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Carcerus stood unmoving as his pet and consort, Kali, strapped his ornate armor to his body. She did this without lust, for she knew that at this moment the sole focus of Carcerus’ desires was to bring the fight to his enemies. She placed his chest plate on his body, his face a somber mask as the tendrils underneath the armor pierced his flesh and melded with the black carapace underneath it. She then placed the rear plating and power pack on his back and laid his greaves out before him for him to step into. The leg and thigh armor came next, followed by the arms. She finally held his gauntlets out, one at a time, and he placed his hands inside their armored confines. He refused to wear a helmet, ignoring the slight risk to his health in favor of showing his face for all to see, friend and foe alike.
At one point in her life Kali had been human. At the age of twenty-two, mutation had wracked her body, giving her a pair of wings and the ability to spontaneously regenerate any wound she suffered. She had been called a freak, cast out by her family and left alone to die in the wastelands of Lithania, her home world. She had almost died that night in the bitter cold, but as fate would have it, Carcerus was leading a small raiding party to retrieve a mysterious artifact. Carcerus had taken pity on her and nursed her back to health. Since then she had felt only love for Carcerus, as he was her savior and had given her an existence far superior to the harsh, uncaring way of the Imperium. Carcerus himself was not capable of love, but his feelings for her were as close to love as a man such as him could feel.
Ever since the mutation her body remained unchanged; she retained her voluptuous curves without ever aging a day. She had wavy auburn hair that reached past her shoulders, green eyes, and a pair of thick, pouting lips. Her skimpy clothing covered all the necessities, but her chest bulged at the constraints placed upon it. If not for the wings, she would have been the object of every man’s desires.
Carcerus wrapped his armored gauntlet around Nethrazuhl’s handle, feeling the daemon weapon coming to life in his grip. He strapped a leather holster to his waist, shoved an ornate bolt pistol in it, and attached several clips of ammunition to his belt.
He stepped out of his quarters and onto the platform that he had ordered the cultists to erect for him to speak from. At his right stood his lieutenants, Dark Apostles Kalloro and Sirvos. The two had served under him for centuries and he used them as heavily as he did his crozius and pistol. Lately he had begun to rely on Chapter Master Desmond Felmoor of the Dusk Phantoms, mainly for their surgical precision when striking at the enemy, but they were not on Palmyra; they were en route from Thalogi, bearing several companies of stolen predators and land raiders. It had been one hundred years since Carcerus freed Desmond from the iron grip of the Imperium, and he had not once regretted it. Desmond was a loyal ally whom he could always rely on.
Clearing his throat, Carcerus put aside such thoughts and concentrated on the speech he had prepared.
“My friends, Bearers of the Word, I congratulate you all on your success during the initial stages of our assault.”
One of the men cheered, followed by his fellow Word Bearers; the noise was loud enough to send vibrations through Carcerus’ armor. He raised his left hand, signaling for quiet.
“The enemy did nothing but sting us, and we rightfully crushed them in response. But now it is time for stage two of our conquest. We have thrown aside the defenses here, but the planetary defense force has had ample time to reinforce its lines and it is time we move against them. The guardsmen who escaped have undoubtedly warned them of our force disposition, but that is no matter. They may challenge us if that is their wish, but at the end of the day we will be victorious. These pathetic cowards pray to their carrion-Emperor; I say we send them to him! We will cleanse this world of his unholy presence! We have walked through the fires of betrayal, suffered by his hand, and now it is our turn to exact our revenge! It will be measured in blood!”
Carcerus brandished Nethrazuhl like a saber, eliciting more cheers from his soldiers. It was time for vengeance. Of all the sections in the Books of Epistles of Lorgar, the section in the three hundred forty-first volume beginning with, “From the fire of betrayal unto the blood of revenge” was undoubtedly his favorite. It had become something of a charm to him, a phrase uttered in recognition of Lorgar’s supremacy. Shouting it to the world soothed his anger at Larson’s escape, and allowed him to think clearly once again. He would find Larson again and the prophecy would be fulfilled, of that he was sure.
Last edited by 10th Lyran; March 11th, 2007 at 23:22.
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