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Sergeant Rorick was keen to get his men up to the frontline. They had only played a minor support role for some time during the initial assualt. Being part of the breaching wave they had deployed first setting up a beachhead for the oncoming supplies and vehicles behind them. They had laid down continous covering fire from a captured bunker, repelling more than a few sneaky counter attacks to the company's flank. A vox came in from their officer saying the Bearers were to move up to a better position to cover the extending line of advance through the trench lines.

His squad silently trudged through the carnage left behind making their way to a command bunker which was said to have been abandoned. He raised a flat palm in the air signalling the squad to a halt. Over a muddy, crater ridden hill he could see the top of a communications array giving away it's location. Leading from the front they crossed the open muddy fields, a perfect oppurtunity for the enemy waiting to happpen. Rorick was stunned to make it to the entrance of the bunker without insidence. Maybe the scouts were finally learning to do their job?

They obviously had not learnt a damn thing. The devastator Sergeant strolled in only to find a group of Traitor officers crowded round a digital map of the entire area. Artillery spotters were setting up an observation post along with heavy weapons that could strafe the advancing marines. The officers seemed all too busy to notice the marine lifting his heavy bolter until it was too late. An officer peered up with horror stricken face about to yell before the monster's mouth unleashed death. Rorick sweapt the whole room in an arc, decimating everything in miniture explosions blasting apart the concrete. The officers were riddle to peices making them seem like puppets caught in a sporadic dance of death as they flailed their arms about. Some managed to upturn tables which were easily shredded apart. A peircing shine of light caught Rorick in the pauldron knocking his shoulder back with force. He pulled out of the room putting his back against the wall on the otherside.
"Those scouts must be blind!" roared Sergeant Kovar in frustration."Create a distraction Mirosa!" He was yelling orders over the now more confident return fire coming from inside. Mirosa was a new additon to the squad who was just another replacement in Rorick's eyes. Mirosa burst through the wall from the side of the bunker with ease. The young brother managed to let off a few shots with his auto cannon before he was forced back out of his newly created hole by a stream of energy. The distraction was enough for the Bearers to come into the room and mop up the remains. The bunker was now silenced except for the occasional groans of the wounded. Mirosa staggered back through the rubble with a decent scorch mark across his chest shaking his head from the impact. Brother Seth and Trogar found this rather amusing giving a sheepish grin underneath their helmets. They searched for intel on their new enemy who had so foolishly not left a watch outside.
"This one is still breathing!" cried out Seth.
"Drag the filth over here"
A blood trail followed where Seth dragged him and the injured man gave a loud yelp in pain. From his pompus uniform and clean apperance,except the gaping wound, this man appeared to be well bred and of high calibre.
"Command this is Immolation"
"This is command, speak Immolation"
"Command, acquired possible high value target"
"Acknowledged, hold position for confirmation"
They set up a defensive perimetre in their new found home and began their original misson of firing into the now exposed lines of enemy trenchs.

"Immolation this is command".
"Immolation here"
"Your "high value" target is lying, he is not on any of our records, dispose of him".
Kovar needed to give no explaination to Trogar. The giant marine, known for his stunning acts of strength, lifted the bloodied traitor by the legs. Trogar stepped outside and began swinging the panicked traitor officer as if he were a rock in a sling. With a great grunt and a twist of the body the officer was hurled towards the traitor lines. The officer screamed as he flew quite a distance landing directly in front of a packed trench in a mangled bloody mess.

Trogar let out victorious cry that startled the already disarrayed troops watching their twitching officer's body.

Sergeant Kovar unleashed another burst of fire. This time it found its mark, ripping a troopers arm off. For some time the Bearers of Immolation had been pouring death into the trench lines in front of the ridge. Troops unlucky enough to be caught in the open were quickly put down by the never ending barrage. Their barrels glowed red hot and the floor was littered with shell casings. However the rebles had already planned the demise of the marines on the high ground.

Smoke rounds were first dropped directly onto the bunker to test the aim of the artillery lining up on them. Rorick found this tactic predictable of the Imperial Army.
"Immolation, pull out of there you have incoming" voxed command.
Damn rebels had to spoil our fun, thought the sergeant. Unfortunately they had not left quick enough and the shells began falling around them. They ran down the back of the ridge towards the landing forces, sliding down the muddy slope. In any other case Rorick would have braved the firestorm rather than give up ground to such foes.
Suddenly Mirosa disappeared in an explosion of fire and mud which threw up into the sky. The rest of the squad were luckly spaced out enough not be caught by detonation. As the smoke cleared the young marines body was seen hanging of the side of the fresh crater. From the chest down he was mangled into twisted form of flesh and entrails. His helmet blow clean off revealing his youthful face, eyes closed never to see another battle.
There was no time to mourn him though as the shells were now picking up in frequency and accuracy. Seth threw his mutilated brother over his shoulder covering himself in Mirosa's mess. The pounding behind them continued lighting up the ridge in spectacular explosions. Rorick swore the sheer firepower had moved the ridge a few klicks. He was glad though that they were worth such an amount of ordinace and had probaly warranted it after harrasing there troops for so long. They made their way back to newly formed command trench following a path of impaled heads which marked a way through the minefield. The HQ seemed to be under heavy fire and looked like they needed their help.
"Command we are coming in, hold your fire to the south"

The fog was dense as the Bearers of Immolation devastator squad made their way towards the barely visable command HQ. They had lost all sight of it when the early morning fog had crept up on them, as if the enemy ahd some foul hand manipulating the weather itself against them. The clash of battle could be heard up ahead as bullets whizzed and snapped past at them through the mist. Steel on steel, crunching of bone and armour was amplified a thousand times around the swamp valley.
A splashing sound came from nowhere. Someone was running towards them, but from where?
Sergeant Rorick engaged his heat sensor on his targeting backpack. He brought around the scope connected by a long metal arm. His helmet's bionic eye connected with the scope, making a click attaching the locking mechanism. His display flickered on revealing the area in a deep orange glow.
Then he saw them.
Hundreds of them. Steam rose from their blood covered bodies, engines on chainsaws glowed hot, overheated lasguns and bolters gleaming together. It was wall of orange forms running directly for them. They were only a few hundred metres away, stomping through the sludge trying to find more blood to spill.
"Halt..." he said quietly through the vox. "Back up squad..."
They silently stepped backwards, always keeping an eye on the blind horde. Three marines against so many was not a match he was prepared to chance. If they could fall back and find the rear of the HQ they would link up with them rather then fight seperately and be cut off.
Slowly they kept creeping away, stepping over barbed wire and other noisy debri. Suddenly a woman's scream was let out from behind them.
Trogar spun round ready to unleash a firestorm. Luckily Rorick slapped the heavy bolter away and a shot rang up into the air.
"Hold fire!"
A woman cowered on the ground clutching a child to her chest. She was not the only one. A whole crowd of refugees, somewhere between twenty or thirty, had somehow come the wrong way finding themselves lost in the mud fields carrying what little possesions they had.
A bloodcurttling screech was let out by the horde. Sergeant Kovar literally scrunched his eyes shut in frustration.
"RUN!" he bellowed at the crowd, but they were struck still with fear at the sight of the towering man. Too late.
He spun round, cocking the heavy botler's handle.
"COVERING FIRE!"
All three let loose on the trigger, not worrying about ammo consumption or target range indentification. The water logged flats reflected the intense muzzle flash of their heavy weapons as they revolved their aim left and right hoping to spread as much bolter fire as possible. The whole front rank of the horde disappeared under a torrent, limbs and brains, guts and bone fragment exploded.
"Bring unrelenting suffering upon these heretics!" he yelled over the roar, "Not one step will be given!"
They all stepped forward keeping their aim steady.
"Not one shell wasted!" he contined his slow death march.
"For we are precisional death!" the other two replied.
"We shall stand!" The verse was always the same no matter how ugly the situation.
All three chanted together
"For we are the Bearers of Immolation!"
The heretic scum had their own chant. Said in twisted words of hysteria and thirst they charged forward screaming:
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"
Kovar knew these men were beyond all forms of fear, beyond any reasonable thought. Still, they would all die the same.
The squad continued marching forward in parade style. No matter what none of them would fall back, even if it meant their death. They had learnt this too well on many occasions following their Sergeant. They would take as many of these foul madmen with them as they could.
Their barrles glowed red to the point of melting, ammo feeders working overtime supplying the hunger of Scream. The red glow of the barrel lit up the eyes of Scream as it searched for it next target. Rorick noticed his ammo capacity count was steadily dropping in conjucnction with the pile of dead which had now reached his feet. A heretic with a giant chainsword was the first to meet him. Rorick slammed the barrel into the painted freak's gut, knocking the wind from him.
He squeezed off the last shell into the runt causing his back to explode outwards with gore. He drew his combat blade and shoulder charged the first wave, running over the filth like a grav-train. His puldron was splashed with blood as it knocked out teeth and busted open faces. Back and forth he hacked with his blade, cutting deep into flesh.
However sheer wieght of numbers was pushed against him. An overcharged lashot was clumsily let off from a nimble teenaged boy who had climbed the marines back.
Rorick double over with pain as the shot burnt deep into his right arm. With his left he snatched the boy slamming him headfirst into a concrete tank trap.
His arm was now exposed and the suffocating blood suckers knew it. They pinned him inbetween their sweating mass, causing him to fall over.
They jumped onto him, pinning down his arm. Their leader of sorts parted the crowd. All fell silent before him. Rorick couldn't see him due to his helmet being pushed into the mud. Seth's head fell beside him, his lifeless eyes staring into his own.
"I do not fear you!" he defiantly pronunced.
The champion lifted his sword high into the air. The crowd cheering in celebration of their kill.
"Show me your fury, traitor scum" he spat a great acid shot onto the mutants foot, disolving his toe. It did not phase the beast at all. No matter what he said now the next thing coming was inevitable.
The greatsword was lifted above it's hooded head. With a great downward swing the marines arm was cleanly cut off through the exposed armour. Rorcik yelled in anguish at the humilation of it all.
The champion grasped his arm displaying it to the bewildered crowd.
"BLOOOOOOD!!!"
Rorick was turned over, his exhausted body sinking into the mud. Blood spewed from his shoulder as he gazed into his attackers eyes. It was definately some mutated monster, it's face stiched beyond recognition and it's skin a deep unholy black. Fire raged deep in it's dark red eyes as it stared back.
"Bring him to throne"
His helmet was ripped of his head with great effort from the bulking warriors surrounding him. A sniviling grunt who happened to be their handler got a look at the marine's features.
'A-a-a beautiful skull" the wimpling stuttered."You will be a-a-a honoura-able tribute to the dark gods!"
With that a second traitor behind him smashed a rifle butt into his face. Obviously having no effect the first time he tried again.
"Weakling!" Rorick yelled at him. He seemed to jump a little, but a few of his friends joined in. He was pummeled mercilessly. Blacking out, all he remebered was being dragged through the mist...

Rorick was barely concious after being beaten sensless for what seemed hours, tortured with crude devices, electricuted and drowned. His overseers had been impatient with his resilient attitude, having to restrain him with impossibly hardened chains after he ended up breaking free twice. He had slaughtered all he could both times before once again a robed priest had put him down. He had never heard of people like this priest, able to manipulate his enviroment with a thought, release flame and lightning from merely pointing. Rorick dispised this man- no not a man- a mutant- a heretic.

He was at the breaking point, the torture being stepped up a notch. His mind was strong but sadly his flesh did not match. Slumped on the floor his body poured blood from many deep cuts, his face swollen and burnt he barely saw another cast of the sorcerer's arm creating a ball of energy then releasing it directly into the sergeant's mind. He collapsed from the effort of keeping the screaming torrent breaking apart his fortitude.

.................


Rorick felt the cold touch of the floor as his naked form was dragged along the clean white surface, leaving a trail of blood mixed with dirt. He was dropped mercilessly on the floor, smashing his head onto the sharp edge of an operating table. Muscle bound mutants, horribly disfigured underneath a surgeon's knife had carried him through the many tunnels and elevator's which spread underneath the city connecting it to the battlefield at it's gates.

The mutants parted allowing the grinning sorcerer to come to Rorick's side, kneeling so that he may whisper.
"Foolish Imperial dog, why do you resist, why do you not see the where true power and glor-"
Rorick stopped his measly rambling with a quick lunge at his leg, grasping it with all the remains of his strength. With a twist of his hand he heard the leg snap from it's socket, then he pulled with all his might tearing it from it's fleshy connection. Blood spraayed the gleaming white walls. The wailing priest lost his balance, falling hard on the floor while cluctching his bloody stump of a leg. His enraged mutant body guard kicked Rorick in the face with his heavy boot knocking him back down.

Rorick groaned at the pain and once again he was being dragged to another room. He was prompted up against a tiled wall, his arms shackled to the constraints above him. Blood seeped into his eyes and he could barey make out the room around him.

Then he saw Lucius. The young marine was strapped down to a steel bed, a white blood stained blanket barely covering his shame. Next to him lay a woman curled up next to the sleeping marine as if they were embracing. Roricks mouth gaped open, he could not believe an astartes could fall so far. He simply slumped back down relaxing in the chains. He shook his head in disbelief.

Staggering out of the rubble of the hospital, Rorick leaned his shoulder against the destroyed wall. He had heard the disturbing truths laid out by the apothecary, enraging him beyond the point of understanding creating a fit of fury within him. He picked up a disgarded daemon sword which glowed red with his touch, searing into his hand. He ignored the pain, his mind to set on this heresy before him.

He stumbled towards his target dragging the sword behind him causing sparks to fly on the road.
"Do you have no honor?!" he asked yelling at them in complete disgust. The marines turned in suprise to find the bloodied sergeant naked except for a makeshift cloth ripped from a dead man.
"Or are you no more than treasonous dogs?!"
Rorick stopped for a moment, clutching his crushed ribcage falling to a knee using the sword for balance.
"I see now I am the only sane one left in this company, and I will not let you live to stain it's great name".
With that he raised the sword above his head with both arms holding the heavy blade, his legs wobbling from the effort. He lunged forward, as if falling would keep the momentum in his legs. Unfortunately he crashed to the ground. Sword echoing as it crashed and split in half, causing it to erupt in flames and corrode to ash.

The Storm Eagle jolted about as it was hit with flack and small munitions. Taking off with blinding speed into the sky, the pilot desperate to get out of the range of anti-air crews on the ground. The sky filled with tracer and explosions, deadly shrapnel pranging off the armour. Rorick lay still on the wall mounted bunk, tubes of fluid and sensors already inserted into his skin. He was blind due to the bandages wrapped around his shredded face which were already soaked with blood.
A shell ripped into the cabin detonating inside. The roar of wind was heard, deafening everyone inside. Rorick leapt up in his bed, feeling around with his hand he found a hole only a few inches from where his head was resting.
He relaxed once again, feeling luckier than ever. But his mind quickly came back to the treachery around him. He would have to be cautious in his weakened state, vigilant to the fact that even the embrace of his brother's arms could end up strangling him.
He flexed his hand, which had been severely burnt by the strange sword he had picked up. It felt as if the glowing hot steel of the handle was still in his grasp.
Then something peculiar happened. It felt as if the fire began to spread, as if a bushfire had erupted. Rorick yelped in pain as his whole arm suddenly caught alight. Even though he could not see it his arm had become a yellow beacon that lit up the Storm Eagle. His fellow marines had been taken by suprise, stepping away from what could only be described as a bizarre case of combustion or some form of witchcraft. Either way none were willing to lay a hand on him for fear of contracting the curse.

He was now screaming in pain as the fire coursed like lava through his vains, quickly spreading throughout his body. It finally reached his head, making Rorick speechless with blind agony. All he could see was flames, his mind becoming an inferno. He clutched his arm to his chest, while the other gripped the steel safety rail on his bunk, twisting it in sheer frustation. His back arched involutarily, eyes and mouth now glowing, burning the bandages from his face. An inhuman scream came from his lips, making the sound sound of a dying beast.
The others were scrambling away from the sergeant's body. Staring in disbelief as they watched him burn. Suddenly the flames retreated back to his arm, viens pumping the lava back to its origin. His fist opened up releasing a great fireball that scorched the roof of the aircraft. His back relaxed dropping him hard against the bunk and he once again lay still. His body steaming, skin red raw and sweating. It appeared as if the flames had done no damage, his arm fully intact but the only body part with viens that radiated the heat within.
He lay unconcious. His eyes had burnt out leaving a blank white screen seared into his vision.

Bright light was all he could see. Closing his eyes still did nothing to relieve the intense blank canvas that was his vision. He felt around blindly looking for something to prompt himself up. A brisk wind swept over him, grains of sand pushing onto him. He knew now that he had somehow made his way to the surface. He could feel the warmth of fire around himself, flickering up to meet his every step. It felt welcoming, as if it was greeting him, embracing his every touch. The raging fire around him infact was washing over his body.

The ship had crashed somewhere in the desert, the barren landscape where the forges of this world had not destroyed. Rorick was inside the carcass of the aircraft, only part of it remained intact, the rest of it was strewn across the sand leaving a trench where it had slid along the soft dunes. The fires died down with the wind supressing it back into the earth.

Rorick was still feeling his way through the rear of the cargo bay until his foot had kicked something. He knelt down, feeling something rough realising it was the scorched remains of the load master. He felt down to his hip grasping the handle of a bolt pistol. He also carefully removed the dead man's armour, just the chest piece which he lowered around his neck. It was a tight fit but would have to suffice. Had he caused this?

All he remembered was that sick feeling of falling. Then the sudden jolt. Whatever happened there was no point feeling sorry for it. He had to move, so he felt the walls of the trench they had created, hoping for some bearing. He found a vox unit and an auspex radar.
"All callsigns this is Claw One Zero".

No response. All he could do now was wait. He tightened the makeshift cloth around his waist, listening to the roaring wind brushing the desert sand against his face.

Rorick felt up and down his right arm. It had been totally encased in a hardened rock exterior. He could still feel his arm underneath the rough black shell, it pricked with heat and felt like an oven inside. The rock exterior was impossible to remove no matter how much he tried. He simply widdled away the hours picking at it and flexing his hand inside.
"Claw......zero..."
He snatched up the handset, hearing the first transmission in hours.
"Claw one zero here!"
"One zero this is zero three, SITREP?"
"I am the only suvivor, the entire crew was wiped out in the crash, emergency signal has been activated on channel 3- alpha- 9, are you recieving?"

Rorick's arm twitched with pain. It had been doing it for the last hour or so, distracting him from repairing the vox. The small pain turned into an ever growing burning sensation until it became unbearable. He slammed his good fist into the vox, smashing the useless thing into pieces. The outburst didn't help distract him, causing him to fall onto his knees clutching his deformed arm.
The rocky skin seemed to be glowing like hot coals and slowly caught alight, the blue flames dripping off his arm like oil. Then the rocky skin broke apart, but the pieces didn't fall to the ground rather they rotated around his arm defying gravity itself.

Rorick's arm was no loger there. In it's place was simply a roaring fire which moved and felt like his old arm. The flame leapt out like a tentacal and spread around him, slowly spinning like a hurricane. Rorick resisted the fiery arm's wish to spread and consume everything around him.
He felt the fire was restricted the more his mind fought it and so he began pulling the blaze back into his body like a leash. It became a fireball on his shoulder held there by Rorick's sheer will. The rock pieces began to reform trapping the fire within and sealed itself with a great cloud of steam that hissed out of it's joints. Rorick fell onto one knee, body sweating and limb aching. He collapsed onto the sand now burned to glass which cracked when his body hit. Breathing heavily he lay on his back hoping someone would come help.