Know Thy Enemy, Destroy Thy Enemy
Physical Description: Flayed skin, facial features reduced to barely any, Slate-Blue Eyes
Devastator, Rank 1
Chapter Demeanor: Sons of Dorn
Personal Demeanor: Stoic
BS 46 (51)
S 40 (60)
Power Armour History: Mark VI: None Shall Escape the Emperor’s Wraith: +5 BS, -10 dodge in melee
Battered by War: +10 Intimidate, -5 Charm
Chapter Trappings: Scrimshaw Tools: Create Ossific Relic by doing a Difficult (-10) Trade(remembrancer) test. For every degree of success the relic grants +1 WS
At this juncture, all hope for survival was lost. Having just witnessing the last battle-brother in his squad, beyond himself, get split in half by the whirring teeth of a traitor’s chainsword, he readied his heavy bolter. The followers of darkness would not take him down without a fight and if he was to die, his finger would be pinned to the trigger taking as many foul beasts with him as possible. He took a deep breathe and exhaled a fierce battle cry of “Roma,” as he sprung up from his crumbling cover and strode across the decimated cityscape unleashing the fury with which his weapon was loaded.
Mutants seeped out from the alleyways and from behind crumbling foundations to collect his life but were promptly corrected with hails of heavy bolter fire. He was sent to this forsaken ruin to cleanse this foulness, and by the Emperor’s will, it would be done.
As The flood of mutants began to recede, he knew his munitions were starting to dwindle. Then he heard the sound he was dreading to hear; a distorted howl from a vox-caster, “Death to the false Emperor!” This was agreed upon, by what sounded like four maybe five more similarly hellish voices.
He immediately took refuge behind a broken wall, but it was too late. Bolter rounds whistled past him but he could still hear their taunting. He disconnected the feed to his weapon and dropped it to the ground. He pulled up his bolt pistol that hung at his side and armed it. He rushed out from shadows at the enemy, drawing his combat knife and striking what reachable weak points he could. One traitor went down with a gruesome whimper, but the battle-brother was soon overcome and brought to his knees. One of the traitors pointed his weapon between his eyes and said, “now, you die,” when a voice came from the shadows. “Our god, desires what this one has.”
They incapacitated him, dragged his body to their altar and dissected his power armor exposing his flesh. He came too, realizing he was chained up before an audience of foul worshippers and heretics. They chanted to their dark god as the performed a ritual flaying on him, laying the strips of his skin on the altar. The minions taunted him but he would not give them the satisfaction of bellowing in pain but instead laughed mockingly at them. This was just a test to him. He had taken a bolter round and lived, what would a bit of skin be? When the last piece of flesh was taken, the crowd was silent and a voice most sweet called to him. “Space Marine, why don’t you ask for help. I can save you.” Knowing this was merely a ruse, he responded “spare me your trickery daemon, for when I am free of these chains, I will hunt you down and cleanse this world of your taint.” The room roared with laughter as did the voice, “Oh? And does my executioner have a name?” He looked up with a grin and said “Vicero…”