A slightly smaller Mess

"Oh am i indeed."

The first man to notice, is a tank commander of one of the malcador defenders, not blinded by his own muzzle flash. He grabs the vox set and, in a panic, transmits upon the general frequency. +It's a ruse! The tanks are fakes! The trucks are the tanks!+

The malcadors on the line facing the 'trucks' begin to fire their main guns in response, no longer waiting until they come into bolter range.

"I'm afraid you are mistaken if you think you can kill me."

By the time they have noticed it is too late. The trucks have closed to a worrying distance now, and seemingly as one they cast off their shells. Chimeras, Leman russes, Malcadors, Baneblades, even a couple of Stormhammer super heavy tanks reveal their true form to the underequipped, terrified defenders. As one, the cannons unleash hell upon the entrenched pdf and dug in malcadors.

Laurence mulls the daemons words for a few moments before the fact occurs to him, that the daemon and the titan are one and the same. He flies into the cloud layer, wings spurring the vapour into swirling eddies. He looks down at the spear in his hand, the shaft dissapearing into the cloud, the blade unseen. "We shall see, won't we? It will be a fitting death for either of us, regardless of outcome." With great beats of his wings, he begins to cross the horizontal distance, sufficient height now gained.

The first line of trenches is near completely obliterated by the onslaught, chunks of mansonry, clods of earth, parts of tanks, and parts of their crew are tossed into the air in all directions. In the face of such destruction, fear has no place to take hold in the hearts of those living, in the second and third lines, shock filling all perception. The malcador infernus, entrenched deeply enough within the dark soil, fires is weapon. The roiling inferno of its weapon boils forth from the earth like the wrath of a furious god. The chimera within its range are obliterated in moments, their thin armour no defense against the conflagration burning around them. Fuel tanks detonate to join the blaze, crews are cooked alive inside their machines, those touching the bare metal of the hull find their skin melting to it, in their last excrutiating moments of consiousness.

Those heavier vehicles capable of withstanding the inital strike of the titanic weapon, even so do not escape unscathed. Armour plating begins to melt, temperatures rise within, radio antenna are destroyed, vision blocks blacken, and crack. Needless to say, any crew with the poor judgement or lack of foresight to leave open any hatch are rewarded with oblivion. Surviving crews are left blinded to the outside world, deafened from the roar, and cut off entirely from comrades and the command structure.  

The command structure of the Imperial defenders, is afire in an entirely different manner. Vox opperators struggle to make sense of the hundreds of reports incoming. The gist of the issue, however, is conveyed. Commands are given, reserves are diverted, and one very important vox message is sent. The highest ranking officer within the command bunker, holds the voxset to his ear, and, given the nod from the vox opperator that he is on the correct frequency, begins to speak in a tone of forced calm. +Sir Hekhter... Canis Rex, do you recieve this transmission. Your presence is begged in sector 7. The Traitors are breaking through. I repeat, sector 7.+

"I feel I have a slight...advantage"
Laurence feels the air around him beginning to...heat up

At the spearhead of the tank assault, a stormhammer tank halts its advance. Having been directly in the scorching path of the malcador infernus, it seems heavily charred and blackened but entirely undamaged due to its' incredible amounts of armour. As it pauses, its lascannons, twin battle cannon and stormhammer cannon take a moment to line up a shot on the flamethrower tank, before letting loose with a deafening roar

The movement of troops is at best, delayed, as it seems the artillery barrages are being specifically aimed to contain the defenders' movments and deployment of reserves, made worse by the traitor air forces moving in to attack en masse. The vox operator in the command center does however, despite everything, receive a response.
+Understood. The breaker of chains will not leave your men to die. Imperator Vult, guardsman.+

Before laurence, reality stretches, screams and is torn apart. He descends into the roiling maelstrom of the warp, its tides ripping at his body. A split second passes, and, a full half mile away the warp gives way, the winged psyker emerging. The pure white flight feathers, at the edges of his wings, are flecked with blood. He drops a few metres, shuddering, before he can resume his rhythm, and power back up. He's outside the cloudlayer now, gaining yet more height. Blood drips from a small cut on his thigh.


The shell detonates inside the firing tunnel. Shockwaves rock the Malcador Infernus, its lone crewmember, and occupant rattled around within it like rock in a canteen. he holds on for bleak death. He holds on tight, not just to avoid being brained on any of the protruding objects in the crew compartment, but to keep the gun firing. The mighty weapon, once destined for a titan's arm, continues to belch flame. Gallons of refined promethium fuel per second are pumped from the twin nozzles. Ignited by a glowing carbon filament, flowing out to wreak holy retribution on the enemies of emperor and imperium, in glorious fire. That is why he held the trigger down.

A malcador infernus, when normally deployed, is equipped with a fuel bowser, towed behind the tank, and linked by an armoured umbilical. This bowser offers enough fuel to fire the inferno gun for eighty one second bursts. The Malcadors which are dug into the defence line, have been connected instead, to great tanks taken from the dockyards. Nine thousand gallons of promethium. It is this tank, which now buckles, and cracks, crumpled by the concussive force of the tank shell. From a myriad of rents, fuel begins to pour into the soil around it. Filling every space and void within the earth. The area expands slowly, until it finds the surface of the malcador. The fuel runs along its surface, pushed by the pressure of the liquid behind it.

The torrent of fire, has slowed to a trickle. The gunner releases the trigger, and squeezes it again. A dribble of burning fuel drips from the barrels. Again, he releases the trigger, and again squeezes it. The drip of burning fuel lands on the floor of the tunnel, and ignites the soil. Flame races back towards the tank, devouring the fuel soaked into the earth.

The ground leaps a dozen metres, the pressure wave of the tank's explosion pushing up a dome of earth. Flame pours forth in all directions, a ravenous conflagration billowing out. Acrid black smoke billows into the sky. Burning liquid fuel and clods of earth rain down while the fire still rages in the crater of its own making. The Stormhammer, so close to the blast, is lifted up, the earth beneath it rising a dozen feet.

he sees back where he was, a truly apocalyptic bolt of plasma thunder through the clouds, the sheer heat and force causing the clouds to be simply blasted from existence, removing the cloud cover as far as the eye can see entirely. With an audible whirring noise, the carapace mounted apocalypse missile launchers aim in Laurence's direction. As if being coordinated, the carapace missile systems of the many, many imperial knights forming the titan's honor guard also point skyward. An instant later, hell is unleashed upon him.

After a moment the stormhammer simply crashes back down again, its weight and low center of gravity making it an incredibly stable vehicle. Before the dust has even settled, the tanks are moving once again, inexorably grinding forward over the remnants of the imperial defence lines.

William rolls over, belly up, his eyes to the sky. The spear tucked in the crook of his elbow and held tight to his body, he dives back. Folding his great wings flat against his back, he begins to plummet towards the ground. His left hand held out, before him, sparks begin to leap between the outstretched fingers like the fires of saint Erasmus. The strength of the warp builds within him, swelling like a river in the monsoon, behind banks of sand. Behind the mask, his eyes begin to glow, the raw power of the warp leaking from the most direct connection from earthly body and immaterial soul. The veins in his arms, bare below the elbow, burn with otherworldly incandescence, the conduits of unspeakable power. Laurence begins to shake. The fingers of his outstretched hand spasming in fits. A tooth cracks under the pressure of his own clenched jaw.

Then. Release. As the cloud of missiles shriek into the sky, reaching up to meet the falling angel of storms, the storm is let loose. Lighting leaps from his fingers, thunder cracks. It seeks the iron. It forks down, casting a web of light, burned into the eyes of any who looked upon it. A crescendo of blossoming detonations, as the power contained until bare seconds ago within laurence finds the delicate mechanisms of the missiles. Shrapnel, blackened and burned rains down. A shard of still sparking steel tears through one of the wings. Laurence falls still, the pull of the planet drawing him on ever faster, down towards his prey. Still he sparks, discharges flickering out into the air about him.

An undeniable, guilty euphoria flickers within the synapses of his mind. The joy such a blatant lack of restraint, the brilliance of his loosed powers. Cuffs and collar, which held back his abilities, are nowhere to be seen. Such absurd flaunting of power wouldn't be possible with the partially self imposed choke-chain upon his soul. There is beauty in it. In such power, such consummate skill. What was done today, would be his greatest achievement, the death of a god machine, his magnum opus, and what comes after, merely the encore. He would face the curtain with a bow, and would bow smiling. The gods would have their entertainment this day. Intricate planning, flair and flamboyance, brutality and butchery, and corpses, many, many corpses.

The hole still burns, sending a column of acrid black smoke into the sky. Ragged lasfire, from a few still alive plays across the battlefield. The shouts of commissars, attempting to impose order ring out, the words drowned in the noise, but the sound carrying. Something not quite a man, and not quite a machine, kneels in shallow water, at the bottom of a shell crater a week old. A small plant has already began to grow there. The thing listens to the growl of engines approaching.

Deep beneath the waves, Tyren looks up at the great chain, and those climbing it. So still he stands, that fish come to investigate him. He watches them, and the figures climbing the chain. Not much will change, for you, if we fail. What difference does it make, what lord rules here, to you. What i would give for that.

As he descends, laurence catches the glow of the sunfury plasma annihilator building once more, the air itself starting to sting at the sheer, unfathomable heat as it prepares to fire again. As he gets closer, the smaller batteries, the lascannons and mauler bolt cannons, add their own roaring to the fray, obscured from his view ever so slightly by the crackling void shields. It is at that moment laurence notices something almost imperceptibly off about said shields. He is unable to put his finger on it but something he had not accounted for is...wrong about them.

As the armoured spearhead pushes further into the defenders' lines, the transport vehicles amongst them occasionally disgorge platoons of infantry into the abandoned trenchlines, securing them as the tanks grind onwards. Its armour superficially scarred by the attempts to halt it, the stormhammer is like a lance into the exposed flesh of the PDF's ranks, cutting deeper with every passing moment.

The feathers of Laurence's wings begin to smoulder along their trailing edge, the heat enough to ignite the delicate structures, but the speed of onrushing air smothering flame. Those feathers so weakened break away from the wing, slow, and ignite with visible flame, lending the plummeting figure a comet trail of blazing fragments. Committed now to this course, and beyond rational thought by the sheer quantity of the warp's power he now funnels through his soul and mind. William falls onwards. The lascannon fire seems to bend around him, the laws of reality so bent by the warp's intrusion into it, so too light must bend. The bolt cannon shells which cross into the still crackling field of lighting detonate, showering William with yet more shrapnel, tearing through his body, and his wings. Blood, bone, steel and viscera added to the comet trail behind him.

The PDF holds, to the best of its ability. Each bend and twist in the trenchline, a new position to hold against the invader. Tanks are disabled by desperate gambits and suicidal charges, with krak grenades and satchel charges. The basilisk batteries rain down fire upon what was, but a moment ago their own lines. The great crater continues to burn like a portal to hell, the black cloud of its creation darkening the sky.

A traitor guardsman, stalking through a trench, seemingly abandoned, the first man of eight, hears a sound behind him. A quiet, wet sound. Like blowing bubbles with a straw through a thick meal-drink.

as he gets closer, the air starts to feel hot, and almost thick as he gets closer, almost like it is becoming viscous around him. it begins to glow and crackle a deep, royal purple, the colour only growing as he descends further

around this time, the previously infiltrated unit of elite traitor guardsmen emerge in the centre of the defender's lines. in a hail of death they manage to secure a perimiter within the city walls, one of them setting up a teleport homer that thrums to life in moments.

The exposed skin of his arms begins to blacken, blister, and crack. His coat and shirt begin to burn, the lining of the heavy leather coat burning first, and brightest. The lenses of his mask darken to compensate for the brightness, leaving him all but blind.

The guardsman turns, to see his section commander scrabbling at his throat, at the blade protruding from it. Stood behind, something like a man. With eyes of glowing, sickly green, a patchwork face of steel and pallid flesh. It tosses the man aside, and steps forwards, grabbing the next man in line, crushing his skull with one hand, with all the effort one would crush an egg.

suddenly it hits him, like a freight train, a blast of pure concussive force slams into his front from the directon of the titan with the strength of a runaway land raider
-----------------
attempting to rally, the renegades wordlessly set up firing lines around the creature with whatever time they have to react
-------------------
the teleport homer begins to count down. Five. Four. Three.

William is far from the basic human template. Decades of tinkering with his own flesh, to the betterment of his profession above all else has forged his body into a weapon. Several of these modifications were stolen wholesale from both the adeptus astartes, and, moreso, the aeldari. His skeletal structure received such modifications as the astartes enjoy, laced with ceramite, increased in density, his ribcage is a structure of overlapping plates, rather than a cage, so to speak.

All of this does nothing to change the result of such a strike, travelling at such a speed as he is. His bones snap, crack, and shatter. Only a reflexive shield, thrown up around his head alone, saves his life. Relieved of all structure, his fingers slacken, and release the shaft of the spear, his wings are torn open by the airstream, no longer held tight. The agony is mind numbing. The spread wings slow him quickly, and the spear plummets on without him, dropping away from his reach. Buffeted by wind, and entirely limp, Laurence begins to tumble through the air, turning end over end, until his wings stabilise his fall. Falling backwards, staring up at the sky, arms outstreched, limp, ripped at by the rushing, burning air, he manages but two words upon the command channel. +Mission failure+

-----

Lasfire scores the thing's steel skin, punching shallow, smoking craters into it, as it plunges its blades into another of them. Each finger tipped with one of the impossibly thin spikes, a few inches long. It lifts the screaming man, and throws him into the others, leaping towards them with claws outstretched. Its movements are deliberate, without finesse or flair, as if planned in advance and choreographed.

-----

The men of the pdf are in no shape to counterattack, even their commissars do not demand such. They simply hold what ground they can.
In the command bunker, the pleading call goes out once again to the knight titan.

as he falls, Laurence sees the titan's guns beginning to swivel, towards the city.
----------------
with a flash, the teleport homer activates, the very air beginning to crackle as its chosen take form around it. Hulking, armoured, a dozen tyrant seige terminators, in full cataphractii armour, cyclone missile launchers mounted on their carapace, emerge from the ether in the heart of the defenders.

The spear, still falling under its own weight, and imbued with vast and roiling energies by laurence during the fall, flies straight and true. It strikes the titan in the head. The blade cleaves through ceramite and adamantium as though there was nothing in the way at all.

-----

The first that is known by the new crew of the Saint Katherine, that something is awry, is when the ships crane begins moving of its own accord. The dreadnought appearing from the surf, brine sloughing from his surface, assault cannon whirring, comes as rather a shock. The hail of shells, moreso.

-----

A barrage of laserfire thunders down upon the terminators. Striding forth into the centre of the breach, having held his fire until the flash of teleportation, the chainbreaker enters the fray.

with a deafening screech that could be heard a thousand miles away, the titan reels in agony at the blow
-------------
the crew, mostly astartes, immediatly snap to action, bolters roaring as commands ring out over the vox network
------------------------------
his arrival is met by a hail of missiles from their carapace weapons as the terminators return fire. Again the homer begins to thrum to life in their midst

The detonation of the vortex bomb rends open the fabric of reality, within the titan's head. Greedily devoured by the immaterium, hundreds of tons of ceramite, kilometers of wire, the twisted and warped remains of its princeps and moderati, and the incalculably valuable mind impulse units they wore. The shattered remains of its head falls, shrapnel the size of houses, to the shell wracked earth.

Laurence's limp form hits the ground almost exactly as does the chunks of the titan's head. Unceremoniously, limbs askew, his wings splayed out and burning.

------

Bolts of plasma, and jets of fusion energies cut into the astartes, blurs in the air, man shaped heat hazes, moving amongst them. Bolterfire clatters against the dreadnought's carapace, already scored and blackened, as the crane drops it to the deck with a thunderous boom. Its voice sounds out, loud hailed so all may hear. [MISBEGOTTEN BROTHERS. YOUR TIME HAS COME. SIC SEMPER TRAITORIS"

----

The knight strides onwards, the missiles bursting against the flashing surface of its ion shield, its warhorn blares, its multilaser stabs into the haze of cordite smoke.

the titan staggers back on one foot, flame erupting from the point at where its' head once was. the ground shudders as a low, gutteral growl seems to emerge from deep within the behemoth. The titan however, does not fall, and as he lies there, broken amongst the rubble, laurence swears he sees two, malicious eye like shapes glaring out of the burning stump of the titan's neck.
--------------------------------------
as he lays waste to the weaker foes before him and forces the astartes into a defensive position, tyren's audio filters manage to pick up a familar whirring of motors and joints. Worryingly similar to his own.
-------------------------
as the terminators spread out, a series of gigantic impacts slam against the flank of the knight. While the ion shield absorbs the damage, the force is still enough to momentarily stagger it, as the ground trembles under great footfalls from that direction.

Laurence's bones are beginning to knit back together, the stuff of the warp, pouring into his being, providing the energy for flesh, bone and blood to be recreated. A slow, and agonising process however. If William did not possess the ability to switch off pain, he would have died of shock.

------

[FACE ME, MADMAN OR DAEMON. ALLOW ME TO END YOUR SUFFERING, WHICHEVER YOU ARE]

----

The knight turns to face its new assailant.

As this happens, laurence hears the ground shake as several of the knights begin to close in upon him. The titan meanwhile, having righted itself, once again levels its weapons at the city. This time however, there is nothing to stop it, as it opens fire with everything it has.
-------------------------
[OH, I'M AFRAID IT IS FAR WORSE THAN THAT, BROTHER.] the vox booms, as a mechanical form, near identicle to tyren's own save the legion iconography and battle scarring, steps into view, plasma cannon glowing hot in one arm, clawed fist clenched in the other.
------------------------
as he does, he beholds a truly terrible sight. A mechanical monster, stood head and shoulders taller than the knight's own chassis, looms into frame. its body is similar to that of a khornate astartes, with large pauldrons, heavy armour, and skull-crested helm. below the waist, digi grade legs propell the machine forwards with frightening speed as it charges, a gigantic chain cleaver roaring in its right arm, a strange yet gigantic gatling weapon spitting death at the imperial war machine in the other as it gets closer and closer, its eyes burning with warp-borne hatred

Through gritted teeth, Laurence whispers to himself. "Give me... a fucking second."

----

[I MARK YOU AS THE FORMER.] Tyren's cannon whirrs, and spits a thundering hail of shells at the traitor dreadnought, as he charges forwards.
The bursts of plasma and fusion blasts cease, the ghostly forms gone from sight.
----

The las impulsor still recharging, the knight turns, and crouches ready, the thunderstrike gauntlet held open and ready.

the sunfury plasma annihilator roars to life once more, shining like the light of a supernova as it unleashes its power towards the city. Simultaniously, the apocalypse missile launchers unleash all hell once more, as dozens of high yield rockets are sent thundering towards the helpless defenders.
------
the plasma cannon levels and fires, sending a superheated bolt of pure heat soaring towards tyren's chassis as the traitor contemptor laughs maliciously
[ACTS OF FOOLISHNESS DO NOT DIMINISH BROTHERHOOD, BROTHER. YOU CAN STILL SEE THE ERROR OF YOUR WAYS.]
----------------
as it approaches, the kytan goes low, preparing for an upward slash towards the knight's midsection

The pdf are annihilated in swathes, they only do not break and flee, for there is nowhere to rout to.

William pushes himself to a knee.

----

The ball of plasma detonates on Tyren's breast, vaporising a chunk of his armour, charging onwards he reaches for the traitor's head with his powerfist. Intimately acquainted with his own body, he intends to tear out the sarcophagus, ending their duel swiftly. [AN ACT OF FOOLISHNESS]

----

The Canis Rex steps forwards, seizing the daemon engine's wrist with its gauntlet. With a twist, and savage wrench, the limb is crushed, and torn free.

as he does, he hears the sound of an avenger gatling cannon whirring to life from one of the approaching knights, the ground rumbling as the titan continues to fire
------------------
the dreadnought, with swiftness equal to tyren's own, sidesteps, tyren's fist scraping against its hull as he glances off of it, sparks flying as he scars the armour. [THAT IS RIGHT, BROTHER] tyren feels the impact of the traitor war machine's own fist slamming into his own shoulder, knocking him back several steps [YOU CAN STILL BE FORGIVEN FOR YOUR BLINDNESS]
--------------------------------
with an inhuman howl, the wounded demon engine, carried forward by its sheer momentum, slams into the knight's torso shoulder first

"oh fuck." He pushes himself up to his feet, determined, at the very least, to die with some damned dignity, if not causing any damage.

----

[I AM NOT BLIND. I HAVE SEEN. I SAW. I WAS THERE] The heavy flamer inset in his power fist belches fire directly into the traitor dreadnoughts eye lenses, while he swings the blade affixed to his assault cannon into its guts.

----

Canix Rex staggers back a step, then steadies itself, lifts its las impulsor, and pressing it against the daemon engine's chest, fires. A rapid barrage of fire shreds the beast's internals, a molten spray, like ichor, jetting from its back.

Looming over him he sees a single knight crusader, gatling cannon for one arm and thermal cannon for the other, looming over him. A pair of armiger warglaives lope alongside it, their thermal lances beginning to glow as their chainglaives whir.
-----------
[I SAW IT TOO, BROTHER] as the dreadnought digs its heels in, its claw reaches around, grabbing the assault cannon. The fingers clench, crushing and warping the weapon's barrels into uselessness at it pins it in place. [I SAW YOUR LEGION'S GRAVE AT ISVTAAN. I SAW VULKAN FELLED LIKE THE WEAK MINDED FOOL HE ALWAYS WAS.] with a sickening whine the plasma cannon charges again, levelled point blank at tyren's torso [REJOICE, FOR YOU SHALL SOON JOIN HIM, AND THE REST OF YOUR PATHETIC LEGION] with a blinding flash, the cannon discharges.
---------------------
the daemon engine staggers back onto one leg, somehow still standing, barely, as its gatling cannon releases another burst into the knight's hull.

High above, beyond the blockade, past the planets three moons, reality ripples, strains, thins, and tears. The star scattered blackness of the void, split open, rent to permit the passage of a vast and scarred vessel. Over the vox, a warhorn blares, a long and discordant bellow. The ship's prow is blackened and burnt, pocked and cratered with the evidence of grand fusillades of cannon and lance battery fire. Past her scorched prow, her plating is dull green. Truly massive, not only in length but in width and depth also, a ship, crafted for the brutal duty of close range brawls with other battleships. Bristling with armaments, and marked with the drake's head of the Salamanders upon her flank. Her bulk swings around in a slow arc, turning her prow towards the planet, and towards the traitor fleet.

--------

William feels the breach open, the shockwaves sent through the empyrean, he feels the triumphal roar of the vessel's machine spirit, as it breaks free from the cloying touch of the immaterium. And he recognises that roar. Once more, he opens his soul to the warp, pain, such as cannot be described to those who have not felt the touch of that wretched realm, courses through the branches of his nerves. As though his very lifeblood was, in that instant, transmuted to whatever thrice damned liquid that provides field hospitals their distinctive reek. Claws sprout from his right hand, short, but lengthening rapidly, muscles bunch, and bulge. Reality rips, and he once more dives into it. In an instant, he erupts with a great flash and roar, above the traitor knight. Landing upon its carapace with a thud and scream of tearing metal, the claws upon his hand ripping into the demigod machine. The wounds covering his frame redouble their bleeding, unnaturally bright crimson ichor, gushing and splattering across the curved and exotic metals. Stitching parts in the shoulder of his coat, revealing the blacked metal chain-link and esoteric fabric weave that provides its weight and protective quality both. Thick, dark hair grows, matting with the vermilion fluid across the bulging limb of his left arm, his right retaining its normal proportion, leaving the psyker a lopsided creature. The right hand now grips the hilt of a vicious curved blade, produced from some fold in the coat, or ripped through the warp. The metal howls, and rivets give way with a sound like gunfire, as Laurence tears open the back of the knight, though it were no more substantial than a tin of ration meat, not a half foot thick. What perhaps, may have been formulated in his mind as words, a threat, a declaration perhaps, booms across the field from his newfound pulpit. A halfway house between roar, scream, and screech, painful to the ear and unrepeatable with a human larynx and set of lungs. There is but one word decipherable in its discordance, "Kill".Other utterances are recognisable as words, but what words cannot be said by any man still considered sane, by conventional wisdom.

-----

Tyren roars, Vox unit topping out with his demands for volume. [VULKAN LIVES!] As the plasma splashes across his frame once more, inches of his armour flashed away in an instant, the snarling drake which dominated his chest replaced with nought but blackened and cracked, pitted and scarred plating. The plume of vapourised metal obscures the two duelling ancients for a moment from all around them. The twin, barely distinct crushing booms, as first tyren's fist strikes the plasma cannon's capacitor's, then those selfsame capacitors detonate with all the force of a fully charged shot, reverberate across the ship's deck. The outrushing wave of superheated air dispels the cloud of vapour, revealing once again the duel of old gods. Tyren, unrelenting, strikes again, fist tearing through the twisted and warped limb which once held the cannon, as he does, he roars again. [VULKAN LIVES!] Servos scream, as he lifts the traitor, still impaled upon the blade mounted below the remains of his cannon. The damned engine's armoured boots a foot and a half off the deck.  

------

The ion field flickers and fails, shells hammering into the knight's hull, even as it strides forwards, and seizes the foul engine's head in the crushing grasp of the thunderstrike gauntlet. Plating buckles, and the internal workings are pulverised by the relic weapon's embrace. The knight's warhorn sounds, a roar of victory, and invitation to others.

Aboard the salamanders vessel, the primaris astartes are performing their final checks for deployment. Lieutenant Noctis himself meanwhile, tramps his way along the corridors, the sound of his armoured boots echoing against the adamantine decks, as he heads for the bridge.
-----------
Even as this happens, Laurence can see the other knights gathering around the machine he now butchers. One of them, a gigantic volkite weapon hanging from one of its weapon arms, fires a single blast into the rent and torn chassis the psyker now hangs from. the beam slices through the now unshielded armour, blasting the remains of the knight apart, and sending laurence flying and crashing to the floor. In the following few moments, the knights surround laurence, creating, at distance, a perfect circle around him, all weapons trained upon him. None of them fire however...yet.
-----------------------
[WE ALL HAVE OUR DELUSIONS, BROTHER] the fist clutching the assault cannon tightens, as the barrels twist and snap, freeing the traitor from his impalement, the end of the cannon still embedded in his armour [BE THANKFUL YOU NEED NOT LIVE WITH YOURS FOR LONG] leaning back, the chaos contemptor brings its entire torso forwards in a mimic of a headbut, slamming into tyren's hull with an ear splitting crack
--------------------------
with a sickening howl, a pair of hulking maulerfiends now come bounding through the breach, headed towards the legs of the knight. Behind them, several skittering venomcrawlers follow in their wake, and it is clear they will not be the last

The firstborn Astartes still remain apart from their Primaris brothers in many things. Though forced together, formations paired by the captain's decree, there remains a distance. Then from them all, brother Mallus remains further distant. Wearing mark III iron pattern armour, a relic of the Horus heresy, he cuts an imposing figure. Additional plating, added with molecular bonding studs cover the left arm and pauldron, along with his left leg. He carries a bolter, a chain blade afixed below its barrel, and a drum magazine fitted. He is festooned with ammo pouches, grenades, and a large satchel charge. A plasma pistol maglocked to his thigh. It seemed, that the astartes was continuing his self imposed, individual penance crusade. Aided and abetted by his brothers.

The Terminator elite of the company stand by the grand entrance to the adjoining teleportarium. Only Chaplain Za'Thun standing away from them, with the tactical and devastator marines.

-------

Laurence lies still for a moment. On his side, wings spread out behind him. The soft, waterlogged clay mud leeching warmth from his body. The mask which covers his face is cracked, a wide rent open from brow to the respirator grille. The left lens is gone, a single eye glaring out from within. He claws at the mask, not quite dissipated talons scratching across its surface. Releasing it, he tosses it aside, and retches, coughs, and vomits bright blood into the churned earth. He wipes the blood from his lips with the back of a hand and pushes himself to his knees, dragging his sodden wings from the wet clay. One of them is broken, twisted at an angle, folded over on itself when he hit was tossed to the ground.  "Who's..." He hacks up another mouthful of blood. "...Next?" His hair is matted with blood and dirt, soaked, and hanging down over his face. Unnaturally bright crimson ichor drips from his chin, and is smeared across one side of his face, as if he feasts upon the flesh of gods.

-------

Tyren staggers back from the blow, reeling from the loss of his limb. In the corner of his vision, as if projected upon his eye, he sees the machine spirit begin to feed him damage reports.




Tyren roars, wordless, enraged. [ARE YOU SO BLIND? DO YOU NOT SEE? HAVE THEY NOT TOLD YOU? THE PRIMARCHS RETURN. VULKAN WILL RETURN, ONCE AGAIN. WE SHALL BURN MEDRENGARD TO CINDER AND ASH, YOUR TRAITOR PRIMARCH ALONGWITH.]

------

The knight turns, opening fire with its las impulsor, shredding one of the maulerfiends in the first fusillade. The warhorn blares again, a cheer going up among the pdf rallying around the god machine.

paying no mind to the cold shoulder he is receiving. Marching onto the bridge, he glances around at the current tactical situation, his face hidden behind his helm.
------
after a few moments, the remains of the knight beside him begin to rattle. As it does so, laurence feels his head begin to burn as his own psychic energies start to feel unstable within him, more so than they did already. A deep, yet soft voice echoes across the field, accompanied by the relatively quiet noise of power armoured boots thudding on the ground.
"well...aren't you something"
------------
the traitor dreadnought cackles, its voice harsh and grating through the vox grill.
[HAVE YOU NOT LEARNED YET BROTHER?] It advances, its clawed arm clenched in a fist as it marches forward with methodical relentlessness. [IRON DOES NOT BURN]
------------------
As this happens, the second maulerfiend lunges, leaping with its whole body up onto the knight's torso. Its claws begin to dig in as it rips into the carapace of Canis rex, its magma cutters glowing as they power up. Meanwhile, the skittering venomcrawlers scrabble through the breach with worrying speed, their cannons flaring and launching powerful vollies into the pdf's ranks. Worse, forgotten by the towering god machine, the tyrang seige terminators have continued their devastating advance, leaving a path of destruction in all directions as they scythe down guardman and tank alike.

The situation is, from all information the mortal crew has gleaned from the vox channels, worse than hopeless. The line is broken in several places, the titan, while damaged, still stands, and the PDF is only not routing, because they have nowhere to rout to.

The bridge around him is a hive of activity, the chapter serfs preparing the mighty vessel for the maelstrom she is surging towards.

--------

With a crack, almost like a gunshot, William's broken wing snaps straight. Bones fused back together and muscle knitted in an instant. "Another of the god's little toys. Come to die." He drags his fingers through the dirty, matted hair hanging in front of his face. Pulling it back, and with a twist of the wrist, tying it into a tight queue. His nose is broken, and has set poorly.

-----

[I shall settle to melt it.] He drops his right shoulder, and charges forwards. His fist outstretched to the left. Flame gouts from his palm, perhaps a distraction, perhaps a signal, or something more sinister.

-----

The thunderstrike gauntlet's fingers close around the maulerfiend. Tightening, crushing. Plate buckles and servos scream as Canis Rex wrenches the beast from its chest. Turning to the Terminators, legs stationary, twisting at the waist, it hurls the daemon engine into their ranks.

A barrage of fire thunders down from a low hill, tearing apart two of the venomcrawlers. The command bunker itself serving as the final fallback location; A dozen Hydra anti aircraft tanks have lowered their prodigious armament, and are firing upon the incoming traitor forces over open sights. Alongside them, a few less than two dozen malcadors hold the lower slope of the hill. The only true soldiers available to the imperial forces, the household guard of the several noble houses, hold positions on and around the hill. Disciplined and accurate lasfire, lascannon shots, missiles and heavy bolter fire pound the advancing traitors.

The household guard are an eclectic sight. Some are dressed in standard cadian fashion, though with far above issue equipment. Some with polished breastplates and plumed parade caps, gaily coloured uniforms and slashed trouse. The only noble to have remained behind, a young lord of the house Syctilla, stands straight backed behind a wall, sabre lifted and glinting, roaring words of encouragement to his men. A wide brimmed hat sat upon his head at a 'soldierly' jaunty angle, and protruding a pair of foot tall feathers, one purple, and the other a brilliant metallic gold.

as william turns, he hears the wreckage of the knight beside him begin to shift and move, as individual peices of rubble and twisted armour are lifted up. As they are, the pilot, still barely alive, begins to float from his adamantine coffin and fly at speed off towards the edge of the circle of knights.
Catching the man, a lone figure stands, eyeing laurence with a fiery gaze. It is obvious from his armour that he is a traitor astartes, his plate twisted and moulded by the warp. In his other hand he clutches a tall, gnalred staff, and his helm is bone white, with twisted goats horns sprouting from either side, several sconses of infernal hellfire blazing upon his power pack.
----------------------
The traitor dreadnought raises his own combat arm, plasma blaster withiin blazing with the heat and fire of a sun, sending bolts of superheated plasma searing through the air at the salamander
----------------------------
The terminators, however, are no longer there, having taken the oppertunity to reposition during the knight's distraction. It is at that moment their position is revealed, as the command bunker, having in turn revealed its position in opening fire, comes under barrage from dozens, hundreds of cyclone missiles fired from multiple angles at once.

William does not wait, the very moment the last of his bones have set, he launches himself at the traitor astartes. There is no moment of pause before the leap. No viper's coil or tiger's crouch before the pounce. One moment he stands, upright and still, the next he is airborne, carried forwards on a single beat of his great wings. In an eyeblink, he is upon him, the long knife in his left fist, held icepick above his head. His right arm, reaching, distended and mutated. Shining claws of adamantine, hexagramic wards grown into their very surfaces. Too many joints in its fingers, an extra bend in its forearm. The sparse fur now interspersed with wet, black something. It clings to his skin like oil. From his open mouth, filled now with serrated needle like teeth, issues a rumbling, low roar. Painful to the ears, and felt in the pit of the stomach rather than heard.

-----

The plasma impacts against Tyren's severed, mangled and useless right arm. Cables burn, insulation igniting around their metallic cores. Servos melt, and congeal. Then, a fraction of a second later, he strikes the traitor. Unopposed by any combat limb, he wraps his fingers around the traitor's hip servo. And crushes it. Barely any force is needed to remove it after the power field and crush strength of the fist has done its work. He tosses it aside, and pushes another step forwards, shoulder first, in one smooth motion. [Fall now, Cousin. Be at rest.]

As the traitor's limb crashes to the deck, the fore number one turret begins to rotate.

----

The missiles' screaming fall is halted by a dome of force. Its shape only describable by where the missiles stop, there is no haze, no glowing field, the missiles just stop. Then, a few seconds later, they flip in perfect unison, and engines still burning are released, retracing their arcs. Back towards their firers.

Canix rex is haloed by the twin trails of missiles returning along just travelled paths. Its warhorn once again blaring in defiance.

A blast of force, as if conjured from the warp itself, meets william. It does not hurt him, much, but it does force him back several steps, halting his charge. As this happens, he sees the twitching remains of the knight pilot begin to baloon and bulge, muscles growing and stretching, horns and spikes protruding and ripping from flesh, bone and armour, his fists transforming into wicked claws and his helm fusing with his ruined face into a snarling, gnashing maw, the creature that was once the knight pilot now standing easily a head and a half taller even than the sorcerer who holds him. With a grin that laurence cannot see, but can feel, the helmed sorcerer whispers a single word to the greater posessed now held in his grasp. "Kill" before unleashing the howling, screaming beast upon william, running full tilt towards him intent on rending him asunder.
-----------------
In orbit, the salamanders ship detects a new arrival in system. A single ship of unknown origin, of relatively small size. It carries a signature that the ship's records recognise, but cannot place, as it is ancient beyond measure and memory. The ship itself is heading full tilt towards the planet, at a trajectory that will put it into proper orbit to perform either bombardment, or planetstrike
---------------------
As the missles smash, harmlessly off of the cataphractii armoured terminators, and the turret on the battleship begins to turn, oddly the fire upon the command bunker stops for a moment. Meanwhile, if anyone is keeping tabs on the warlord titan, they will see its primary weapon beginning to train its sights upon the bunker, and the apocalypse missile launchers shift towards the oceanic vessels...

Laurence's charge is checked, but does not halt him. He forges onwards, and meets the daemon. Blow for blow, fury with fury. The adamantine claws burn its flesh, the wards steaming and igniting its blood as they carve into its flesh. Together they tumble to the muddy earth in a thrashing ball of claws, blood and flung feathers.

---

The ship is hailed, but the Hammer does not alter its course. She continues to burn hard, towards the centrepiece of the iron warrior's fleet. The flagship of its fleet. An obvious course and a direct challenge.

---

As Tyren stands upon the corpse of his cousin in age and genetics both, he looks around him. At the carnage wrought upon the deck. Dozens of astartes lie still upon the deckplate. Still smoking holes burned into their armour, limbs twisted at awkward angles. And one other figure. Clad all in black, with a numeral two painted upon their shoulder. A human figure. Their chest torn open, blood splattered across the deck. Then he sees another, and another, and another. Two, Three, Four and One. All splayed across the deck in frozen throes of death.

The fore turret fires. The four guns fire one after the other. Fractions of a second between each shot.

-----

The bunker's defenders continue their tenacious defence. Men die, and men kill. Those who see the titan's movement are, frankly, past caring. The idea of victory is beyond hypothetical. They fight to kill their enemy, not for their own lives.

The first thing that strikes laurence is the heat. Heat so intense, so unforgiving, that even his warded, mutated flesh feels as though it is aflame, burning unbearably even though he can see that no flames have touched his body. It is as if his very skin has been doused in promethium, or even phosphex, charring and cracking from the sheer intense wall of heat that crosses his body in an instant. Along with the heat comes the light. Blinding, unrelenting, so intense that he can see through his own flesh as though it were not there. An instant later, the sound and the shockwave hit. Laurence is sent tumbling, end over end, the sheer force shattering bone and shredding his already damaged skin. As he lands, he sees the beam of superheated plasma, burning relentlessly through the air, headed directly to where he knows the command bunker is, the titan's body itself wreathed in exhaust from its apocalypse missile launchers like angelic wings, as the warheads fly, inexorably, towards the battleships, its void shields flaring as the shells from the ship's cannons impact harmlessly upon them.
-----------------------
The ship replies, but with only a single sentence. Five words, spoken in a voice Raeven half recognises, but knows can not be from man, nor astartes. 'From Golden Light, We Come'. The transmission is followed by the detection of teleportation signatures, headed to the planet below.
-----------------------

Tearing into the daemon even as his flesh begins to burn, william curls his wings about the two of them in an attempt to hide from the infernal heat. When the shockwave comes, he and his prey are torn apart. Flung, rolling over and over his own wings, bouncing across suddenly baked soil amid clouds of scalding vapour. His claws, mirror polished, distort and warp suddenly, before shattering. as do any other similarly mirrored surfaces nearby. A discarded bayonet, a regimental badge. William howls in pain, clutching at his hand, as this new agony is added to the rest.

----

Katerina, stood atop the command bunker's highest dome, watches the titan's weapon charge. She surveys all around her, the men and women valiantly fighting and dying in their desperate bid to hold the last piece of their homeworld free of invaders. Pulling a small phial from a pocket, she unscrews the cap, with a thumb and forefinger, drops it to the concrete, tips her head back and pours the contents into her open mouth.
Almost immediately, her pupils dilate to cover almost her entire eye. She raises her hands towards the titan, standing front towards it, feet a shoulders width apart. Around her, reality begins to falter, flicker. The fabric of space rebelling against the up-welling of unwholesome power.

---

Tyren watches the missiles launch. He begins to limp towards the ships railing, tortured servos protest and inside his sarcophagus warnings blare and damage readouts spool. He turns towards the turret, hoping against hope to see the fifth of them, Abraham, coming to join him. He does not come.

The guns fire again as he limps away. The cacophony of their firing shaking the fleeing Astartes inside his shell. He flicks on his vox, prepared to tell lyanna.. But hears nothing but static. Dead air.

---

Raeven frowns at this, as the Hammer begins to pulse with the firing of her guns. Rocking the astartes side to side, as they stand ready, packed like hiveworlders in a breadline, shoulder to shoulder in their pods, dropships and teleportaria.

the daemon, battered and bruised, tumbles to a halt. As it does so, it begins to stagger to its feet, only to glow as the sorcerer fills it with a new, invigorating energy to fight and kill.
-----------
The heat, and light begin to build inexorably, the gigantic bolt of plasma growing closer, and closer, and closer until....suddenly, the blinding light is eclipsed by another. A flash warm, golden brightness around her. She catches a glimpse of armoured giants all around her, wings, plumes, gemstones, all of them towering even over the chaos terminators that now assail her position, a great two headed eagle of auramite suspended above her head upon a great pole, and the air crackling with energy fields and ignited power weapons. Then the bolt impacts. Katirina's world, while plunged into blinding brightness, does not fill with the heat, the pain or the burning she expected. Just the light, and the noise.
---------------------------------
the missiles draw ever closer, clearly headed directly for the turrets themselves

William lies broken on the ground. Bones again pounded to splinters and wings in tatters. Shards of his own claws embedded in his face. He lies curled on his side. Knees to his chin, blood leaking into the earth. He gasps in pain as he once more draws yet more of the warp into his ragged soul. His gasp dies into a wordless scream, as the denizens of the immaterium assault his waking mind with unthinkable thoughts and vile temptations. For the first time in decades, he feels his mind begin to splinter, his willpower on the edge of failure. Shaking and wracked with shuddering waves of excruciating torment, he pushes one hand, palm flat, to the ground, and lifts himself to his knees.

---

She holds up her hands to the onrushing star. Palms flat and fingers splayed. Looking between outstretched fingers, reality bends, the plasma shifts colours, to colours unseen by mortal eyes. Colours only seen in the divine madness that is the warp. She opens her mouth, determined at her last to roar defiance to the bastard sons of bitches who dare step foot on her world. The star falters, for a moment. Even as the golden saviours appear, her saviours. the star falters. The titanic force of a god machine hammers against the immaterial barrier conjured by a mere mortal, and overcomes it. But for a moment, for one fleeting, glorious moment, she held back the power of gods. Then the warp exacts it toll for services rendered. Her eyes roll back into her skull, terror etched into her features, and she crumples to the concrete.

---

Tyren hears the vast mechanisms of the Saint Katherine's guns attempting to reload in time, even as he staggers off the edge of the deck. He topples, tumbling over and over before he hits the waves. If his vox still functioned, he would have heard something, that may have warmed his old heart.

Sat upon the mighty weapons command throne, Abraham recites an old, old poem into his vox. "...Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors, and pray."

His leg is severed below the knee, bound with a torniquet. He watches on a static filled pict display, the missiles hurtling towards him. The mighty guns around him reload as quickly as they are able, yet he knows they will not load soon enough for him to fire another salvo.

"Rage... Rage against the dying, of the light."

He closes his eyes.

The last thing laurence sees, staggering as he is, is the wretched, mutant beast that was once the knight, slavering towards him at full tilt, fully prepared to tear him asunder...then a flash. A glimpse of the empryean, familiar to him as ever...and then blackness.
------------
As Katirina falls, a single, armoured hand, larger than her entire torso, catches her, breaking her fall. All around her, the phalanx of giant warriors, shoulder to shoulder, swords crackling, storm shields held strong, step forward from the smoke, and the rubble, into view of the remaining defenders. Each of them is a near legendary sight, covered head to toe in the imagery and refinement of the emperor himself, like figures of myth and legend, Auramite armour gleaming and untouched by the grime of war as bolts, bullets, lasers and missiles glance harmlessly off of armour, shields, and the energy field the Vexillarus Praetor who now cradles the injured psyker projects from his mighty standard. At their head, a single figure, Sword and shield in hand, steps before his fellow brothers, his companions and custodians all, a glorious scarlet cloak blowing in the breeze.
"In the name of the emperor brothers. For the salvation of man. I want five of them dead for every scar upon his hallowed, broken body."
With purpose, he raises his blade towards the nearest of the chaos space marines, who has even now hesitated in awe and surprise at the sight before him, as the emperor's own guardian speaks a single word more.
"Charge!"
----------------------------------
an instant later, the missiles impact with the ship with cacophonous, unrelenting force

The ragged remains of the defenders, inspired like never before in their mortal lives, climb the parapet, and do as they are asked. A great roar, mingling battle cries thunders across the plain.
"The Emperor!" Calling out the name of their god and lord as they run screaming into oncoming enemy fire. Simply, "Charge!" Echoing the call which put them to this course. "For the Imperium" A classic, as all things go.
The noble lifts his sabre, the plume of his helmet burning, and roars "Ave Imperator!" ,To which one of his men reply "Pedicabo ego in eis!" before being cut off by another man's wordless yell.

---

The weight of shot and shell which thunders from the Hammer's broadsides as she plunges towards the iron warrior's flagship is truly immense. Escort class vessels caught in the sights of her hardwired servitor gunners, are torn apart, keels broken and insides spilt across the void. Her warhorn blares again, across the vox.

OOC: Good god I forgot about all this