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It was quiet. Hell, it was always quiet. That numbing silence that slices through steel, ceramite, flesh, bone and even faith. It was the silence that kept his eyes closed and red lips firmly pressed into thin pale lines
Little did it even matter to him whether his eyes were open or not. Thick Red lenses sealed in a black helmet, shrouded away his frustration
His anger
His faith
Slowly his head tilted back against the seat rest. Thanks to the belts strapping him into the seat there was very little he could move anyway. Like all of the others locked into their own positions, he was a Space Marine. An Angel of Death. Each man was a monster in his armour, and bore the gene seed of their chapter. The Black Templars
Eyes awakened once more. His helmet turned to the right to gaze upon the chiseled face of Chaplain, Marcus. The man stood a head taller than the rest of his squad-mates. His armour once clean black paint now a mass of cuts and dents; bullet holes zigzagging neat lines across the base of his right arm. Clutched in those right fingers was a plasma pistol. A sacred weapon that cast an eerie blue glow across the dark troop area. In his left hand he hefted a weapon that brought fear both to his enemies and the Marines beneath him, the Crozius Arcanum. And with the rise of that golden double eagle mace, memories flooded into his open eyes
Carry with you the Emperors will as your torch, with it destroy the shadows
Marcus cried out into the blackness of night. All around Neophytes in their thin armour raced around. In the gloomy night of the twin moon they were white ghosts flashing through the trees. Some hefted small bolt pistols and large bladed weapons, others carried large riot guns, and a few select ones slipped into the night with flamers. The tip of the flame thrower kept silent in the shadows of the night. Neophyte Matthew was one of the lucky ones. In the deathly whisper of this world, he carried a knife the length of his arm and a bolt pistol grasped tightly in his right fingers. Cool air licked at his exposed face and tempted to chill him to the bone, but the Emperor warmed his soul. Slipping the blade onto the back of his left shoulder he chased on after the others.
He did not need to see the Orks. Neither did the first shot ring out before the smell reach his nostrils. It was the utter stench of rotting meat and death. After all the years of training, the schooling in weapons, the tests of faith
this would be his first sight of the enemy. The enemy of their crusade, the Greenskins. Black flecks splashed across his pristine white armour as he raced through the dirt and mud. Blood pumped faster in his veins. Marcus prayers uttering from his very own lips as he neared the edge of the clearing. The darkness was opening into a large red light. Even as he ducked under a tree, he heard the first scream. It was a young mans yell
and then the inadvertent silence. It was too late to stop for Matthew, he leapt into the light
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A sudden lurch shook Matthew from his thoughts. Marcus still stood motionless in the middle of the troop section, words still echoing from behind his Skull-helmet. Brothers, today is the day we give back to the Xeno Scum! The rest of the men raised their fists in salute, but Matthews left fist held tightly to the grip under the barrel of his bolter. The Thunderhawk gunship that carried them bounced once more, and a red light flashed inside the small room. The chaplain sealed his own helmet into place, a white skull sealed onto the front. Marcus then cued the soldiers to release their bonds (This way they were ready when the craft touched down), in unison each Marine released their strap as the ramp began to descend.
Before the next rumble even reach brother Matthew, Marcus sprinted out the back of the Thunderhawk. Wind swept back into the troop carrier. In succession each Templar rose in order or departure. Purity seals flapped from shoulders and knees. Rounds were chambered, and chain swords revved to life. Sword Brethren their long red and black capes billowing behind them as they exited first, leaving the Crusader Squad initiates to follow after in support. They exited by their numbers and quickly. Some Initiates sped down the ramp carrying bolters and others flamers. Brother Matthew was in the last seat. He rose just as the last brother had begun to descend the ramp. Purity Seals draped down from his left shoulder pad below the large black on white Templar Cross. In many spots the black shine had been replaced by burns and cuts. Frag grenades clasped on the left of his belt and at his hip strapped were the clips to his bolter. His left knee was painted Red with a white gothic four. Behind his left shoulder a large hilt stuck out from a large worn sheath. The jingle of steel rattled as he rose to his armoured feet. Attached from his right wrist to the bolter dangled a large heavy silver chain. It marked his Faith to the End. Only then did the silence end in a scream of bolter rounds and the smell of promethium. Left armoured fingers yanked back on the bolter's action loading the first round into the weapon. For The Emperor! Erupted from his Lips, as he too disappeared down the ramp. Leaving the once filled troop section empty.
The Thunderhawk rose less then a second later. Large dual engines became nothing more than red dots in the sky. The Pilot his duty performed turned his large helmet to the side, watching as once large Black suited warriors were now nothing but black dots... lost in sea of green.
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