Faze V
897.M41
Explosions.
Screams.
Bolter fire.
The sounds of battle rung loud inside the marine's helmet. Years ago, such sounds would have terrified him. The sky was thick with black smoke, fighters, transports and swarms of heretical automatons occasionally looming out of the darkness, only to dissapear back into it just as quickly. The ground was thick with mud and the corpses of the enemy. One of their number raised it's head from behind a pile of rubble, a hideous mess of machine and equine. Such a sight would have made him turn tail and flee. It screeched before it's head exploded into a shower of gore, leaving only it's bionics behind. The marine lowered his bolter and scowled.
No longer
"Samson!" Barked sergeant Moras over the vox "Your eagerness to smite the enemy is commendable, but you must remember to control your rage! regroup with your brothers!"
Samson galloped back towards the trench he had emerged from. In his eagerness to engage with the techno-cultists, he had strayed far from his squad and his duty, to protect his more experienced brothers who bore the sacred heavy weapons of the chapter. He cursed himself internally. Such unbound rage was not the way of the Dark Angels.
A Thunderhawk gunship screamed overhead, it's bone white coloring marking it out as a vehicle of the Deathwing, the chapter's most honored veterans. Each marine on board bore hundreds of years of combat experience. They were everything a Dark Angel aspired to be. Calm, but zealous. Tempered, but filled with righteous fury. It was an internal balance Samson could not yet understand. He had seen them once in combat before, on some desolate world which had long since lost it's name to the passage of time and incompetence of the Imperium's administration.
How they marched across the battlefield in complete silence, their weapons roaring and their power hooves crackling with energy, smiting the foul genestealers; creatures with a reputation for their battle prowess, yet the veterans slaughtered them by the thousand without a single loss themselves. They were the embodiment of efficiency. Nothing they did on the battlefield was without purpose, every hoof step, head movement and communication. It would be a long time before Samson could be like that. For now, he re-established his faith by whispering a prayer to the Emperor.
More bolter fire. This time deeper, more booming. The sound of a heavy bolter, each ringing shot a prayer to the Emperor. His brothers were close. A horrifying metallic screech carried on the wind. So were the enemy. He jumped into the trench, his power armored hooves sinking deep into the mud.
"This is brother Ruhiel, requesting assistance at coordinates four-alpha-delta, one-two-seven-seven"
"Copy that" replied Samson as he galloped down the trench, it's walls slick with grey filth. He felt heat on his back. A laser blast. He snapped round to return fire, but the cultist had already retreated into one of the many craters that littered the no-man's land between the trench lines. In a single swift movement, he pulled a grenade from it's mag lock on his belt and tossed it into the air. He whispered the rites of detonation to himself as the grenade exploded, sending the wretched machine slave into the Emperor's loving embrace.
"Samson? What's your ETA?"
His zeal was distracting him again. "30 seconds."
He continued to gallop down the trench towards Ruhiel's coordinates. He felt heat on his back again, this time with an audiable crackling sound to accompany it. A direct hit. He turned his head to examine any damage to his armour armour, although he did not stop galloping. He could not afford to waste anymore time on the stragglers, his brothers was in need of assistance.
Brother Ruhiel looked across towards the enemy trenches, and scowled. A seething mass of robots, ponies, and varying degrees of both seethed towards him, his outstanding aim meaning nothing when the enemy was as numerous as this. Personally, it disappointed him. He hadn't faced a worthy champion in too long. The heavy bolter roared with enthusiasm, rounds slamming into the horde with no visible effect as the fallen were trampled beneath the hooves of their comrades. Then it fell silent, and only the sound of moans and buzzing was left, getting ever louder. Got to reload
When Ruhiel had heard of the nature of what they were facing in the mission briefing, he had expected to be facing a much more interesting foe. An entire planet ruled by a rouge AI, backed up by an army of robots, servitors and cyber-ponies. Granted, machine spirits weren't the most inventive of things, but at least it could have given him something interesting to shoot at. Mindless hordes? boring.
A click from the Heavy Bolter told Ruhiel that it was once again loaded, the auto loader folding back into the side of the marine's power pack. He levelled the weapon towards the foe. They were very close now.
At least it could have brought something new to the table, like a giant robot, or a cyber-ogyrn, or-
The horde suddenly scattered as a monstrosity burst from it's center, rising into the sky and filling Ruhiel's vision utterly. Standing at 10 meters tall, it was made up of hundreds of ponies, all merged together in a disgusting mess, held together with various metal plates and electrical wiring. At the center of it's writhing mass sat the skull of a massive beast. Likely the remains of some exotic servitor, a walking trophy of some pompous aristocrat. If Ruhiel had been thinking in the way he had been trained, he might have noted the clever use of the horde to obscure the creature, or the interesting design of the enemy he faced. Instead, a slight grin came across his face. He had suppressed his instincts for too long. His delight in combat with a worthy foe, which he had inherited from the tribes of his home world.
When an aspirant joins a space marine chapter, they are meant to give themselves to it utterly. Not just in aligence, but also in character. Marines of the Space Wolves were loud and brutish, for example. Ultramarines, flamboyant and vain. Dark Angels were taught to be tactical and precise in both combat and mannerism. Cool, calm and collected.
"Now that's more like it!" He roared through his helmet as he opened up with the heavy bolter.
