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We must no longer concern ourselves
with the God Emperor's disapproval regarding our methods

In the service of Lord Khorne, we have found the perfect outlet for our rage

-Chaplain Xabreith of the XII Legion



Chapter One
The Long War

According to a series of papers written by the late Inquisitor Thrax, the armies of Khorne fight for the thrill of battle and the pleasure of vanquishing one's opponent. This is not entirely true.

Slaughter Brother Erezak was a sight to behold. His armor was the vibrant blood red, brass edged plate of the World Eaters. Hydraulic tubing ran about his form, plugging into outlets that were carved to resemble the eight pointed star of Chaos. Skulls, some human and others daemonic, were mounted on trophy poles and swaying from rusted chains. The brass icon of Khorne and the outlandish symbol of the World Eaters, a verdant blue and green world caught in the maw of some sort of fanged beast, were built into every facet of his armor. In one hand he clutched a whirring chainaxe, it's rending teeth stained a dark, gore red from 10,000 years of slaughter, and in the other hand he held an archaic bolter pistol, fed a by a belt of warp cursed ammunition.

He and a thousand other Berzerkers just like him came crashing into the Imperial Fists' position, screaming bloody praise for their mad God.

Subtlety was not the World Eaters' strong suit.

It was snowing ash following the initial orbital bombardment. The nuclear winter had blotted out the sun, pitching the world of Sekia III into eternal night. Sekia III's only light source came from the orange hell-glow of it's burning cities. Radiation poisoning had taken care of the Guardsmen regiments stationed at the miserable world, reducing proud veterans of a hundred campaigns to pale and bald, skeleton thin wretches begging for death. Now the only thing that stood between the Black Legion and Sekia III was the half company of Imperial Fists entrenched in what was once the Planetary Governor's palace. So, by the decree of the Warmaster himself, the World Eaters had been unleashed.

Erezak leapt over a tank trap and charged his way through a patch of barbed wire. It tangled around him, catching on the spikes jutting from his armor. Not that he paid that any mind; all that mattered was blood. There was blood to be shed. A solid slug round ricocheted off his armor, throwing him off balance. He stumbled through the ruins, barely keeping his footing. The alarm runes of his heads-up-display blinked angrily as it pinpointed the source of the shot. ENEMY AT 3:34. He turned to see an Imperial Fists scout, decked out in mustard yellow carapace armor and a black cloak. The scout had taken up a position atop a small mountain of rubble, surrounded by the corpses of his squadmates and the Berzerkers they'd slain. He held a sniper rifle that was taller than him.

Red hot rage consumed Erezak. Rage towards this weakling for daring to fire upon him. Rage towards this weakling for being yet another pawn of the Corpse Emperor. Rage towards the Emperor for abandoning and betraying the Legions. Rage towards the Gods for the fate of the World Eaters.

Rage towards an ultimately uncaring universe.

Erezak came flying at the Scout, fueled by 10,000 years of festering bitterness and hatred. The Scout let his rifle fall to the ground, drawing a blade just in time to meet Erezak's ax. Frothing into his vox-grill, the Berzerker knocked knocked the Scout's blade back with his ax and raised his bolter pistol so that it was no more than an inch away from the Imperial bastard's face. The bastard's head disappeared, leaving behind a bloody mist. His carapace armor held his headless corpse up until Erezak attacked with his chain ax, sending the corpse tumbling down through the rubble.

There was no satisfaction to be taken from this carnage. Slaughter Brother Erezak was already moving on, prowling for another foe. The battle would be over soon and then the World Eaters would be rounded back up by their Black Legionnaire masters. There would be no fighting back against them; all of the Dark Pantheon, even Erezak's patron deity of Khorne, were unified behind the Black Legion. Resistance would only squander the Traitor Legion's resources and further draw out the Long War.

As stated earlier, the World Eaters do not fight for the thrill of it. Pleasure is anathema to them. They fight because hyponotrinsic conditioning, 'psycho-implants' surgically grafted to their cerebral cortexs and the dark blessing of Khorne have perverted them so that they know only rage. They fight because bloodshed and warfare should be an outlet for their rage, but it isn't. The World Eaters can never cast off the rage that consumes their minds. They will never know true peace or happiness.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"

Very impressive well done!
One seldom reads about this legion in such a well made style. Keep it coming

Lord Kaalek of the World Eaters 3rd Company had found another worthy skull to add to his collection.

He strode forth clad in a suit of crimson Tactical Dreadnought Army, easily dwarfing the Berzerkers around him. Every slow, deliberate footstep thundered against the metal grate floor. It seemed impossible that he could even support his tremendous bulk. While regular Berzerkers were terrifying, Kaalek's appearance was more awe-inspiring. Those who looked upon him just wanted to look away, yet his presence demanded their complete attention. His head was slanted forward and feral in appearance, reminiscent of a Terran hound. Twin rows of trophy poles ran down the curvature of his hunched back. Each pole was around five feet tall and filled to the brim with skulls, only a small fraction of which were human. There were tusk mouthed Orks and leering, asymmetrical Daemon skulls adorning the poles too.

Erezak should have felt loyalty or at the very least, respect towards such an esteemed Champion of Khorne. Instead, he felt only rage. Lord Kaalek was unworthy and unfit leader, having led the 3rd company into ruin and handed over what was left of them to the Black Legion. A small part of himself understood that Kaalek had been handed an impossible task. The Berzerkers of Khorne couldn't be led; they were incapable of taking orders or performing any battlefield tasks beyond blazing straight into the enemy. A quote from Kharn the Betrayer illustrated this well; "Attack is the only order worth remember."

An Imperial Fists Captain, clad in yellow terminator plate not unlike Kaalek's, was the last survivor of the World Eaters attack. In one hand he held a gore-encrusted chainfist, an Imperial Aquila engraved into the back of his hand. His other hand was missing, having been loped off by a power ax. He stood atop a pile of the Berzerkers he'd slain, beads of sweat running down his scarred face. The slaughter he'd inflicted on the World Eaters had made his skull a worthy trophy for Lord Kaalek.

Kaalek ascended the mound of corpses with unnatural speed. The Captain was ready for him, throwing a brutal punch at Kaalek the minute the World Eater came within range. Batting the his chainfist aside with a shimmering power-ax, Kaalek swiped at the Captain's head with his lightning claw. The servos of his armor clanking and groaning at the unfamiliar movement, the Captain just barely managed to duck beneath the lightning claw. Kaalek swung straight past the Imperial bastard, throwing his balance off. It gave the Captain just the opportunity he needed. He jabbed his chainfist as Kaalek's torso. Just as the rotating blades were about to meet the ceramite plate of Kaalek's barrel chest, his arm went limp.

A crazed Berzerker had slit the tendons of his forearm with a well placed slash of a power blade.

Lord Kaalek put all his strength into the blow. His power mace hit the Berzerker hard, shattering his chest plate and sending him flying. The crater in his torso trailed dirty black smoke as he tumbled off the mound of corpses. He had stolen Kaalek's kill, and he would have to pay for this. When the Berzerker hit the concrete ground his former comrades fell upon him like a pack of feral dogs. Erezak plunged his chainaxe into the Berzerker's ruined chest and thrust it forward, into the pulpy remains of his organs. He was showered with chunky gore.

The Imperial Fists Captain, now missing both his arms, stumbled backwards away from Kaalek. He stared at the twin stumps where his hands once were in disbelief, then looked up just in time to see the power mace speeding towards his face. The collar of his terminator armor caved in, belching sparks and flame. His head more or less disappeared, leaving behind a thick past. Though the World Eaters' bloodlust was far from spent, the battle was over.

Erezak heard a rough, grating voice in his head. It was familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He'd heard it before, somewhere.

It took him a moment to realize it was his own.

He'd been running so long on pure feral instinct that he'd forgotten what thinking was like.

Oh my......Did you just make me develop a mancrush you!

Ho... lee... crap. That was an awesome fight. I kinda feel sorry for the Imperial Fists, though. It seems like there's way too many stories where they get the snot beaten out of them. Otherwise, this is gold!

Fear was lost to Erezak. He hadn't been graced by it in over 10,000 years, since he was just a mortal ganger living on Terra. Though he was capable of paranoia, anxiety and worry, he could never feel true fear. When he heard something slithering around in his quarters in the middle of the night, he didn't panic like a mortal would. Rather, he calmly assessed the situation and acted on his assessment, usually by flying into a rage and charging at whatever it was he heard.

He could remember fear though. To him, fear had been like drowning. You can't breathe, you can't think and you're completely helpless. It was one of the most extreme sensations, one that he imagined would be euphoric compared to his unending rage. Erezak couldn't help but think that his memory of it may have eroded over the years, and it hadn't ever been as pleasing as he'd remembered it to be. The mortals who were still graced with the gift of fear seldom appreciated it. Most loathed it, even going as far as to envy Astartes like himself.

Furthermore, fear was forbidden.

Fear was sensation and sensation was anathema to Khorne. Rage, the kind of mindless blood-lust of the World Eaters, accomplished great things. It was rage that tore down the walls of the Imperium Palace and brought the Emperor to heel. Sensation on the other hand accomplished nothing. The sensory addicts of Slaanesh were thoroughly self-obsessed psychopaths, aspiring to and achieving little to nothing. Simultaneously, the World Eater's rage was both a boon and a curse. It motivated them to do great things, at the cost of their sanity and eternal souls. They viewed it as one would view generosity; it is a self-destructive virtue, but its for a greater cause.

A rich man is morally obligated to give some of his wealth to a poor man.

A World Eater is morally obligated to give his chain ax to a poor man's face.

Erezak sat in his quarters dead silent for many hours, fighting the temptations of sensation. He repeated the mantras of Khorne again and again to himself; "Sensation is self absorption. Self absorption is weakness. Weakness is failure." Soon he had spoken the words so many times they had lost all meaning, becoming just an aimless string of syllables.

The mantras might have worked, had the World Eaters not been in the exact same situation as the Emperor's Children. For all their rage and blood-lust, they were just as broken and weak. They were splintered into thousands of competing warbands, most of which were enslaved to the Warmaster's Black Legion. Khorne had turned his favor towards the renegade Red Corsairs of the Maelstrom, as had Slaanesh, leaving their once chosen Legions.

Erezak stood up and approached his quarter's sink, each step slow and deliberate. He clogged and the drain and turned on the faucet, which then began to pour filthy water. It was an orangish color, having been contaminated by rusting pipes. For about ten minutes Erezak watched the sink fill. When it began to overflow, he turned the faucet off and submerged his face in the water. There was the initial 'shock' of coldness that caused every muscle in his body to tense. On reflex he opened his mouth, struggling to breath, the water rushed in. His teeth ached horribly from the coldness, and the water's bitter, polluted taste caused him to gag and cough uncontrollably.

It took only thirty seconds without air for his super-human body to begin suffering from the effects of oxygen deprivation. Fatigue and light-headedness consumed him. He couldn't think, just like during the battle. Whenever Erezak needed his mind most, it left him. Unable to keep his head submerged any longer, the World Eater wrenched his head out of the water and stumbled back across his quarters, gasping for air.

He still hadn't felt fear. True fear left you feeling completely helpless. Erezak was in full control of the moment; he could've brought his head up any time he wanted.

Yo, alright so the last entry got zero comments which means it was probably bad. I've learned that on Dakka, most people are too polite to tell me when my writing sucks. So, I edited the entry and hopefully its better. Thoughts?

It was not bad, just very unusual description of the legion we all know as frothing mad men, I think you actually managed to somehow portray them somewhat vaguely human even this sounds rather far fetched. Just my thoughts on it

I see what you mean. Erezak, even if he's certainly not sane, isn't insane enough to be a normal World Eater. In the next entry I'll try to fix that. Maybe I'll make it so that he's an anomaly for his Legion; most World Eaters aren't as sane as him.

Thanks.

 LoneLictor wrote:
I see what you mean. Erezak, even if he's certainly not sane, isn't insane enough to be a normal World Eater. In the next entry I'll try to fix that. Maybe I'll make it so that he's an anomaly for his Legion; most World Eaters aren't as sane as him.

Thanks.

No problem, that sounds like a very good approach to it. It dose indeed sound like he is a anomaly amongst his brethren of the World Eaters

I like it alot LoneLictor. I think you're view is unique, their truely needs to be more to the world eaters just that frothing madmen. Is Erezak suicidal? He seems disgusted with himself, not even being able to control himself when he needs to. Keep this going. Awesome work

Erezak sat on his bunk, watching the seconds tick by on the blinking chronometer of his heads-up display. He mumbled fervent prayers to the Blood God, praying to be absolved all of all sin and all weakness. He prayed for the strength to resist the temptations of Slaanesh, and a painless death if he could not.

His eyes glazed over. Ten thousand years of warfare caught up with Erezak in an instant, and fatigue overcame him. His limbs felt too heavy to move. His breathing became slow and labored. Erezak had gone too long without combat. Without the din of battle to distract him, his body's weakness had become apparent. He hadn't eaten or slept for years. But Erezak couldn't allow himself to rest and recuperate. He was still angry. Erezak's rage wasn't towards one particular thing, but the whole universe around him for condemning him and his Legion to such a miserable fate. He couldn't just allow his rage to fester; he needed to go out and do something, anything. The Berzerker needed to claim yet more skulls for the Blood God and unleash the horrors and suffering on the Imperium he'd been promised. There were mortals to be slain and empires to be toppled. He was a Slaughter Brother of the World Eaters 4th Company, a soldier geneo-engineered to be the perfect killer and blessed by the God of Warfare himself; the universe was his for the taking.

Despite all this, Erezak remained seated on his bunk.

Slaughter Brother Zero-Zero-Five-Nine, stand up and place your hands on the wall.

Erezak blinked and his vision returned. His chronometer indicated that six months had passed. Six months of brooding in complete solitude. This wasn't the first time this had happened. That didn't make it any more bearable; it was always unnerving when time seemed to skip. Of course, time didn't really skip. It had just passed without him. There were entire centuries he couldn't remember, where he'd gone into trance-like states and suddenly entire years had passed him by.

Slaughter Brother Zero-Zero-Five-Nine, stand up and place your hands on the wall.

The voice was harsh and inhuman. It belonged to an adapt of the Dark Mechanicum. No agents of the Dark Mechanicum served the World Eaters. The Black Legion and Iron Warriors were the only Legions that held significant Dark Mechanicum presences. The other Legions relied on raids into the material or sorcery for their resources. In the case of the World Eaters and Emperor's Children, they simply didn't collect resources at all, being content to simply watch their Legions being whittled away by the years.

Slaughter Brother Zero-Zero-Five-Nine, stand up and place your hands on the wall. We are coming in.

Yes, he remembered where he was now. He was with the rest of the 4th Company, fighting in the service of the Black Legion somewhere in the Cadian sector. It was the 13th Black Crusade, which was very little different from the other ones. The Great Crusade, the Horus Heresy, the Armageddon Campaign, the Gothic War, and the 13th Black Crusade were all the same. Erezak killed because he was angry, as did his comrades, and when he could not kill he felt his mind giving way to insanity.

"My name," he said. "Is Slaughter Brother Erezak."

His quarters' door slid open, hissing steam. A Black Legionnaire stalked inside, keeping his bolter fixed on Erezak's head. Moisture clung to his bronze-trimmed warplate. On the surface, the Legionnaire was unblemished by mutation, but he stank of the warp. Beneath his warplate, the Legionnaire likely resembled a seven foot tall scaly abortion. Following the Legionnaire was an Adapt of the Dark Mechanicum, his form a mass of hydraulic cabling and swollen musculature held together by an adamantium frame. The Adapt's face was slanted forward, making it reptilian in appearance. Wispy grey hair clung to his skinless scalp. He licked his cracked lips, revealing a mouth full of metal teeth.

Understood, Slaughter Brother Erezak. Stand up and place your hands on the wall. Please remain calm.

Erezak hadn't heard the word 'please' in a long time. He reluctantly stood up, the servos of his armor whining after six months of lethargy. His limbs ached. Erezak put his palms flat against the wall and sighed, preparing himself for his upcoming humiliation. The Adapt retrieved a pair of over-sized handcuffs from one of the pockets of his heavy robes. It fit around Erezak's wrists perfectly, locking into the ceramite plate of his armor. The worst was yet to come. Trying his best to keep his mannerisms and expression neutral, the Adapt procured a length of brass chain and locked it onto a metal loop jutting from the collar of Erezak's armor. The Adapt had given him a leash.

Chuckling, the Black Legionnaire took the chain from the Adapt's hands. He gave Erezak a light tug, gesturing towards the doorway.

"You will see the error of your ways when your skull is claimed for my master's throne," Erezak said. It was difficult to muster the patience to speak in full, elaborate sentences. Most Berzerkers were incapable of it.

"Considering that I'm the one holdin' yer leash, I'd say that I'm yer master," the Black Legionnaire said. He tugged again. "Come on, its time to go."

"Where?"

"To war. I thought that's what you guys liked."

Very good, I find myself cheering for this fine servant of Khorne!

Excellent addition as always LL

Only thing if I may is

It belonged to an adapt of the Dark Mechanicum.

Ty for the comments, Bobakos and Trondheim. They're much appreciated.

Bobakos wrote:

Only thing if I may is

It belonged to an adapt of the Dark Mechanicum.

Oops, I'll fix this.

Oh thought Private Keele as the rotating teeth of a chainaxe tore into his brain. Oh my.

He had been born on the world of Mackan, which was of value to the Imperium because of its adamantium deposits. Keele's parents were both miners. As a child, Keele had always dreamed of becoming a Space Marine. Mackan was the homeworld of the Rampagers, a Chapter of Land-Speeder riding hero extraordinaires. Their exploits were legend; it was said that a single Rampager can annihilate an entire Waaagh! barehanded. When those dirty xenos saw the flying red banners of the Rampagers, they sure wished they'd stayed in bed that day. The Rampagers recruited often from the local populace, but they never picked Keele. It wasn't that he was unhealthy; he just wasn't exceptional. Space Marines were supposed to be exceptional people, from exceptional swordsmen to exceptional rapists. Keele wasn't really exceptional at anything. His mother was killed in a mining accident, and his father's growing lung problems prevented him from work. To pay for his father's medical treatments, Keele signed up for the Imperial Guard. How bad could it be?

As it turned out, very bad for an unexceptional person like himself.

Erezak wrenched his chainaxe free of Keele's skull. He'd forgotten his helmet; he could feel the warm blood on his face. He didn't like it; this battle wasn't supposed to be a sensory experience. Some small part of himself did like it, and he didn't like that either. Erezak would have to redeem himself with his next kill.

He slashed upwards through a Guardsmen's groin, hoping to bisect him vertically. His chainaxe became jammed in the man's abdomen. Blood and excrement fouled the man's clothing as he fell into convulsions; the pain was too much for his mortal body to bear. Erezak yanked on his ax, pulling the man closer, and gave him a hard right hook to his jaw. His fist made contact and the Guardsmen's jaw shattered. Another punch sent it flying clean off. Erezak then wrenched his ax downwards, clearing it from the man's abdomen. The man's intestines came spilling out in a bloody flow, piling at his feet. He made a strange noise that was his attempt at a scream. A good, clean ax blow to the neck shut the Imperial dreg up.

Looking around, Erezak saw that the last of the Guardsmen were dead. His pack was already moving on in search of more prey. Sergeant Nulr, his foetid daemon body barely contained by the red and golden plate of his armor, led them in this pursuit. He sprinted on cloven hooves, flapping his useless wings madly. Undersized leathery wings had grown from the exhaust vents of his backpack, too small for any practical use. Nulr didn't seem to notice this. He gestured towards a wall of crumbling masonry.

"Blood," Nulr said over World Eaters' private vox channel with his wet, burbling voice. "Smell blood."

As if on cue, a Hellhound came crashing through the wall. It went roaring over the mound of rubble left in the collusion's wake, shaking dust and debris off it's haul. Almost immediately, the Berzerkers flew into action. They charged as fast as their legs could carry them, yelling bloody praises to their mad god. The Hellhound's hull-mounted, snub-barreled heavy bolter began blazing away. It fired the an ammunition similar to the one used by the Traitor Legionnaire's bolter pistols: tiny rocket propelled grenades that were intended to lodge within a victim and explode inside, shredding the victim's organs to a bloody pulp. Most of the round detonated harmlessly against the World Eaters' armor. Even the rounds that penetrated were of little danger to an Astartes' superhuman biology. Only a few Berzerkers fell, and in Erezak's mind those that did were weak and therefore deserved it; losing them would be no major loss. Erezak felt a round hit his chest hard, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled back, gasping for breath, and then renewed his charge.

Still speeding towards them, the Hellhound let loose its inferno cannon. A torrent of searing flame blinded all who saw it. Not renowned for their their tactical prowess, the Berzerkers chose to charge through it. Nulr lead the way, rasping and coughing over the vox as he made his way through the flames. The red and gold of his armor blackened, while the various trophies and fetishes that adorned it were incinerated. He hit the front of the tank hard and tumbled over it, landing besides its Inferno Cannon. Its cannon still blazing, the Hellhound went over a bump and nearly threw Nulr off. He lodged his ax in its armored hull, clinging on for dear life.

The Berzerker that followed Nulr wasn't so lucky. Rather than tumbling over the Hellhound, he was crushed beneath its treads. At first the Berzerker was pressed into the rubble beneath him, and when he could sink no further his armor buckled in. A thick jam of gore was squeezed out through the cracks in the blood red ceramite. Qul, a Slaughter Brother Erezak recognized, leapt over the heavy bolter and took a round to the cabling that covered his abdomen. Oily hydraulic fluid mingled with his blood. Qul rolled straight over the Hellhound, falling somewhere behind it. His flame-weakened armor made a horrible cracking noise when he hit the ground; he was likely dead. When Erezak had been a Neophyte, he and Qul had been in the same squad. They had fought back to back on the world of Calos, surrounded on all sides by Orks. Qul had kept making bad jokes to try to lighten the mood and distract from the fact that the they were most likely doomed. Erezak was disturbed by how little remorse he felt for his comrade's demise. For every Berzerker that managed to successfully leap onto the tank, another either missed it or was slain trying.

Erezak went through the flames like the rest of his comrades did. The fire wreaked havoc with his armor's sensory systems, leaving him blind, deaf, and dumb. The only way to tell when he reached the Hellhound was when it ran into him, cracking the ceramite of his chest plate and snatching his breath from him. Like Nulr, Erezak was just barely able to roll over the blow. He tumbled blindly, grasping for handhold, but settled for the foot of another World Eater

The World Eater looked back at him. "Erezak," he said through his vox-grille, rather than bothering to open up a private channel with him. "Brother. Much blood today."

He didn't recognize his comrade in the slightest. Erezak disregarded him, turning his attention towards the Hellhound. Six other Berzerkers clung to its armored hull. The Hellhound was plowing down a steep, debris-strewn hill an attempt to shake the Berzerkers off, but they refused to budge. After the trouble they had gone through trying to get on, they were by no means willing to get off. Nulr, wielding an energy-wreathed power claw punched his way through the hull. This forced the crew of the Hellhound to take a more drastic course of action. The tank's Inferno Cannon turret swiveled towards Nulr, who was now peeling away the metal layers of the hull. Two Berzerkers dropped their weapons and grabbed onto the cannon, trying to wrestle it away from facing their Sergeant.

The Berzerker whose leg Erezak held unclipped a krak grenade from his belt. It had been forged in the visage of a screaming metal skull, its pin sticking out from its leering maw. "Perhaps today is a good day to die," he said, pulling the pin free. "Blood for the Blood God!"

Good show, this just keeps on getting better! Well done, now return the favor

"Oh thought Private Keele as the rotating teeth of a chainaxe ate into his brain. Oh my"

I see what you're trying to convey here, but 'bit into' would be better, or even 'tore into' to get across how vicious the chainaxe is. 'ate into' Doesn't really make much sense, either. When was the last time you 'ate into an apple pie' as opposed to 'ate an apple pie'?

'as the rotating teeth of a chainaxe ate his brain' Doesn't sound like it fits. 'Ate' is too mild of a word to use to describe a chainaxe, and although it personifies the weapon, it casts it rather timidly. If you want to go down the deeper route of personification, then would it fit more if a chain 'ate'? Or if a chainaxe 'consumed'? The former makes it sound like it was just having a meal, the latter sounds like it fits a chainaxe better.

For the 'Rampagers', jetbikes were utilised by the Imperium on a large scale only before and during the heresy. Post-heresy (the only point at which the Rampagers could come into existence, and even then only during foundings where records are lost or incomplete), the last remaining jetbike in use is Sammael's.

"Blood and excrement fouled the man's clothing as he feel into convulsions"

Feel should be 'fell'.

"As if on cue, a Hellhound came crashing through the wall. The Hellhound came roaring mounds of rubble, shaking the dust and debris off of it. Almost immediately, the Berzerkers fly into action. They charged as fast their legs could carry them, yelling bloody praise to their mad god. The Hellhound's hull-mounted, snub-barreled heavy bolter began blazing away. It fired the same ammunition used by the Traitor Legionnaire's bolter pistols, tiny rocket propelled grenades that were meant to lodge inside of an enemy and explode within their organs. Most of the round detonated harmlessly against the World Eaters' armor. Even the rounds that penetrated were of little danger to an Astartes' superhuman biology."

A few small things here. The Hellhound first comes crashing through a wall, and then in the next sentence, comes roaring [through] mounds of rubble. I'd join these two sentences together, and have the hellhound come crashing through the wall, and having rubble bounce off it in the same sentence, otherwise you have a slight issue with how it enters, since it can't enter twice.

I also think that, since this is written in third-person, that the berzerkers 'flew' into action, as opposed to 'fly'. I further think that they charged as fast 'as' their legs could carry them, yelling bloody 'praises'.

Heavy bolters don't fire the same ammunition as bolters or bolt pistols. True, it's similar, but heavy bolter rounds are fired faster and are of a higher calibre. The rounds are much larger than bolter rounds, and have a lot more stopping power. I doubt that they'd explode harmlessly on power armour. Yes, they'd probably not penetrate it easily, but the sheer force of impact would stagger a space marine, especially one that is under a constant stream of heavy bolter fire. I'm also not sure that a penetrating bolt is so easily ignored by a marine. Even though they have enhanced biology, an exploding bolt to the gut will deal fatal damage; even moreso from a heavy bolter.

"while the various trophies and fetishs that adorned it were incinerated"

Fetishs should be fetishes.

"He hit the front of the tank hard, tumbling over the front of it and landing beside its inferno cannon turret "

This would probably flow better if 'he hit the front of the tank hard and tumbled over it, landing beside its inferno cannon'.

"the Hellhound went over bump and nearly threw Nulr off"

It probably went over 'a' bump.

"The fire wrecked havoc with his armor's sensory systems"

'Wrecked' should be 'wreaked'.

"He tumbled blindly, grasping for handhold. He found himself clinging onto another World Eater's foot."

This is probably better off saying something like 'He tumbled blindly, grasping for a handhold, but settled for the foot of another World Eater.'

"The Hellhound was plowing down a steep, debris strewn hill "

I'd say it should be 'a steep, debris-strewn hill'.

"they were by now means willing to get off"

'Now' should be 'no'.

"wielding an energy wreathed power claw"

I'd say 'energy-wreathed'.


Overall, quite an action-filled addition, and a few of the points I noted were just a few missed letters or misspellings, but I do have a qualm with how many short sentences you use. They can be useful for setting a quick pace in a story, but at other times they just serve to unnecessarily break up perfectly good sentences. There are a few times where you can easily drop the full stop and join two sentences together to make a better one.

I pretty much agreed with everything you said.

I'll edit the part in the next few hours to fix the mistakes you pointed out. Thanks for such specific criticism; that really helps me improve.

Chapter Two
One Of My Turns

Beneath the ironclad boots of Lord Kaalek of the World Eaters 3rd Company, corpses squelched.

Many of Lord Kaalek's brethren had seldom put much thought in their daemonic allegiances. They just saw Chaos as a means to an end; the Pleasure God would empower them to indulge every whim and desire, while the Blood God would empower them to strike down their enemies with inhuman strength. The Rot Lord and the Change Lord would empower them to truly live, driving them to greater and greater heights. These Astartes, which were especially prevelant among the Undivided Legions, rarely considered the perspective and thoughts of the Gods. Many didn't believe the Gods to be sentient at all, viewing them as forces of nature. "The warp", they called it, not Chaos. No, just "the warp". Even those who acknowledged the Gods referred to them by mortal names with shocking disrespect. "Khorne," they said, as if a single syllable could express all that the Blood God was.

Kaalek was not one of these Astartes. When the Blood God had first whispered to the World Eaters, Kaalek hadn't immediately consigned himself to damnation. He refused to act as mindlessly as the men under his command did, allying themselves with Chaos without even the slightest understanding of what it was. Kaalek had required persuasion.

Chaossss.... the daemon had drawled, snorting in disgust at the word. Mortal terms were so barbaric. Is the expression of... emotion. Yesssss, pure emotion. You, Kaalek, will be unbound by order. Free from the physical laws that constrict your realm. Free from unjust rule. Free from the Anathema's suffocating light. That is Chaos. And you, Kaalek, are wrathful. Your realm has wronged you greatly, and the Anathema has held you back from vengeance. Order has held you back, forcing you to swallow your indignation, forcing you to swallow your rage. No longer.

A body, its torn and bloodied flesh caked with dust, moaned beneath Kaalek. It was too disfigured to identify its gender, but the World Eater suspected it was male. Most Guardsmen were. The Imperium preferred males for almost all occupations, save those related to child-rearing. Gender was such an unpleasant and alien subject to Kaalek. The sole purpose of gender was sexuality, which was pleasurable and therefore intolerable. Through daemonic manipulation and ritual mutilation, the World Eaters had been freed from it. They would not allow themselves to be ruled by lust.

Kaalek rested his foot on the moaning body. He shifted his weight, and the Guardsmen beneath him made a wet crunching sound. Reaching down, he grabbed the Guardsmen by the scalp and tore its head free from its broken body. A mortal could survive for a few scant seconds following decapitation. Kaalek intended to make these seconds count. He held up the head so that its last sight would be him. His sloped, canine helmet. His tusks of dry, dead bone. His narrow eyes, burning with daemonic flame. Kaalek wanted this mortal to know who had claimed his skull.

He made his hand into a clenched fist, and his power fist mimicked the motion. The mortal's head ceased to exist.

With some irritation, he noted that twelve World Eaters were requesting to open vox-channels with him. Their names, alongside their official pre-betrayal ranks, were blinking on his head's-up-display. He neglected the first three requests, seeing as they were not from his Chosen. Whatever they had to say, he had no interest in it. In the heat of battle, Kaalek only had time to communicate with the most skilled and most essential Astartes, his Champions, Pack-Leaders and Lieutenants. The only names of note he saw were those of Sergeant Nulr and Third Slaughterprince Maliki. The way Maliki spoke, always gagging and choking on something he could never quite fish out of his throat, irritated Kaalek. He chose to answer Nulr's request.

"Lord," said Nulr. The Sergeant's voice reminded him of the daemon that had swayed him to Chaos. He regretted opening the channel already. "My squad is atop a Hellhound, peeling back its metal flesh."

"So?" Kaalek said.

"It heads in your direction."

"How close is it?"

The Hellhound came roaring over a hill, around a half dozen Berzerkers clinging to its haul. An Inferno-Cannon turret was rotating to face them, belching smoke and flame like a wyrm of old. Its treads, which whirred and clicked angrily at the damage they'd sustained, left the ground for a fleeting moment, revealing the Hellhound's scarred underbelly. It'd clearly run over a landmine; the silver-grey metal had been scorched charcoal black. The darkest patch was within a web of cracks where the landmine had detonated, just barely failing to penetrate the haul. The Hellhound hit the ground hard, kicking up a storm of dust. Its treads sunk into the debris, wrenching it to an almost-but-not-quite halt. One of the Berzerkers was flung before the tank. He hit a beam of adamantium feet first, shattering both his ankles. Already the Hellhound was picking up speed. The Berzerker was slashing his gore choked chain-ax haphazardly in one last act of petty defiance. The tank reached him and his ax clattered against it, as its treads bared down on him with, crushing him beneath several tons of steel. His armor caved in and his bones followed shortly.

"Fairly close," answered Nulr. The Sergeant's dry sense of humor irritated Kaalek. He cut the vox connection.

Its Inferno Cannon rotated to face him, and Kaalek realized that the Hellhound was now hunting him. The tank was already swarming with Berzerkers and on the verge of breaking down, yet its crazed driver was still intent on bringing the God-Emperor's retribution to His enemies. Kaalek could've run; the Hellhound was fairly distant from him and, in its crippled state, was incapable of any difficult maneuvers. If he had just hidden behind a support beam or some other fairly large piece of debris, it would've sped straight past him.

Kaalek locked the joints and servos of his legs. He extended his power-fist as though he were punching the air, and then locked its servos too. The fist's energy fields came to life, sparking and cracking with killing energy. Daemonic faces with leering maws and too many teeth faded into and out of existence by the thousands on the fist's crackling energy sheath. They laughed and screamed hysterically, forming a terrible chorus.

He saw the Hellhound, still roaring towards him. Its Inferno Cannon turret seemed to be quaking. It could have just been the tank falling apart. It also could be the driver's hands quaking on the turret's controls, as he steeled himself for the impact. Kaalek showed no such fear; Astartes were not made for it.

The Hellhound broke against him.




He saw light, like the sun shining hazily through a shroud of smog-grey clouds. The clouds began to part, and Kaalek saw what they had been hiding. Rays of brilliant light burned into him, eroding him away into nothing. He opened his mouth to scream but his throat was already turning to dust. Where the sun should've been there was instead a great canker sore in the sky, swarming with maggots.

Here was a realm where the daemons that buzzed about his fist were all too real. They had become tangible, something that you could reach out and touch. Something that could reach out and touch you. Seemingly billions of them formed into one inescapable mass, which swept over Kaalek in a burning tide. Black smoke rose from his wounds and the creatures engorged themselves on it. He saw others like him, other souls freed from their prisons of flesh. Some were the Guardsmen he'd slain, now being killed a second time. With mouths, pincers and other grotesque appendages, the daemons devoured them, competing with one-another for the precious soul morsels. Kaalek, and the Berzerkers who had died in the crash alongside him seemed brighter than the Guardsmen. Ten thousand years of daemonic exposure had already brought them close to the Empyrean, entwining their flesh with it. Their icons of the Blood God, emblazoned onto their armor and branded into their flesh, glowed brightly here.

Hunched crimson beings, with slanted reptilian faces and cold eyes, seemed to have universal claim to their souls. Other daemons, for whatever reason, gave the Berzerkers a wide berth. Kaalek tried to resist the crimson things, but he couldn't. Already several of his comrades had met their demise, the things having chosen to eat their faces first. They ate messily, always chewing with their mouths open so that scraps of gore were always falling out. The way they looked at him... it was the way he looked at Guardsmen.

Now Kaalek could scream.




They dragged Kaalek free from the smoldering wreckage. As they pulled him, he seemed to slough off his broken armor and then his flesh. His skinless, eyeless face was agape in a scream. Where there should've had a mouth instead there was a bloody tear in his head, one with blackened teeth and what used to be a tongue.

Erezak remembered little. He had been wrestling a grenade away from a warrior, because he wanted to live. There were still empires to be laid low, worlds to be burned and skulls to be claimed. The Blood God had promised him the galaxy, and he would not be denied it.

An excellent addition to an excellent story.

Great work man!

Very well done LL! This realy made the story shine

More please, I don't really like reading chaos but I like your story keep it up.

Kaalek awoke to darkness.

He couldn't see, but he could feel the bundles of segmented cabling that pressed against his eye sockets. Whenever he shifted his head, it felt like his eyes were crawling with tiny black ants. He imagined them hiding beneath his eyelids and in his eyelashes, burrowing into the fleshy pink corners of his eye sockets. Sometimes his eyes felt unbearably hot and wet, like they were welling with tears, which he hoped would flush the ants away. When this didn't work he would struggle against his metal coffin, screaming soundlessly and reach up with his misshapen stump limbs as though they had any hope of reaching his face, let alone somehow getting the ants out. The servo-harness around his neck and the steel rod locking into the back of his head prevented him from moving too much.

He couldn't hear either. Kaalek wasn't entirely sure if he even had ears anymore. The back of his head was numb. It didn't itch like his eye sockets, or even ache like his phantom limbs. Maybe the back of his head had been scorched away, when the adamantium hood of his armor had begun to slouch under the heat. Maybe molten adamantium had seeped into the pores of his flesh. Sometimes Kaalek heard muted voices, voices that spoke in regal, clipped Terran accents. They were auditory hallucination, he told himself. Nothing more. He didn't like how clinical and detached the voices sounded.

He could smell though. His coffin stank of ammonia and nutrient rich ooze long turned foetid. If he forgot to breathe through his mouth the stench would make him feel like his coffin was tottering, stuck on the verge of falling over. Sometimes he smelled blood. Kaalek lived for those fleeting moments, when the coffin stench was drowned out by sweet blood. In those moments he could relive his past triumphs and almost forget where he was now. Sensation is anathema to the Blood God he recalled. After glimpsing into the Empyrean, Kaalek cared little for the Blood God's wishes.

To keep himself distracted, he told himself stories. Once upon a time there was a boy named Kaalek. He grew up on Terra as a gutterhound, which is Imperial slang for an impoverished child ganger. Kaalek was big and strong, so he was recruited into the World Eaters Legion. He had to go through trials, along with other gutterhounds to become a Legionnaire. He tried really hard, and he won. The Red Angel, Primarch of the World Eaters, blessed be his name, decreed that all Legionnaires will have anger implants. Kaalek got anger implants, and they made him bigger and stronger. The Emperor was mean to the Red Angel, so the World Eaters turned away from the Imperium. They worshiped the Blood God, because he was like them but even bigger and even stronger. Kaalek lived happily ever after. The end.

The muted voices were talking again. Kaalek didn't want to hear them; he didn't want to go crazy. Here, in this wretched and crippled state, his mind was the only thing he had left. He couldn't afford to lose it.

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Kaalek. He grew up and became a Traitor Legionnaire. He was a World Eaters Captain, leading over ten companies, each one containing one hundred men. After Skalathrax, the World Eaters didn't have clear ranks anymore. Kaalek called himself a Lord, and he ruled over three thousand men. But he couldn't recruit like the Black Legion, and his numbers dwindled. The Black Legion took over him and took away his freedom. They made him into a slave. When his men failed, they blamed him. When his men succeeded, they took responsibility for the success. Kaalek kept fighting though, because fighting was all he had left. And then-

His hand itched. He knew that he didn't have hands anymore, but that didn't help. If he still had that hand, he would've cut it off just to rid himself of that infernal itching.

Once upon a time, there was a little freak named Kaalek. He was an idiot, so he suffered and suffered and suffered. First the Emperor, then his Primarch, then the Warmaster and then his God abused and degraded him until there was nothing left of him. They wore the proud Kaalek, Lord of the World Eaters 3rd Company, down to a little nub.

It was impossible to keep track of the passage of time. His new Dreadnought body had been deactivated since his entombment. No one had bothered to turn it on. Perhaps they didn't want Kaalek to know what was going on. Perhaps they were afraid of him in his new glorious body. Without the Dreadnought's chronometer, he couldn't tell how long he'd been here. Perhaps he had been waiting in here for years. Perhaps it had only been a few minutes of sensory deprivation, and that was all it took to drive him insane.

Once upon a time there was a glorious Traitor Legionnaire, Lord Kaalek of the World Eaters 3rd Company. He was laid low in combat and entombed by his so-called allies. Rather than falling victim to despair, he vowed revenge. His new body would be christened with the blood of his enemies, and his name would once again be feared.

That was a story Kaalek could appreciate.

Oh my, dreadnaugth! I feel sorry for the loyalists now

Wow that poor World Eater is really going insane, like for real this time. Nice read, I hope to hear more from the Dred.

As ashamed as he was to admit it, Kaalek didn't care about blood anymore. All he wanted now was human contact. No, not human contact. Sentient contact. He just wanted to talk to something, anything. He'd read somewhere that humans were social animals. They were meant to live and die together. Not alone, like this.

He tried to kill himself multiple times, by holding his breath. It never worked.




"Captain Eqeurius of the 8th is dead," said his former comrade, Captain Skchalick of the 1st. He wore the old colors of the World Eaters, pure white and a soft blue. His helmet was off, showing a normal face, one with a sharp jawline and piercing blue human eyes. Over the next ten thousand years, Captain Skchalick's handsome features would gradually be perverted into a snarling daemon mask., one with gnawing mouths for eyesockets and and a crown of rotted horns. "He was slain leading the charge at Ghhivh. He died like a true Astartes should."

"Who will take his place?" asked Captain Tezz'ract of the 7th. In thirty eight years Tezz'ract would be slain at the walls of the Imperial Palace, howling challenges to the besieged loyalists within. They would mount his head on a pike in an attempt to ward off the World Eaters, but this would only spur them to further violence.

"It will be Kharn," Captain Dedirek of the 5th said. The others glared at him. In four years Didirek would be flayed alive during the Night of Skins, where the World Eaters cemented their loyalty to the Blood God. "I mean, Sergeant Kharn," Dedirek corrected. "Apologies for my disrespect." Captain Skchalick would later wear Captain Dedirek's tanned flesh as a cloak.

"Sergeant Kharn is a mediocre swordsman and an even worse Sergeant. I simply don't understand how the Red Angel sees him as Captain material," said Captain Risus of the 9th. In ten thousand years, when the 13th Black Crusade raged and the galaxy was in flames, he would lead the largest free World Eaters warband, lording over twelve thousand frothing Berzerkers with an iron fist. He would still hate Kharn.

"Agreed," Captain Kaalek of the 3rd said. In ten thousand years he would be entombed within a Dreadnought following the disastrous Assault on Kyros, where his warband was nearly destroyed. His Lordship would be usurped by Qul, a Berzerker of little note who was initially thought slain in the combat.




Kaalek woke up screaming. His throat burned. He tasted blood with what was left of his tongue. When they finally released him into combat, it would be glorious. He imagined charging into enemy lines with suicidal bravery. The enemy rounds would blow open his Dreadnought body, and it would look like flowers with steel petals were blooming on his chest. Death would be a release at this point.

No, death wouldn't be enough. He told himself the story again. Once upon a time there was a glorious Traitor Legionnaire, Lord Kaalek of the World Eaters 3rd Company. He was laid low in combat and entombed by his so-called allies. Rather than falling victim to despair, he vowed revenge. His new body would be christened with the blood of his enemies, and his name would once again be feared. Revenge came first, then death.




"The meaning of anything I say will be lost on you," said Kaalek. "You are a naive mortal, one who knows nothing of warfare."

"Then enlighten me," said the remembrancer, whose name escaped Kaalek. She seemed fearless, like an Astartes. Kaalek could respect that about her, but nothing else. She was a mortal, and an especially frail one at that. Kaalek imagined it would take little effort to snap her bones.

Kaalek snorted. "No. Find someone else to annoy, mortal. Perhaps Captain Kharn. That glory hound seems like the type who would enjoy answering your incessant questions."

"Captain Kharn of the 8th slew the last remembrancer to speak with him."

"Good for him. He's finally starting to act like a World Eater."

"And what do you mean by that?" On the surface she was calm, but Kaalek could taste her fear. Her pheromones reeked of it. At that moment, Kaalek was consumed by hatred. He couldn't stand the way she presented herself, her faux courage and her droning voice.

"It means," said Kaalek, slow and deliberate. His eyes burned with barely restrained fury. "That you should find someone else to annoy, or I might just reach over there, tear out your guts, and hang you by your own intestines."




Kaalek could see again. The bundles of segmented cabling forcing their way though his eyesockets were feeding his brain blurts of sensory data, which his mind processed as 'seeing'. But it wasn't. His new vision was in ugly shades of dark red, as though his eyes were filling with blood that he was powerless to blink away. The computers that slaved to his new body categorized and labelled everything he saw. Ahead of him stood an Astartes. The computers picked out the Eye of Horus emblazoned on his right pauldron, identifying him as a Black Legionnaire. They also picked out the eight pointed star of his left pauldron, identifying him as a slave to darkness. They made special notes of the weakspots of his armor, noting where exactly he should shoot. In the center of his abdomen, which was running with exposed cabling, the Black Legionnaire's armor was in need of repair. One bolt from his twin-linked autocannon could penetrate this spot with ease and then detonate within the Legionnaire's organs.

Unfortunately, the autocannons weren't responding. They registered as being fully loaded and in no need of maintenance, but they refused to fire. The computers had already made note of this, determining that the next best course of action was to smash the Legionnaire with his powerfist. It was a cumbersome weapon, and it was possible that the Legionnaire might be fast enough to get out a shot with his holstered plasma pistol before being slain. If Kaalek open fired with its built-in flamer, it could blind the Legionnaire.

Unfortunately, neither his powerfist nor its built-in flamer were responding. At this point the computers hadn't the slightest idea what to do. They were panicking, wracking their databases for ideas. Kaalek supposed he could trample the Legionnaire---if his damned legs would respond. Whoever this bastard was, he'd turned on Kaalek's dreadnought but kept it disconnected from its limbs.

"Greetings Kaalek."

Greetings Markov.

"It is Lord Captain Markov, to you."

I will tear out your guts and hang you by your own intestines, Lord Captain Markov.

"That's better."

Chapter Three
When The Tigers Broke Free

Qul cracked open the Guardsmen's bones, still slick with fresh blood, and drank the marrow within. He ate the ropy lengths of intestine like sausage, which they weren't too far from in taste. The Guardsmen's brain was thick and wet; it had to be chewed like gum. Despite appearances, this wasn't cannibalism. Qul had read the definition of a species was a group of beings that could mate with each other. Two breeds of dog might look different, but they were the same species (dog) because they could still breed. On the other hand, a cat and a dog might look similar, but they're different species because they can't breed. Astartes like Qul couldn't breed with humans like the unforntunate Guardsmen. Therefore, they were different species.

So it wasn't cannibalism. It was predation.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't afford to eat all of the Guardsmen. The Imperials were tracking him with hounds, ones with artificial legs and snapping jaws powered by servos that could bite with the bone-crunching strength of a Tyranid warrior-beast. These dogs could pick up the scent of corruption from miles away, and the Imperials could bring to Qul the Emperor's Mercy™, in the form of cleansing fire. Qul was forced to mask his scent with gore. Everything smelled like gore here; the hounds wouldn't be able to pick his scent out.

He stuffed the gore anywhere it would fit in his broken armor. Qul ringed his armor's collar with the Guardsmen's spin, and slicked back his hair with the Guardsmen's blood. He took a hunk of bloody thigh meat and shoved it into his abdomen, amid all the tore cabling and cracked ceramite. His left leg, the one that had been broken and regrown, would smell the worst to the hounds. It had grown back as a strange, twisted thing with knotted scarlet flesh and cloven hooves for a foot. He rubbed the gore onto it like a thick lotion, making sure that the hounds wouldn't get a damned whiff of it.

"Throne."

Qul looked up to see two Guardsmen, frozen in place by fear. They wore uniforms similar to the one worn by the man he'd just eaten. He could only imagine what he looked like to them: a horrible fusion of daemon and machine that seemed to have been drenched in blood, completely unrecognizable as Astartes or human. Qul glared up at them with feral yellow eyes, eyes that gleamed like those of a predator lurking beyond a fringe of firelight. He bared his pointed teeth at them. From his kneeling position at the half eaten corpse, he rose to his full height. He towered over the mortals by a good three feet.

They looked up at him. He looked down at them.

One of the Guardsmen started to raise his lasgun. Qul kicked the Guardsmen's crotch with all his daemonic strength, shattering the mortal's pelvis and driving his groin up into his abdomen. The other mortal was smarter. He dropped his lasgun and ran. Qul was immediately after him, The mortal sprinted down a steep rubble hill in what was more of a controlled descent than a run. He stumbled and tripped with practically every step, barely able to remain standing. Clumsy mortal thing. It was embarrassing for Qul to think that he was once one of them.

He grabbed the Guardsmen by the hair and wrenched him back. "Don't," said the Guardsmen in a tiny, strangled voice. "Don't kill me."

Normally Qul would've made an attempt at wit, maybe quipping, "Is that an order?" But not today. Today he was too tired and too angry to speak. He threw the mortal to the ground and stomped on his neck. The mortal's throat buckled in and it made a half gagging, half wheezing sound that was uncomfortable just to hear. His face began to take on a soft purple shade.

Qul sat down besides the dying mortal. Now he had three bodies to eat. He wondered if his brothers were doing as well as he was. After he'd fallen off the Hellhound, they'd gone on without him. Maybe they thought he was dead. Or maybe they hadn't cared enough about him to retrieve him during their retreat. They were his brothers, but they weren't his friends. Who needed the bastards anyways? They'd fled. True disciples of the Blood God would've never given up the fight. The World Eaters Legion was in short supply of true disciples now. They were losing sight of what really mattered, rage, and falling victim to the traps and pitfalls of self-indulgent pleasure. The Blood God couldn't be blamed for his distance from them.

The mortal was taking considerably longer to die than Qul had imagined. Qul didn't like the way he was staring up at him, judging him. Mortals, especially Imperial mortals, always held an elitist air of faux moral superiority. The little gaks assumed that just because they were weak and soft that they were virtuous. Like a declawed housecat looking down on a lion for hunting. Qul leaned over the mortal and sunk his teeth into the soft flesh of his throat.

Woah! Had some reading to do

Anyway, LL the additions were amazing!!!

Just a small observation if I may

...seems him as Captain material...

I think you meant to say sees not seems

Its on the post dated on : 2012/10/28 00:05:06

Eager and thirsty for more my friend

Nice, I liked it when you were stating names you also gave a little info on their fate, and loved the Dred again. More please