#KILL KILL DEATH MURDER DIE EXPLOSION KILL MAIM EXPLOSIONS DIE DEATH KILL BITE ATTACK

[jarchivussy]

does anyone want to overthrow the polish government for me rq

[khornashflame]

The Joining of the Passionate Pt. I

Vopi listened. That all he could do in this immobile prison that his captors could devise in their less-than-imaginative brain processing with dealing something like him. Something above them in perhaps every way but foolishness. Despite his body frozen into immobility, somehow he could still...feel. He will admit it was a trying experience. His consciousness able to pierce through his mortal coil’s situation. Hearing the voices just outside his stasis sarcophagus. Feeling the vibrations of their free footsteps at their boots thumped on the floor.

How long has he been incarcerated now?

He has lost count embarrassingly enough. His sanity was being tested and his intellect - even though not as brilliantly expressed as some of the war-thinkers and logic-married individuals - had him sparingly fall into brief lapses of tranced sleep. The ascended astartes was patient, even he was surprised sometimes. It helped that he played a mental game to ease the stress. Playing with his bloodthirst always rolling in his veins - remembering every face that he saw on this frigate. Imagining what tortures he will commit to their being till they screamed for release. Oh, how sweet it will be.

If he could move his muscles, the man would smile. Then again, his face already had a subtle grin as if expressing a private joke that will not hatch until a hundred years past the onlookers’ lifetime, unable to figure its jest till it is too late.

The loud whines of vox-alarms were going off now. Excellent, it seems Tzeentch’s games found him to be proper perhaps. It would be uncomely that he dies to an ill accident.

+++ ++ +++ ++

The secondary lighting flared on and off. On and off, red and then darkness. Over and over. It brought a mild irritation to his mind but only for the fact that his heightened mind was drugged into that familiar haze. The need to kill. The need to maim and butcher everything in his way. Bolt, blade, claw and fang. It didn’t matter the process, only the end result.

Bloody death.

His eyes sliced the darkness’ cloak, seeing his enemy as they fired into his direction. Lasgun fire zipping and spearing through. Missing or hitting, the pitiful weapons of the Imperium’s mass-manufacture nothing to the pure majesty of Astartes armour. The projectiles pinged off with the slightest rudeness of a jerk from the Wolf.

His hot breath huffing under his horned helmet, the curved back horns torn from a daemon that dared to challenge him, shaping the vague appearance of a moon’s outer line. His visors burned like hot coals. His bloody chainsword growling and spitting out useless gore from its teeth akin to a mad animal. Hand flexing on the grip of his bolter.

Kill. Kill. Kill. KILL.

The aching need. The grave itch biting on his nape like an alpha dog demanding compliance from its bitch.

It scratched the Wolf of Earth’s Younger Sister to action. His mad howl rolled down the hall before his body charged. Toed boots thumping, throwing his weight forward. The guards on this forsaken ship could do nothing but scream now, the beast was on them in two heartbeats in the distance of several meters.

His chainsword roared as it cut one from left shoulder to right bottom rib, the flak armour nothing but wet tissue to the oppressive might of the First Primarch’s geneseed into this monster of chaos. One clean swipe that bit into a second’s thigh before ripping a chunk of meat from the very bone with the hooked blade’s tip, throwing the screaming man off his boots. One boot nearly snapped a fourth’s leg from the knee down. The loud shots of bolter fire finally unleashed after the last bout, gore splaying the walls with the explosive exits that tore the weak into nothing but steaming meat and destroyed structures.

“FOR THE FIRST! FOR THE WARMASTER!” His warcry rolled. The squad destroyed so quick and utterly, he didn’t even notice they were nothing but limbs for a dog’s chew. More! More! More! He needed more, Khorne needed more!

His chainsword was chewing at the most recent locked door, slicing its masterfully made teeth and blade between the bulkhead with a growing wedge. The process was familiar but all the same tedious. Took minutes before both hands were grabbing and tearing the two halves apart with the strand of muscles fit of a demi-god blessed by the power of the War God himself.

Immediately more lasgun fire was the greeting, the attacking Wolf could do little more than taking it. A grenade rolled in the barrage, bumping against the low cover of a barricade. It took a heartbeat for the defenders to notice. The warning barely passing one of their lips, “Grena-!” Then a beautiful explosion of shrapnel and burning force that killed three of the immediate eleven. The ringing and concussive presence gave him the adapt time to lunge to finish off the frontal squad.

One sweep of chainsword took the head of one and top half of a second. Two ear-bleeding reports of bolterfire into the bodies of three. Something was his back. A flea of a man. He couldn’t even hear the vengeful screams that he made right into his ear. Only the constant throbbing of the hearts pumping cursed adrenaline.

Weapon tossed aside, the Berserker reached back and bodily threw the guard like a toy with such a ferocity, there was a loud pop of spinal cord from the awkward yank. “You will all die!” His voice roared through his vox-grills and murdered the thralls of the Emperor as the ignorant slaves that they were.

The slaughter was fierce and violence personified. If he wasn’t throbbing of anguish and hate, he would almost appreciate it. The martial arts of his legion were as natural as breathing, each movement honed by centuries of spars and war, and yet to the casual viewer, there was nothing short of fatal brutality.

It felt as soon as it started, it was over and the warrior stood at the centre of this room of death. His once pale armour starched of blood’s red, rolling their beads of pain along like beaten rain. Centuries of battles scarred its appearance. The black wolf’s crest resting on his proper pauldron, but even then, its applied calamite gave a near Terminator-like appearance. The bladed elbows and horns, nevermind the hanging trophies of new heads hanging on hooked chains wrapped about his cuirass as well as impaled on spiked rakes on his power generator, were undoubtedly of Khorne’s worship.

His chainsword died a moment, a rest of meditation. Head turning slowly, looking at a couple doors, before snatching the body of the squad sergeant by the nape and marched on his hunt.