Black Rage: I
Haven't seen anything about the Blood Angels yet, so here's some. This is a tale of a Blood Angel in the throes of the Black Rage,
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD and the Chaos that consumes us all...
Chapter Two posted! 11/02/2012
Black Rage: Chapter I
The Thunderhawk's engines growled as it jinked from side to side, dodging missiles fired from the hive in front. Small arms fire pattered against the hull, painted black and covered in red crosses, marking the flier as the deliverer of the Lost, the Death Company of the Blood Angels. Inside, it was lit with a dull red light, turning the black armour of the occupants the colour of dried blood. Inside, the ravings of the lost growled and raged over the communications system, enough to send men over the edge with fear. Reliving the gene-memory of the death of their Primarch, Sanguinius, a good death was all that they could be gifted. One figure, silent and stoic, skull-faced helmet sealed onto his head, stood. His body displayed no emotions as he tapped his crozius against the floor, the currently unpowered weapon hitting the metal deck with a dull thud.
"How long until landing, pilot."
"Two minutes, milord."
The Chapter serf flying the Thunderhawk would do his duty, flying the Death Company into the jaws of death itself with no concern for his own safety, mirroring that of the raging Space Marines inside. The Chaplain pondered this for a few moments, before his voice spoke, noble and clear, over the ravings of his previous battle-brothers, now lost to him and the Chapter. His voice spoke a prayer to the Emperor, and the duties of all to him. Listening to this, the Lost lessened their rantings and screaming, and steeled their minds for combat.
"The Emperor is the Guiding Light when all else seems Lost. He protects those who protect his people from the taint of the Heretic, the Mutant and the Alien. May his light guide us, even through the Black Rage which now grips us, May we stand by his side at the Golden Throne for all eternity, Until the End."
One voice had whispered the litany, his vox-bead turned off. One of the Death Company contained within the flier, he was no different from the rest. He was a Space Marine, a Blood Angel, gripped in the throes of the Gene-curse which plagues their Chapter. However, he was different. His mind was still intact, the Black Rage leaving him with control, rather than the never-ending thirst for blood. He felt sorrow for his battle-brothers who were lost to themselves, how they would die on this world, as he would. His name was Brother Araton, before the Black Rage had claimed him. The eve before battle, he had succumbed to the crimson path during the prayers, and led away by the chaplains, who anointed him and brought him into the Death Company.
With a loud bang and crunch, something hit the Thunderhawk, jerking the Chaplain into immediate action. Slapping his hand against his harness release, he strode into the cabin to question the pilot over what happened. However, that would now be impossible. The cause of a large hole, shattered through the front windows of the flier, has splattered the serf's head over the wall, leaving red trails of gore to paint the cabin. The Chaplain glanced at the blood of the serf, then assessed the damage. Too much to guide the Thunderhawk properly now. Striding back into the passenger compartment and the ravings within, he punched the ramp release, opening the compartment to the now-close ground, and releasing the harnesses of the Death Company. With a collective roar, they surged from the Thunderhawk and leapt for the ground below, the tide of corrupted flesh below pulling them in, like wolves to the slaughter. The Chaplain followed, swinging his crozius high over his head, leaping from the gaping mouth of the flier as he shouted to his Battle brothers:
"For the Emperor, brothers! Death and Glory!"
Black Rage: Chapter II
The Death Company hit the ground with bone-jarring impact, just before the Thunderhawk did. Sending thousands of razor-sharp shards scything into the massed men, the flier exploded in a ball of fire. The Death Company, at the edge of the blast, didn't even flinch, revving chainswords and aiming bolt pistols. Then, at some unknown signal, they attacked. Swinging their weapons in wide arcs, they carved a bloody path through the arrayed ranks of cultists. In the background, over the seas of human flesh, armour could be seen, trundling forward and belching smoke. The Death Company took no heed of the impending danger, and continued to rip their bloody way through the ranks of the corrupted. Araton gave a spine-chilling howl and ripped his helmet off, gauntlets slick with the blood of Chaos. He lunged forward with his chainsword, using the butt of his bolt pistol as a club, and skewered a cultist, gore spraying from the wound. Pulling the chainsword sideways, he ripped the weapon free of the dying cultist, spraying blood across his own face. He swung his chainsword in an arc, decapitating a man and severing the arms of another. The cultist fell to the floor, wailing and trying to clutch his severed stumps. Araton ended his misery with the sole of his ceramite boot, crushing his head with a spurt of liquidized brain. His tongue licked at his mouth, tasting the blood which had spattered there. He spat it back out in the face of a cultist whose rusted weapon had glanced off his ceramite-covered chest. It was congealed and thick, tasting like corruption. The man clutched his face, the acidic spittle melting his skin and muscle. Araton punched the man in the chest without a second glance, caving in his ribs and snapping his spine. Ripping the still-beating heart from his enemy’s chest, he held it above his head in a gesture of victory, before dropping it to the ground and searching for another enemy to kill.
But before he could acquire a new target, the world disappeared. With an eruption of flame, blinding white, burning the skin on Araton’s face, the earth erupted. The tanks had finally drawn into range and, demonic faces cackling and whirling on corrupted plating, fired their massive cannons with a belch of oily smoke. Explosions ripped those around Araton to bloody shreds as he slay on the ground, bloodstained earth cool against his face. The helmet of one of his brethren rolled to a stop beside him, staring at Araton with an expression of metallic hatred. The head was still in it. Over the din of explosions and the wet crump of limbs being ripped from their bodies, he felt footsteps, stopping beside him. Ready to lash out, Araton rolled and lifted his chainsword, ready to strike at his foe. But this was no foe. The chaplain stood above him, skull-mask giving him a morbid stare, crozius caked in gore. The chaplain held out his free hand and Araton took it, heaving himself to his feet. The chaplain nodded and looked as if he was about to speak, but a bloody hole appeared through his helm and he slumped to the ground, his life leaking on the forsaken earth.
At this, Araton lost himself in the Black Rage. A red mist descended upon him and he let out a howl more akin to that of a Space Wolf. Dropping his chainsword, it’s motor burnt out from the blood it had spilled, the Blood Angel sprinted towards the lumbering tanks, armored feet pounding on the corpses beneath his feet. He smashed an errant, dazed cultist from his path – the tanks did not care for their comrades – and made a flying leap at the nearest vehicle. His armored body clanged against it’s hull as he levered himself onto the top. The hatch clanged open and a mutated cultist glanced out, eye-stalks gazing around in a 360 degree view. It caught a glance of a black-armored leg, before it’s head was ripped off and cast aside. Pulling a grenade from his waist, he dropped it inside the hatch and slammed it shut. A muffled yelp was heard from inside before the grenade detonated, a muffled explosion pattering the inside of the hatch with shrapnel and chips of bone. Preempting what would occur next, Araton threw himself from the tank, crushing a cultist under his weight. The tank exploded from secondary detonations, the fragments of the grenade setting off ammunition and then fuel. Pieces of hull scythed over his head, slicing into those unfortunate enough not to duck. He threw himself to his feet and took a quick scope of the battlefield, what wasn’t obscured by roiling clouds of smoke. He could not sight any of his brethren, other than black-armored corpses in the dirt.
The adrenaline in his system was ebbing, the pain of his previously unnoticed wounds now starting to make themselves felt. Araton looked around again, for a weapon. His bolt pistol, long spent, had been cast aside before his broken chainsword. Blood and dirt streaked his face now, mirroring the surface of his armor. Now, feeling close to his time of death, Araton’s thoughts went back to a time before he was gripped in the throes of the Black Rage, before this.