Ynneadwraith
Whipcrown Kabalite
Morgroth had always had to fight the little bit harder for what he got in his pitiful excuse for a life. Vat-born chattel thrown out as a bad batch. Latched onto the scrag-end of a hellion gang. Hunted for sport by bored Kabalites. Thrown to the dogs in the arena. At each and every step life had kicked him down. There was only one reason he was still breathing. When Commorragh kicked him down, he kicked the f*cker back.
Finally. Finally he had caught a break. For the first time in his existence the winds of realspace whipped across his face as he clung to the Whipcrown skimmer, taking pot-shots at the mon-keigh soldiers scrambling to their defence. The feeling of superiority was intoxicatingly novel, and lasted until the precise moment the krak missile impacted the side of his transport.
Heat seared across his frame as the Raider impacted the ground at speed. Dragging himself from the wreckage, stabbing pains from every movement threatened to overwhelm his senses. Fighting against the rising dark of unconsciousness he snapped off a few errant shots form his rifle before the gene-altered warriors of the mon-keigh were upon them. He barely had time to raise his sword before the first blow came down, slewing off sideways from his parry. The second came shortly afterwards, striking down onto his chest, cracking ribs and plowing him into the ground.
The victorious Astartes strode off to seek its next target, but Morgroth wasn't done yet. Lying in a slowly expanding pool of his own blood, a single spark of thought erupted through the blackness. Not yet. No way anyone thought he was worth regeneration. Like hell he would give his rivals the satisfaction. With a gutteral bubbling grunt he rolled up onto his knees, armoured undersuit working overtime to restitch over the gaping wound in his torso, injecting a cocktail of stabilising drugs into his system. Coughing up more vital fluids he used his sword to push himself to his feet. Roaring like a wounded animal he thundered towards his adversary, flecks of blood loosing themselves from his jaw. With strength that surprised him even through his fury he hurled his sword-arm down, cleaving both ceramite and flesh to lodge the blade halfway through its torso.
At this point any semblance of self-preservation had deserted him. He cared not that fully three quarters of his fellows had been butchered in the assault so far. He was an avatar of bloody destruction. A ceramite fist broke bone beneath its blow, but barely registered on his senses. A splinter rifle snatched from the ground was swung like a battleaxe, embedding its monomolecular-edged stock deep into his assailant's chest.
Bloodied and shaking, he clambered to the peak of the corpse-pile around him, letting out a bellowing shout of rage at the world around him, eyes bloodshot and wild. He hadn't the faintest clue what the conclusion of the battle was. He didn't care. The universe had kicked him down and he'd kicked back so hard it had broken beneath his heel. He had been weighed and measured and he had conquered all. This battlefield would not be his end. This battlefield would be his beginning.
Whipcrown Kabalite
Morgroth had always had to fight the little bit harder for what he got in his pitiful excuse for a life. Vat-born chattel thrown out as a bad batch. Latched onto the scrag-end of a hellion gang. Hunted for sport by bored Kabalites. Thrown to the dogs in the arena. At each and every step life had kicked him down. There was only one reason he was still breathing. When Commorragh kicked him down, he kicked the f*cker back.
Finally. Finally he had caught a break. For the first time in his existence the winds of realspace whipped across his face as he clung to the Whipcrown skimmer, taking pot-shots at the mon-keigh soldiers scrambling to their defence. The feeling of superiority was intoxicatingly novel, and lasted until the precise moment the krak missile impacted the side of his transport.
Heat seared across his frame as the Raider impacted the ground at speed. Dragging himself from the wreckage, stabbing pains from every movement threatened to overwhelm his senses. Fighting against the rising dark of unconsciousness he snapped off a few errant shots form his rifle before the gene-altered warriors of the mon-keigh were upon them. He barely had time to raise his sword before the first blow came down, slewing off sideways from his parry. The second came shortly afterwards, striking down onto his chest, cracking ribs and plowing him into the ground.
The victorious Astartes strode off to seek its next target, but Morgroth wasn't done yet. Lying in a slowly expanding pool of his own blood, a single spark of thought erupted through the blackness. Not yet. No way anyone thought he was worth regeneration. Like hell he would give his rivals the satisfaction. With a gutteral bubbling grunt he rolled up onto his knees, armoured undersuit working overtime to restitch over the gaping wound in his torso, injecting a cocktail of stabilising drugs into his system. Coughing up more vital fluids he used his sword to push himself to his feet. Roaring like a wounded animal he thundered towards his adversary, flecks of blood loosing themselves from his jaw. With strength that surprised him even through his fury he hurled his sword-arm down, cleaving both ceramite and flesh to lodge the blade halfway through its torso.
At this point any semblance of self-preservation had deserted him. He cared not that fully three quarters of his fellows had been butchered in the assault so far. He was an avatar of bloody destruction. A ceramite fist broke bone beneath its blow, but barely registered on his senses. A splinter rifle snatched from the ground was swung like a battleaxe, embedding its monomolecular-edged stock deep into his assailant's chest.
Bloodied and shaking, he clambered to the peak of the corpse-pile around him, letting out a bellowing shout of rage at the world around him, eyes bloodshot and wild. He hadn't the faintest clue what the conclusion of the battle was. He didn't care. The universe had kicked him down and he'd kicked back so hard it had broken beneath his heel. He had been weighed and measured and he had conquered all. This battlefield would not be his end. This battlefield would be his beginning.