolating the beast even as its very bones shattered before the unstoppable blow. These pathetic creatures were no match for such as he. But behind them, a mind that knew what he was, and drove these things against him. A mind worthy of his blade.

A towering monster, all talons and jaws and pitted scales, lunged down at him with a rumbling growl. Laughing harshly, the Inquisitor hacked the limb from its shoulder, and leapt up to hook an arm around its neck. There was a sickening crunch as he crushed its throat, but the daemon was strong, and seized him in its remaining talons, pitching forward to pin him under its weight. Bringing his other arm up, he impaled it on the blazing daemonsword. It was consumed in seconds by the hungry flame, Schaskal’s malicious appetite devouring its very essence as Amaurn dropped catlike to the concrete.

A brief memory of pain…<br>
The Inquisitor suddenly shuddered violently, his free hand clutching at his temple. Then a grunt of pain became a triumphant laugh, and he hurled himself into combat, his red eyes hungry for blood. Zhang had fallen. The vampire’s blood now ran in Amaurn’s veins alone. Somewhere in the throng, red eyes stared back at him, as he carved a bloody path towards the master of the pack.

***

[onilemur]

Wysp fought silently, her will focussed completely on the task at hand. She felt the rage boil inside her, felt her very soul burn with anger. The dogs of Amon Dull would not stand before her. So well had Vatolev constructed the mechanical body, it was as an extension of her flesh. Flesh she no longer possessed, or would ever again. There was no sensation, no freedom from what she had become. From what Amon Dull had made of her.

Once Interrogator Wysp, a promising acolyte on course to become a great Inquisitor, she had fought with all the fervour of a holy warrior, and her mind had been as sharp as that of her master. But she hated Amaurn, for he was too far from human, let alone Inquisitor. She hated him, and she hated his enemies. Amon Dull had taken her life, her future. Condemned to a machine for the rest of her life, imprisoned in a metal skin. Shut away inside her mind. Wysp was now a living weapon, a tool against that which had doomed her. If she died in this cause, she would die proudly.

They shall not stand before me. Worthless dogs…<br>
Then she saw him. The hulking shape that lurked in the shadows, that whipped the beasts into a bloodthirsty rage. Enormous, resplendent in golden power armour and rippling blue robes. One hand gripped an arcane firearm of some kind, while the other was sheathed in mighty claw that glowed blue and crackled with energy. Though the beast’s face was hidden in a deep hood, her auspexes pierced the shadow, making out gaunt features and burning red eyes. Long fangs bared, it called out mockingly to her, though the words were lost in the noise of the battle.

Her own weapons humming with power, Wysp charged. The beasts did nothing to halt her sudden rush. But this enemy was a giant, a colossus of gleaming metal and tainted flesh. And as its shadow engulfed her, Wysp felt nothing but blind rage. Rage against her tormentor, rage against that which laughed, and rage against that which had denied her everything. If she could, she would have wept. But by the Emperor, the pawns of the Fragmentor would weep tears of blood…<br>

[onilemur]

Originally posted by Tydus

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Pain..... Then darkness.

***

Inquisitor Eisker, dressed in his carapace armor and black cape, Inquisitorial seal at his throat, stalked through the dark and overgrown courtyard.

Quickly, Tydus Magnestine followed, trying his best to stay hidden. Having served with Inquisitor Eisker for more than a century, the untouchable was one of the chief members of his staff, despite the unnerving effect of his untouchable nature. Hearing a slight rustling in one of the buildings bordering the yard, he spun, lasgun following his eye like he had been taught by the Arbites, nearly 12 decades ago. Granted he had been using a shot cannon then, but the concept was the same. Seeing nothing, he signaled the others to follow. He reached the center of the courtyard.

The trap was sprung there.

Giant slavering rat things came storming out of the buildings on all sides. Whether by chance or tactics, the four were isolated from each other. Alone in the middle of the courtyard, facing the twisted Rat-things, Tydus resigned himself too die, and pushed the powerslide to full. The searing beams punched holes in several of the beasts, but ultimately the effort was doomed. He fell beneath the slavering horde.

[onilemur]

***

Small dots of light.

The stars stared down on the courtyard, filled with corpses. Tydus felt a large weight on him, pinning his legs and left arm. Shoving it off, he noticed in disgust that it was one of the rat-beasts. Propping himself up against the shattered lip of the once magnificent fountain, he gazed around the courtyard. His eyes settled on one of the corpses of Eisker's retinue.

Interrogator Boishenko, bless his soul. The memory's of Boishenko came in quick flashes. Drinking with his fellow interrogator, now Inquisitor, Uthaay. Training at the manse, Studying, Dying. Dying, surrounded by the bullet riddled corpses of his enemies.

Tearing his eyes away from the torn corpse of the Interrogator, Tydus saw Sergeant Rawnscane. He had only recently joined the band, and had died just as quickly. His shotcannon roaring, he had fallen under the tide of mutants, finding the scatter-shot less effective than he would have hoped. Seeing the shotcannon lying in a pool of Rawnscane's blood, he quickly checked for his own lasgun. Finding it, he dialed the power down to next to nothing, turning it into nothing more than a spotting laser. Testing it, he saw it wasn't off by much, if at all, thank the Emperor.

Last, he turned to the corpse of Inquisitor Eisker. He had fared the best, with a bulwark of corpses waist high around his body. Some with gaping wounds from the beautifully crafted Bolt pistol, others eviscerated by the power sword Eisker always carried. The Inquisitor's Carapace armor was rent horribly, and the corpse lay in a massive pool of blood.

So, I am the last.

Inspecting himself, he found most of his wounds to be superficial, though his armor was torn in many places. Pulling himself to his feet, Tydus limped around the yard salvaging equipment. From Boishenko he took one of the prized auto-pistols and some ammunition. From Rawnscane he took a field dressing kit and two knives, which he tucked into his boot. And from the Inquisitor he salvaged the cloak and Inquisitorial seal. The Powersword was broken in two, presumably right before Eisker died, and the Bolt pistol was out of ammo, as nice as those two pieces of equipment would have been.

After administering first aid with the kit, he draped the cloak about him, and set off into the city, going anywhere. Anywhere but the killing ground he was leaving his only true friends on.

[onilemur]

Originally posted by Tydus

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Tydus grimaced as he swalled the last two painkillers from the medical kit. He had made it several blocks with the help of the pills, but now he was out. Three days worth of pills in an hour. Moving through the ruins was hard work, and had reopened many of his wounds.

After changing several of his bandages, Tydus set off through the remains of what looked to have once been a house. As he passed another one of the foul sigils on the corner, a hand with a burning green eye in the center, he thought of the creatures he had seen on his trek. What appeared to be normal humans, leaping walls and other impossible feats, all heading in the same direction. Tydus had followed, the investigative spirit put into him by the Arbites and later Inquisitor Eisker demanded answers.

As he followed the trail set by the mysterious beings, Tydus began to hear the clamor of battle. He picked up his pace, hoping to find other servants of the God-Emperor battling among the ruins. Coming around a corner, he nearly dropped his lasrifle in shock. As he gazed down a long street, he saw hordes of the slavering beasts beseiging a party of what appeared to be servants of the emperor. And emerging from a side street was a crowd of what appeared to be normal humans, though carrying a ghastly array of weapons.

Raising his weapon, Tydus breathed a prayer to the Emperor, and fired......

[onilemur]

Originally posted by Mentirius

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Before Vatolev could turn, a side alley spewed a pack of snarling warriors, jagged blades gleaming in the dull light. The Shadow Legion hurtled straight at Delat and Windstrider, red eyes fixed upon the Inquisitors as they attacked with blinding speed. Sensing the sudden danger, the two psykers whirled, Windstrider bringing a glowing runestaff to bear on the first of the vampires.

A sudden rush of power flowed through the young man, and the vampire was thrown into the air like a rag doll as its skull shattered. The force of the attack was such that the corpse struck the far side of the street, spraying dark blood as it crunched against the concrete wall. Windstrider flinched as he struggled to control the forces unleashed, to ignore the whisper that permeated his mind. But even as he faltered, Delat stepped forward, his face stern and without fear. Grey robes billowing, he gestured violently with his force rod, and the air rippled and distorted before him. A second vampire fell, its vile heart exploding violently and tearing its chest asunder.

Vatolev was quick to react to the sudden rush of violence, and spun around, pistols raised high. The rattle of bolter fire filled the air, and explosions blew bloody chunks from the Shadow Legion, cutting them down even as they threw themselves at Delat. But it was not enough…<br>
The first to reach Windstrider was a stocky, thickset brute, a cruel blade in each hand. The sheer force of the impact threw him from his feet even as he swung his staff in defence, and the weapon was knocked spinning from his hands. He felt the hot sear of pain as the blades tore into his flesh, ripping tendons and soaking his robes with blood. Wracked by the sudden shock, he blacked out, and the voice rose to meet him from the depths of his tortured mind…<br>

***