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7/22/2025, 1:51:00 PM
That voice. You know what it means. What it heralds. And yet, you must admit, the thought tugs at your soul. Who would deny an Astartes the right to find victory against His enemies? Who would not accept a boon to their prowess in battle? For you and your brothers there is only war. But you are no crude weapon of mindless hate. You burn heretics because they corrupt mankind’s soul, you purge the mutant because they corrupt the body, and you slay the xenos because they corrupt existence itself. You know what would happen were you to accept the poisoned chalice, let the insidious powers lay a hand on your soul. You have seen chaos’ children, vile, deformed things, mutated, and inhuman. And soon you would become unsatisfied with the slaughter of the alien, mutant, and heretic, and turn against your own kind, against the charges you have been given to protect. No, you will not become like that.
And suddenly, your rage cools. It is still there, but it is a calming, focused hatred, a disgust at the xenos horde in front of you. A blight on existence, an insult to the pure form of humanity. They are thousands, but they wield not even the crude shootas of their void-borne cousins, and you will slay them all.
And so you energise your power sword, the blade crackling with pure energy, twists of lightning crawling upon it as it glows bright blue, as blue as the plasma coils that hiss with the force of the heat they hold back, and you step forward and shout in a mighty voice a challenge to the primitive WAAAAAAGGGGHH that faces you.
BY MY BLADE, THE INHUMAN FILTH DIES!
And then you are charging, cutting the front rank down with a single swing, though the orks are not chastened, if anything, they rush in with even greater abandon at the prospect of a foe that will not go quietly. You match them with an even greater ferocity, wading into the tide, letting their crude weapons impact against your armour while thrusting and cutting with your sword. It’s reach outranges most of their weapons, and many barely have time to look shocked as you neatly separate their limbs from their bodies, or simply cleave them in two, the muscly green flesh smoking as it separates. Then you feel yourself hit from the side and you fall over, along with several other ork boyz who were unlucky enough to be in the way.
And suddenly, your rage cools. It is still there, but it is a calming, focused hatred, a disgust at the xenos horde in front of you. A blight on existence, an insult to the pure form of humanity. They are thousands, but they wield not even the crude shootas of their void-borne cousins, and you will slay them all.
And so you energise your power sword, the blade crackling with pure energy, twists of lightning crawling upon it as it glows bright blue, as blue as the plasma coils that hiss with the force of the heat they hold back, and you step forward and shout in a mighty voice a challenge to the primitive WAAAAAAGGGGHH that faces you.
BY MY BLADE, THE INHUMAN FILTH DIES!
And then you are charging, cutting the front rank down with a single swing, though the orks are not chastened, if anything, they rush in with even greater abandon at the prospect of a foe that will not go quietly. You match them with an even greater ferocity, wading into the tide, letting their crude weapons impact against your armour while thrusting and cutting with your sword. It’s reach outranges most of their weapons, and many barely have time to look shocked as you neatly separate their limbs from their bodies, or simply cleave them in two, the muscly green flesh smoking as it separates. Then you feel yourself hit from the side and you fall over, along with several other ork boyz who were unlucky enough to be in the way.
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