Aye, there's something about the size which just works to their advantage by really putting them beyond the usual rank and file and the usual threats they encounter. Quite right, exactly like a sort of land bound ship bridge. Mastodons always felt a little undergunned (it might be the short range and single las cannons), so they do feel more like a command vehicle.
Hmm, Reavers, a few drop and a few more ground pounders mixed could be real good. The 17th definitely have a few colours that are similar so I'll toss them and the Cthonian militia I have right now.
A ragged breath catches in hist hroat as the hall echoes with the sound of bleating klaxons. His fingers fumble for the shotguns magazine release, but there's no use as his trembling digits palm the heavy metal casing awkwardly. The heavy weapon flips on its side, slipping out from under his arm and clattering to the smooth decking with a metallic clack.
Always fun with the 17th, but now I'd have to figure out how to show the difference between these Reavers and other ones as I only have like 2 torsos left.
The terrified hiccup and irrepressible whimper is met with a pause. The armsmen stops, lungs burning, the shotgun lying two paces behind him. He still shakes, he still sees shapes in the gloom of the cordite and shotcannon vapour wreathed hallways. The full magazine is no longer a feed to a lethal instrument, it's an implement with which to clutch like a drowing man to a life preserver. His knuckles flex white beneath the thick rubber ridged gauntlet. They can't be there, they aren't there, Whatever Gods exist please make them go the other way.
A whisper, blotted out by the shriek of the Shooting Star's emergency klaxons. No void impact, no clear cut race of menials ferrying patching kits or neatly directed to routine battle stations to affect a compliance landing. There was no one, nothing but the wafting of smoke... it wasn't dissipating. The ventilation was shut down, so why was the smoke moving?
Like a ghost from the mists, the massive black clad figure burst through the haze at a full bore run. Its massive footfalls booming against the deck plate, as fast as a wildcat and unstoppable as a rockslide. Eight feet of dull onyx metal, a blazing cyclopian eye in the middle of its chest like an unearthly horror. It let out a undulating roar, and the man fled before the axe wielding demon.
Any pretense of honour or courage fled, his nerveless hands dropping the magazine as he twisted and ran. His heart pumped hard enough to burst, his helmet's rebreather unable to keep up with his rasping erratic gasps of sobbing breath. His eyes blurred, and feet followed wherever his prey-senses told him to go. Away, somewhere, anywhere.
He turned the corner, spotting the sealed bridge corridor. Something clicked in his mind, but whatever sense remained was drowned in a panicked fit of desperation as he pulled and scratched at the latch rings to his suit's neckseal. The bubbling pop of tears and mucous built in his mouth, and he lost track of the thunderous footfalls for an instant.
The man half turned, and the world span like a drunken top in an instant. His side burned one moment like he'd been stabbed, and he barely glimpsed the monolithic war-god before the sickly wet reached his ears as the bile rushed to his lips.
He coughed the acrid bile that roiled in his gorge, unsteadily wheezing as he eased himself up on an elbow. The door to the bridge was gone, replaced by a near hole edged in blistering white. For once, it wasn't double vision, he saw two of the onyx monstrosities dart inside without stopping. The armsmen semi-coherently glimpsed the bridge protection crew ducking behind consoles, staff cowering among the pits and and servator crew. Giants in verdigris green turned to meet them, but the War-Gods dismissed every mortal as the insects they were and fired chattering bursts from their pistols or hacked the warriors down with silver edged axes. The screams began after that, screams of pain, of outrage, of terror.
All of it awash as background noises as the armsmen tried to spin and get to his feet. He collapsed hard onto his left side as his body instantly gave out. Once again he tried to claw his way over and catch the dull featureless wall tinged in the blood red of the emergency lumin globes. He barely noticed the congealing pool that had formed around his thigh. It was with detached confusion that he finally glanced back at his thigh which had contorted and split in such an unnatural manner. Touched by a god, bearing its mark as long as he'd live.
~Istvaan III: D+00:05:01
All at once, the klaxons ceased their infernal din, plunging the world back to a weird semblance of silence. “Well that's done at least.” Galieda muttered mostly to herself, a sharp huff caught by the rebreather clamped over her mouth like a gag. The sickly scent of stale recycled air was better than the stench of a malfunctioning ship's fouled ventilation, but only just.
I'll admit, the Escher Gang nails the Cthonian distopian punk gang feel for me.
“Won't be done until someone searches every nook and crevice and makes sure that the lowly scullery maid is hauled out and accounted for.” Mebinto mused with a harsh and mirthless cackle. “Oh damn, that's gonna be our job, isn't it?”
The Cthonian woman pulled her thick leather surcoat over her shoulders to ward off the chill of the suffocating ship, neatly stepping over the mass of nearly unidentifiable tattered tissue that lived and breathed only minutes before. She was lucky, one of her subordinates muttered a stream of unchecked curses as she slipped and splayed out on the blood slicked hallway. “At least try to look professional in front of the astartes for once Merris.” Galieda didn't look, knowing the upraised gesture of disapproval she knew was to follow.
'Give them some slack, most are new'.
None of them were going to impress an astartes. The armoured giants had swept out the gantries and weapon decks, pressed forward to hedge in the mechanicum enclave in the engenerium sections, all before they had time to form up out of the landing barque.
A half score of figures followed after her looking too and fro like a pack of wild dogs and occasionally sniffing out some half ajar rooms. Once or twice a las bolt from their long rifles found their way in firs, then they peered in, but so far there was nothing to be seen. That was fine for Galieda, it was fine for the Cthonian 297th, they were obeying orders. The Reavers just did what astartes did, no one would fault a few army troops for not keeping up with the Legion.
~Istvaan III: D+00:05:16
Edited by Vykes, 11 November 2018 - 02:27 AM.