THE PACT OF CHAOS: BURN
“Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession. Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel.”
Location: Disruptor Vessel at the forefront for the AOC fleet
Unit: 40 troopers of The Death Brigade of the Chaos Pact
Actions: Launching on Katarn Boarding Ships and preparing for boarding action against crippled Vagaari ship.
Tags: Dimitri Lindzinsky
Domino
Scherezade deWinter
Aurelia deWinter
Heavy metal feet clanked on the cold steel hallway, blasted with white light from the strips overhead. The stomping of the feet was simple, purposeful, and direct. It refused to broker nonsense or delay, surrender, failure, or even doubt. It was utterly dedicated to the cause that they have been given, the duty that they were expected to uphold. Just like the monsters they belonged to.
Several members of the crew watched as the procession advance the corridor. They had only heard of them. But never had they seen them. It didn’t stop for anything or anyone. A few that had business on the other end simply turned with their backs to the wall to allow them to pass which was a feat on itself with the trooper’s wide armored bulk. One was foolish and stupid enough to find herself in her way. She found herself simply shoved backward by the tide of emotionless steel, smacking her head on the bulkhead. She slid down and slumped, trailing a thin crimson line. The soldiers hadn’t even acknowledged her, like she never existed or way simply just a bug. The other crew members didn’t dare to try to step into the tide.
Only after they had passed on, did they help her back up onto her feet and take her to the infirmary.
The soldiers made a sharp turn on a dime to their right and emerged out into the main hanger bay. The bay was bustling with activity as technicians and droids set to work. Elevators were bringing up starfighters and gunboats from below deck. Gangs of workmen hauled cable lines and mooring wires, cranking them into storage containers. Munition carts hummed past in long sausage-chains. The air stank of heat, oil, and exhaust fumes.
There was a slight recorded pressure drop as the hanger doors opened, parting like the curtains of a stage theater as it began a play. The atmospheric shield adjusted accordingly and sealed the miniature gaps.
They were closing in on the enemy void elements, possibly just minutes from entering fire range. Again, more of the crew stared at the strange new soldiers as they headed towards the transport ships at an isolated corner of the bay.
They were of The Pact of Chaos, that strange organization that had only just joined the Agents of Chaos. They were strange in that though they were made up of hordes of insane raving gibbering cultists that used actual sentients on their blood altars, they were also extremely drilled, disciplined, and organized force. And they were massive, numbering in the millions. Their Warmaster had pledged himself and his force to the Agents as they both saw eye to eye on the eventual goals of liberating the Galaxy of their false ideals.
But still, there were many that regarded them with total repulsion for their barbaric and disgusting ways, religious zealots to the extreme.
They had yet to take place in large operations of note in the name of the AoC, but they had been the orchestrator of several rapid raids on isolated worlds, to both capture vital resources and to test themselves. No record had been revealed off what had been the true result due to the small fact that every single settlement they had encountered were found to be utterly razed to the ground. There were rumors, though, of strange rituals performed, of great Force creatures unleashed by cracks in the skies, great golden avenging things that made you weep if ever you laid eyes on them.
These strange soldiers, however, were not the rank-and-file grunt troopers that made up the backbone of the Pact. These soldiers were amongst their most elite, made up of sinners and heretics that had repented their misdeeds through fire and blood, being allowed to return to the fold after it had been absolved.
Hardened, ruthless, and beyond reason and logic.
They were the Death Brigadiers. His Angels of Death, the Hands who bring Death.
They were clad in near-black armor with silver finishes on the edges. Armor plates were strapped onto the front fore-arms and legs. Drapes of ammo-belts and munition pouches secured on black nylon webbing across their chest. The chest plates themselves were thick, weighty, with the Holy Emblem of Chaos etched upon their pectorals in dulled down gold. Most notable of all were their iron grotesque masks, carved expertly by the most elite masons of the Pact. They all bore the very same hooked nose, steel tears dripping down unmoving cheeks, and a wide sneer that seemed to stretch for the ear to ear. Their empty eyes glowed a fierce crimson, the color of blood.
Whirring and clanking noises emitted from them as servos in their limbs assisted them in managing the heavyweight of their gear.
Armed, they carried their signature Heavy Repeater Blasters or Carbines in their hands, gloved with treated leather so as not to reveal the hundred scars upon their hands, the Pact they had made to what was an impossible task. Many also carried more specialist weapons: Hull-chewer chainsaws to cut through bulkheads, scatterguns to rip apart flesh, and grenade launchers, and flame projectors to clear heavy points of resistance.
About a dozen and half carried breaching shields. The shields had barrel cut in the top-right corner of their bulky shapes so that a wearer could carry it with their right arm and mount the weight of their heavy auto-carbine upon the slot. Effectively, they could fire with near-total resistance from the front though it made them cumbersome and vulnerable to flank assaults. A user had to rely and place faith upon his comrades that they would do their duty as he would. Fortunately, that was little problem for the Death Brigade.
There were forty of them. They only needed forty to take the ship Half a dozen banners were lifted. Upon their most master-crafted visages upon the most finely made fabric, were images of Saints and Angels or that of Holy battles from the part. There was Saint Gaunt, depicted above the fray during the Battle of Mt. Aras, his ten thousand wings spread out and a flaming sword in his hand, ready to smite down the heretics below him. In the next banner was the image the Warmaster himself, war-maul in hand as he advanced alongside his men with Wrath Angels circling above, blasting prayers to Khoas with their war-trumpets. There, too, depicted as the sacrifice of Saint Pius, placing his body between the unholy bayonet of an assassin the High Seraphim, and in doing so, becoming the patron saint of the Death Brigade and of Duty till Death.
They had all received their briefings, there was no need for rousing speeches or a verse from the Holy Word. The Brigadiers all knew what was their duty and what was expected of them. Dividing themselves into the two Katarn boarding ships, they boarded and assumed combat positions. The landing ramps closed and the lights went out, replaced by a soft green. They were utterly still as they locked themselves into the crash cages of the seats. They remained still even as the ships lurched forward, the rear burners lit yellow hot and then cleared the air gates, slipping into the void.
