Daemon Rider (40K/Ghost Rider) +2
Posted: 2007-06-24 10:56pm
Disclaimer: a daemon whose name starts with Z, a character created by Marvel Comics, appearance of said character, and so forth, belong to Marvel Comics. Warhammer 40,000 and all associated stuff belong to Games Workshop.
Roll out! Speed Kills!
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Upon blackness dimly splattered with twinkles of starlight frothed gangrengous green, blue, vibrant reds and purples. Space itself was violated as, moving with the aeons-slow pace of the galaxy, Slaanesh's birthplace churned tumultously.
Blood-rain misted out of the fouled sky of a world with no name pronuncable by mortal tongues; the red mud was churned up by clawed feet, as sinuous bodies writhed through it and forked tongues curled, tasting the blood. Slit-pupiled eyes rolled in ecstacy. Chanting rose up to the skies, hailing the Oculus Terribilis above them. The hordes of the Dark Prince of Pleasure had come to this daemonworld of Khorne to take it for their lord. The pain of battle would be such sweet succour to his/her/its' lips...
The roar of a massive four-cylinder Imperial engine, powered by no promethium but rather daemonic essence, rips through the black sky. A horrendous chittering and flapping, punctuated with snarls and taunts, surrounds it.
Distant upon the higher ground, binox held in an armoured fist lowered. Sergeant Danyl Blase looked coldly at the milling throng in the distance, then turned to the black-armoured figure standing beside him, straddling another bike. He murmured, "Sympson? What do you make of that, then?"
"Daemonic army going to battle another daemonic army. What's so mysterious about that?" the older battle-brother responded tartly. Blase grinned and turned to the other men of his Ravenwing squad and subvocalized into his throat-mounted vox pickup, "Mount up and perform the arming ritual for your bolters, Ravenwing. We scout, then return to base. Out!"
Moments later, their engines throttled down, they skidded through the mud, following the daemonic contingent ahead.
Flames scorch the sky, and he screams, "Back! Back, foul creatures! My soul might be taken but I'll not give in yet, abomination! Emperor damn you, spawn!"
A chain tipped with a massive spike swings out, flames roaring along its length. Daemons snarl as it thunders through their number, but they continue their pursuit unabated. The engine guns, leaping forward bare inches ahead of the vociferous horde, snapping at his heels...
Striding through the doors of Rork's tent, ignoring the servitors chasing him with cleansing sprayers raised high and the officers shrinking back as they got the benefical mist instead of his red-glazed black armour, Blase halted at the foot of the dais supporting the Lord General's strategium and flung a massive head upon the central hololith. Decomposing already, the daemonic visage seemed to laugh as the mechanism flickered its projection.
Lord General Rork frowned and stepped forward. He stared down his aquiline nose at Blase, and snapped, "So you found daemons. I suppose they were so difficult to find on this daemonworld that you had to stay out eight days without reporting back to me?"
Sergeant Blase shot back, "Who are you to command the Ravenwing? We go as we will. You are fortunate that we decided to accompany you here, damned as you are, even more so knowing why you are so damned. My lord Gideon, Master of the Ravenwing, was under absolutely no compulsion to grant your request for support. Now, are you going to listen to the intelligence my men and I have gathered, or are you going to allow yourself to be smashed between two daemonic armies on the brink of intercine war?"
Rork scowled but stood aside, gesturing to the hololith. Blase advanced up the steps and pressed a few runes, murmuring the familar catechism underneath his breath-- "Start, Map, Scroll, Zoom; thus shall you discover this location which thee shall seek upon this hololith..."
With a final press, the landscape he had observed was displayed. Carefully moving the ball set in the control panel, he moved it until the terrain he desired hovered before his hands. Indicating roughly where the Slaaneshi horde was, he muttered, "Here's the daemonic army we saw. And from orbit we observed this..."
Pointing out the fortress running along the ridge ahead of the army, Blase silently indicated where exactly the Imperial force's base was relative to both forces. Rork paled, but nodded. Orders were issued. The landing ships were hastily re-embarked and within hours the only remnants of a three-million-men strong Imperial Guard detachment left behind were promethium stains and churned mud.
Bolter fire barks forth, daemons die. Far more take their place.
This is not a happy tale. This is a tale of death, of treachery, of forsaking salvation. This is a tale of one man and the eternal damnation of his soul.
Armour encases the arm; scorching heat glows between the joints holding the scorched ceramite plates together. The fist clutching the chain is skeletal underneath the plate covering the back of the hand; flames wreath the bones, forming the suggestion of fingers, trailing deceptively long as immaterial muscles lash out, sending the chain screaming through the dank air into corrupted, half-unreal flesh.
Danyl Blase straddled his bike, staring far ahead. Around him his black-armoured squad stood silently, mounted upon their bikes. Lifting his arm, he clenched his fist and swung it through a circle, then stabbed it forward.
Throttles opened; engines bellowed suddenly, and mud fountained. The deep-throated snarl of powerful Astartes-made attack cycles roared through the air as the Ravenwing struck forward, a small time-display in each Marine's armour counting down.
Before them, they heard the sounds of battle, saw the impact of artillery and sorcerous warp-spat blasts. Brother Colton, barely heard over the tumult of his engine, shouted through the vox link, "Sergeant! CLIFF!"
The only response was Sympson's snarl of "Ready to deploy grapples!" Each rider reached behind them with unconscious, practiced ease, lifted a hatch in the tail fender of their bike and pulled out a hook linked to a long chain.
Vibration rang through Blase's arms, and his twin hearts beat rapidly; not as fast as the cylinders between his legs, and with a thunderous bellow of "SPEED KILLS! RAVENWIIIINNNNNNNG!" he gunned the throttle even more and launched into the air.
The silver chain flashed through the air behind him and dragged through the mud at the lip of the cliff; others followed as his men echoed him, and with a jerk they were brought to a stop in midair, to swing downward, landing wheels-first upon the cliff. Stones flew; down the sheer precipe they shot, gunning their engines a final time to send themselves soaring away from the vertical surface.
Flying through the air, their bolters roaring, Blase drew his chainsword as the others pulled their weapons; a flamer spat a long tongue of fire into the daemons below, more of which were pulverized by their impact. Without hesitation they surged through the teeming throng, twin-linked bolters chattering, cutting them a path.
Men fell. Through the vox link Blase held with the Imperial forces, he heard their fall. The Ravenwing were the last survivors of the disgraced Lord Rork's expedition. Two Marines, to be exact-- Danyl Blase and Kerash Sympson.
It was not retreat; Astartes do not retreat. They make a tactical withdrawal, and get the frak out of the Eye. No ship was available; Blase's Ravenwing squad had had to embark hastily upon a Thunderhawk when the Imperial cruiser they had commanded was shot out of the immaterium by a Khornate craft guarding the daemonworld. They had to get away; that much was clear.
Outpacing the daemon horde at last, they surged up a long ridge far away from the battlefield. The Skull Throne had gained more skulls, human and daemonic, and the Blood God's thirst was fed. Likewise Slaanesh ignored this pittance of a loss, and likewise the two Marines went unnoticed.
Until the earth exploded beneath Sympson's cycle, sending him flying through the air. Blase, sent sprawling by the detonation, blinked away the dizziness before his eyes and then stared at the sound of an oddly small impact, far distant. Crawling to the edge of the ridge, he looked over it, and then spun around, pulling his combat dagger as he leapt to his feet.
Flames curled around Sympson's body, and it was as though his armour, his body were as transparent as the clearest Vitrian glaze. Corruption spreading slowly through his body from a stab wound in the armpit met his friend's eyes.
The same impact sounded, again far distant; somehow, strangely it seemed to sound yet again, and again, moving around Blase. He spun, holding the keen-edged dagger at the ready, only to get bowled off his feet and flung into a massive boulder.
When he recovered consciousness, Blase stared.
His face is that of Death, a skull. No cloak covers it; it is open to the air, wreathed in flames trailing behind him, standing upon his spine sticking forth from the neckpiece of his black armour, between the spikes protruding from the massive shoulderpieces, flames scorching the closest of the harrying horde as he leans over the handlebars of his bike, striving towards the massive rip in the very fabric of reality, imminent, almost there...
A skeleton, taller than any ogryn or Astartes, but perfectly proportioned human nonetheless, glowered down at him. Flames surrounded it, and as its jaw opened it spat ropes of chains, wrapping him tight, lifting him up into the air.
Human, your friend here dies yet as we see. I can take this corruption from him...
"Do you take me for a fool," Blase spat, "that I would sell my very soul to a daemon? My battle-brother knows the value of his life-- infinite to the holy Emperor, but as nothing to the Imperium. Kill him. What does it matter?"
Ha. Ha. Ha. Yes. That is what I expected. Sympson was casually flung aside, over the precipe. Blase stared coldly at the daemon, shocked but refusing to show it. My name is Zarathos, man-thing. I have been trapped here for untold aeons. You are trapped here also. Astartes do not live forever. Unless you are one of the Fallen, perhaps. Some very nice discussions I have had with them in the times I've had.
Disgust etched itself deeply upon Blase's face. Scorn dripping from his words, he barked harshly, "So the mighty daemon cannot escape from a pitiful world of his own sort? Not so mighty, I daresay!"
Yet he could not prevent some sign of the age-old compulsion of the Dark Angels bearing upon him, and Zarathos gleefully licked its shiny teeth with flame, Yes... you are familar with the Fallen. They are about us. Far distant. I cannot go there, of course, and neither can you, but I am sure you would be eager to bring them to justice nonetheless...
Scowling, Blase responded (careful to keep the scorn in his voice) "With your help, I'm sure. I would rather die."
That I can grant. But I can also allow you to escape this world. I was hoping you might allow me to come along-- I can allow you conveyance without possessing you, you understand-- but I suppose that's it for you. Ah well. I've got a few helmets on my wall, I need a colour beside black to go there...
The chains tightened about Blase, and he felt their inexorable pressure growing upon his neck. A pity, declared the daemon, I had thought you might be amenable to reason. And I was beginning to find this place so interesting. I'll have to decide which nook of my haven to put the portions of you I deem most fascinatingly meat-like...
A thought slowly grew upon the sergeant's mind, and it burst forth upon him like the Emperor's gaze. He grunted, and a chain loosened by a millimetre about his neck. Yes, meat? inquired Zarathos shortly.
"You... can't... escape... this... planet? But... you can... move me... transport me to another place?" Blase croaked out. The flaming skull inclined, incongrous with the chains protruding from its maw; Blase continued, "Why... not able to escape? Why stop us if you weren't anyway?"
Zarathos abruptly closed its jaw, and the chains vanished, dropping Blase twenty feet. Landing, the shock running up his legs, he leaned back against the boulder and glared up at the daemon, awaiting an answer. I... was bored, quite simply. Do you know how uninteresting existence here is? Blood blah blah blah, skull throne blah blah... it's enough to drive me frakking insane, I tell you! Humans haven't been sighted here in millennia. Oh, sure, there are crusades every now and then and we see their light, but on this blood-ball? Forget it. I happen to find some micron-thin thread of altruism running through me, meat-thing-that-looks-human-and-is-in-a-nice-crunchy-shell. Don't question it.
Reality rippled about Blase, and he stood upright in a flash, leaping forward. Yet his body stretched and with a bellow his foot impacted the dirt and he tumbled forward. Behind him, where he had been standing, flamed a... hole in the air. He blinked, cycling through the vision modes in his helmet; nothing read it. It was simply nothingness. He had an uneasy feeling that it spat forth into the Warp or some daemon's maw. Zarathos' own, perhaps.
Said maw grinned macabrely (it was a skull; it could hardly do anything else) and murmured, No pity, no fear, no remorse. Or is that Black Templars? Never mind; the point is I thought you Astartes were without fear? You've changed quite a bit since that gentleman Horus was leading you...
"He was a heretic!" Blase thundered, "And we feel no fear, daemon! Though this be an entrance to your stomach, or to another world, if I find myself betrayed, I swear before the Emperor, a oath of moment, that if you have deceived me, you shall be destroyed by my hand though I die!"
Spinning upon his toe, he sprang forward as the hole began closing. Tumbling through it, he found himself skidding along concrete, landing with a heavy thump on top of a bunker.
Red helmet eyepieces turned to stare at him. Black armour, antiquely styled but nonetheless as lethally effective as the day it was forged ten millennia ago, shone in the light of the Eye above. And the Dark Angels' ancient arms, in some cases scarred but many intact, shone upon shoulder plates.
All this he ignored. His blood boiled, and he screamed as he knelt upright from where he fell, as the skin upon his face slowly seared away, exposing muscle, ceramite-reinforced bone. His eyes wetly exploded in green bursts of flame, and his shoulder plates shuddered as metal spikes thrust through them, throwing ceramite flakes through the air.
Zarathos laughs. Free at last. The poor meat-thing had no idea, did it? No idea at all of what he had been going through. But free at last! Free at last, in the material world! Away from that foul warp enclave! Yes... let the Daemon Rider roll forth once again, and spit in the face of Undivided!
Roll out! Speed Kills!
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Upon blackness dimly splattered with twinkles of starlight frothed gangrengous green, blue, vibrant reds and purples. Space itself was violated as, moving with the aeons-slow pace of the galaxy, Slaanesh's birthplace churned tumultously.
Blood-rain misted out of the fouled sky of a world with no name pronuncable by mortal tongues; the red mud was churned up by clawed feet, as sinuous bodies writhed through it and forked tongues curled, tasting the blood. Slit-pupiled eyes rolled in ecstacy. Chanting rose up to the skies, hailing the Oculus Terribilis above them. The hordes of the Dark Prince of Pleasure had come to this daemonworld of Khorne to take it for their lord. The pain of battle would be such sweet succour to his/her/its' lips...
The roar of a massive four-cylinder Imperial engine, powered by no promethium but rather daemonic essence, rips through the black sky. A horrendous chittering and flapping, punctuated with snarls and taunts, surrounds it.
Distant upon the higher ground, binox held in an armoured fist lowered. Sergeant Danyl Blase looked coldly at the milling throng in the distance, then turned to the black-armoured figure standing beside him, straddling another bike. He murmured, "Sympson? What do you make of that, then?"
"Daemonic army going to battle another daemonic army. What's so mysterious about that?" the older battle-brother responded tartly. Blase grinned and turned to the other men of his Ravenwing squad and subvocalized into his throat-mounted vox pickup, "Mount up and perform the arming ritual for your bolters, Ravenwing. We scout, then return to base. Out!"
Moments later, their engines throttled down, they skidded through the mud, following the daemonic contingent ahead.
Flames scorch the sky, and he screams, "Back! Back, foul creatures! My soul might be taken but I'll not give in yet, abomination! Emperor damn you, spawn!"
A chain tipped with a massive spike swings out, flames roaring along its length. Daemons snarl as it thunders through their number, but they continue their pursuit unabated. The engine guns, leaping forward bare inches ahead of the vociferous horde, snapping at his heels...
Striding through the doors of Rork's tent, ignoring the servitors chasing him with cleansing sprayers raised high and the officers shrinking back as they got the benefical mist instead of his red-glazed black armour, Blase halted at the foot of the dais supporting the Lord General's strategium and flung a massive head upon the central hololith. Decomposing already, the daemonic visage seemed to laugh as the mechanism flickered its projection.
Lord General Rork frowned and stepped forward. He stared down his aquiline nose at Blase, and snapped, "So you found daemons. I suppose they were so difficult to find on this daemonworld that you had to stay out eight days without reporting back to me?"
Sergeant Blase shot back, "Who are you to command the Ravenwing? We go as we will. You are fortunate that we decided to accompany you here, damned as you are, even more so knowing why you are so damned. My lord Gideon, Master of the Ravenwing, was under absolutely no compulsion to grant your request for support. Now, are you going to listen to the intelligence my men and I have gathered, or are you going to allow yourself to be smashed between two daemonic armies on the brink of intercine war?"
Rork scowled but stood aside, gesturing to the hololith. Blase advanced up the steps and pressed a few runes, murmuring the familar catechism underneath his breath-- "Start, Map, Scroll, Zoom; thus shall you discover this location which thee shall seek upon this hololith..."
With a final press, the landscape he had observed was displayed. Carefully moving the ball set in the control panel, he moved it until the terrain he desired hovered before his hands. Indicating roughly where the Slaaneshi horde was, he muttered, "Here's the daemonic army we saw. And from orbit we observed this..."
Pointing out the fortress running along the ridge ahead of the army, Blase silently indicated where exactly the Imperial force's base was relative to both forces. Rork paled, but nodded. Orders were issued. The landing ships were hastily re-embarked and within hours the only remnants of a three-million-men strong Imperial Guard detachment left behind were promethium stains and churned mud.
Bolter fire barks forth, daemons die. Far more take their place.
This is not a happy tale. This is a tale of death, of treachery, of forsaking salvation. This is a tale of one man and the eternal damnation of his soul.
Armour encases the arm; scorching heat glows between the joints holding the scorched ceramite plates together. The fist clutching the chain is skeletal underneath the plate covering the back of the hand; flames wreath the bones, forming the suggestion of fingers, trailing deceptively long as immaterial muscles lash out, sending the chain screaming through the dank air into corrupted, half-unreal flesh.
Danyl Blase straddled his bike, staring far ahead. Around him his black-armoured squad stood silently, mounted upon their bikes. Lifting his arm, he clenched his fist and swung it through a circle, then stabbed it forward.
Throttles opened; engines bellowed suddenly, and mud fountained. The deep-throated snarl of powerful Astartes-made attack cycles roared through the air as the Ravenwing struck forward, a small time-display in each Marine's armour counting down.
Before them, they heard the sounds of battle, saw the impact of artillery and sorcerous warp-spat blasts. Brother Colton, barely heard over the tumult of his engine, shouted through the vox link, "Sergeant! CLIFF!"
The only response was Sympson's snarl of "Ready to deploy grapples!" Each rider reached behind them with unconscious, practiced ease, lifted a hatch in the tail fender of their bike and pulled out a hook linked to a long chain.
Vibration rang through Blase's arms, and his twin hearts beat rapidly; not as fast as the cylinders between his legs, and with a thunderous bellow of "SPEED KILLS! RAVENWIIIINNNNNNNG!" he gunned the throttle even more and launched into the air.
The silver chain flashed through the air behind him and dragged through the mud at the lip of the cliff; others followed as his men echoed him, and with a jerk they were brought to a stop in midair, to swing downward, landing wheels-first upon the cliff. Stones flew; down the sheer precipe they shot, gunning their engines a final time to send themselves soaring away from the vertical surface.
Flying through the air, their bolters roaring, Blase drew his chainsword as the others pulled their weapons; a flamer spat a long tongue of fire into the daemons below, more of which were pulverized by their impact. Without hesitation they surged through the teeming throng, twin-linked bolters chattering, cutting them a path.
Men fell. Through the vox link Blase held with the Imperial forces, he heard their fall. The Ravenwing were the last survivors of the disgraced Lord Rork's expedition. Two Marines, to be exact-- Danyl Blase and Kerash Sympson.
It was not retreat; Astartes do not retreat. They make a tactical withdrawal, and get the frak out of the Eye. No ship was available; Blase's Ravenwing squad had had to embark hastily upon a Thunderhawk when the Imperial cruiser they had commanded was shot out of the immaterium by a Khornate craft guarding the daemonworld. They had to get away; that much was clear.
Outpacing the daemon horde at last, they surged up a long ridge far away from the battlefield. The Skull Throne had gained more skulls, human and daemonic, and the Blood God's thirst was fed. Likewise Slaanesh ignored this pittance of a loss, and likewise the two Marines went unnoticed.
Until the earth exploded beneath Sympson's cycle, sending him flying through the air. Blase, sent sprawling by the detonation, blinked away the dizziness before his eyes and then stared at the sound of an oddly small impact, far distant. Crawling to the edge of the ridge, he looked over it, and then spun around, pulling his combat dagger as he leapt to his feet.
Flames curled around Sympson's body, and it was as though his armour, his body were as transparent as the clearest Vitrian glaze. Corruption spreading slowly through his body from a stab wound in the armpit met his friend's eyes.
The same impact sounded, again far distant; somehow, strangely it seemed to sound yet again, and again, moving around Blase. He spun, holding the keen-edged dagger at the ready, only to get bowled off his feet and flung into a massive boulder.
When he recovered consciousness, Blase stared.
His face is that of Death, a skull. No cloak covers it; it is open to the air, wreathed in flames trailing behind him, standing upon his spine sticking forth from the neckpiece of his black armour, between the spikes protruding from the massive shoulderpieces, flames scorching the closest of the harrying horde as he leans over the handlebars of his bike, striving towards the massive rip in the very fabric of reality, imminent, almost there...
A skeleton, taller than any ogryn or Astartes, but perfectly proportioned human nonetheless, glowered down at him. Flames surrounded it, and as its jaw opened it spat ropes of chains, wrapping him tight, lifting him up into the air.
Human, your friend here dies yet as we see. I can take this corruption from him...
"Do you take me for a fool," Blase spat, "that I would sell my very soul to a daemon? My battle-brother knows the value of his life-- infinite to the holy Emperor, but as nothing to the Imperium. Kill him. What does it matter?"
Ha. Ha. Ha. Yes. That is what I expected. Sympson was casually flung aside, over the precipe. Blase stared coldly at the daemon, shocked but refusing to show it. My name is Zarathos, man-thing. I have been trapped here for untold aeons. You are trapped here also. Astartes do not live forever. Unless you are one of the Fallen, perhaps. Some very nice discussions I have had with them in the times I've had.
Disgust etched itself deeply upon Blase's face. Scorn dripping from his words, he barked harshly, "So the mighty daemon cannot escape from a pitiful world of his own sort? Not so mighty, I daresay!"
Yet he could not prevent some sign of the age-old compulsion of the Dark Angels bearing upon him, and Zarathos gleefully licked its shiny teeth with flame, Yes... you are familar with the Fallen. They are about us. Far distant. I cannot go there, of course, and neither can you, but I am sure you would be eager to bring them to justice nonetheless...
Scowling, Blase responded (careful to keep the scorn in his voice) "With your help, I'm sure. I would rather die."
That I can grant. But I can also allow you to escape this world. I was hoping you might allow me to come along-- I can allow you conveyance without possessing you, you understand-- but I suppose that's it for you. Ah well. I've got a few helmets on my wall, I need a colour beside black to go there...
The chains tightened about Blase, and he felt their inexorable pressure growing upon his neck. A pity, declared the daemon, I had thought you might be amenable to reason. And I was beginning to find this place so interesting. I'll have to decide which nook of my haven to put the portions of you I deem most fascinatingly meat-like...
A thought slowly grew upon the sergeant's mind, and it burst forth upon him like the Emperor's gaze. He grunted, and a chain loosened by a millimetre about his neck. Yes, meat? inquired Zarathos shortly.
"You... can't... escape... this... planet? But... you can... move me... transport me to another place?" Blase croaked out. The flaming skull inclined, incongrous with the chains protruding from its maw; Blase continued, "Why... not able to escape? Why stop us if you weren't anyway?"
Zarathos abruptly closed its jaw, and the chains vanished, dropping Blase twenty feet. Landing, the shock running up his legs, he leaned back against the boulder and glared up at the daemon, awaiting an answer. I... was bored, quite simply. Do you know how uninteresting existence here is? Blood blah blah blah, skull throne blah blah... it's enough to drive me frakking insane, I tell you! Humans haven't been sighted here in millennia. Oh, sure, there are crusades every now and then and we see their light, but on this blood-ball? Forget it. I happen to find some micron-thin thread of altruism running through me, meat-thing-that-looks-human-and-is-in-a-nice-crunchy-shell. Don't question it.
Reality rippled about Blase, and he stood upright in a flash, leaping forward. Yet his body stretched and with a bellow his foot impacted the dirt and he tumbled forward. Behind him, where he had been standing, flamed a... hole in the air. He blinked, cycling through the vision modes in his helmet; nothing read it. It was simply nothingness. He had an uneasy feeling that it spat forth into the Warp or some daemon's maw. Zarathos' own, perhaps.
Said maw grinned macabrely (it was a skull; it could hardly do anything else) and murmured, No pity, no fear, no remorse. Or is that Black Templars? Never mind; the point is I thought you Astartes were without fear? You've changed quite a bit since that gentleman Horus was leading you...
"He was a heretic!" Blase thundered, "And we feel no fear, daemon! Though this be an entrance to your stomach, or to another world, if I find myself betrayed, I swear before the Emperor, a oath of moment, that if you have deceived me, you shall be destroyed by my hand though I die!"
Spinning upon his toe, he sprang forward as the hole began closing. Tumbling through it, he found himself skidding along concrete, landing with a heavy thump on top of a bunker.
Red helmet eyepieces turned to stare at him. Black armour, antiquely styled but nonetheless as lethally effective as the day it was forged ten millennia ago, shone in the light of the Eye above. And the Dark Angels' ancient arms, in some cases scarred but many intact, shone upon shoulder plates.
All this he ignored. His blood boiled, and he screamed as he knelt upright from where he fell, as the skin upon his face slowly seared away, exposing muscle, ceramite-reinforced bone. His eyes wetly exploded in green bursts of flame, and his shoulder plates shuddered as metal spikes thrust through them, throwing ceramite flakes through the air.
Zarathos laughs. Free at last. The poor meat-thing had no idea, did it? No idea at all of what he had been going through. But free at last! Free at last, in the material world! Away from that foul warp enclave! Yes... let the Daemon Rider roll forth once again, and spit in the face of Undivided!
