| 10:50a |
Just as planned...or not.
Somewhere in the 40th Millenium.
Deep in the Warp there lurked consciousness’s. Broiling, turbulent storms of sentience given form through emotions refined, distilled, amplified, twisted and warped into polarising facets. These entities were as old as the universe, as old as sentient life and in the psyco-active substance of the Warp they were lords of domains that were cyclopean in scale. Realms of madness and endless violence for the Gods warred with one another for supremacy for that most delicious prize. Reality itself. Although these storms of sentience that could easily be called Gods desired the mortal realm, it was hard for them and their underlings, daemons to interact with reality. So they operated through pawns or used raw power to breach the barriers between the Warp and real space, flooding regions with their underlings. And now one of those maelstroms of malevolent intellect watched as a Mortal, a puny, ephemeral thing worked to undo His plans. Again.
For a moment it envied its 'brother' who felt nothing but rage because He felt something akin to that now as the mortal, a genebreed, or Space Marine as they were called slaughtered his way through cultists, disrupting a ritual that would have seen a world of billions plunged into madness and never ending Change. This would not do.
The God resolved to simply remove the object of its...frustration. It could not strike at the Mortal directly..but there were a billion and one ways to skin a wolf.
Ragnar Blackmane's blood sang, every sense keyed and alert as he waded into combat, the Chaos cultists were no challenge, they were humans, armed with little more than slug throwers and insane courage, no threat to an armoured Space Marine, let alone one of Ragnar's skill and ferocity. Even without his armour Ragnar was quicker, stronger and far more deadly than his foes but the thick ceramite Power Armour covering him augmented his speed and strength even further.
He could hear the other members of his Pack around him, he didn't need to turn his head to look, he could smell them and that was enough for the Space Wolf, with his Brothers with him and the foe before him there was no place he'd rather be.
Tzeench how ever had other plans. All it took was a flicker of concentration, a tug on the lines of fate, destiny and reality and a flicker of power at His command as Ragnar leapt, howling like a wolf, chain blade swinging towards the lead Cultists head for reality to shift in a blaze of blinding white light as Ragnar was sent...elsewhere, but not exactly where planned. No..far from it.
New York Financial District.
The offices of Jeremiah Sach's had seen more than its fare share of..'interesting things'over the years of being a leading interior design firm catering to the super wealthy. They had entertained Liberace, two European Royal families and Gaga but getting 7'4 of fully armoured Space Marine (a ton and a half in armour) appear out of thin air was definately a new one. Ragnar had been at a full sprint but appeared in the air, momentum and gravity conspiring to make him bulldoze back first into a rather ghastly statue of a nude woman before a ceramite armoured boot hammered through a metal, oak and glass table like a wrecking ball. His fighters instinct and training made him kick and push out with his arms, throwing his body up, into a half crouch but this mearly meant that he came up and then down onto a large photocopyer.
The machine didn't stand a chance, buckling, snapping and breaking under the sudden application of battle armoured marine but its frame held, momentum from his jump transferring into the wheels, the mangled and crushed photocopier with its grey armoured burden jerked and hammered into the tainted glass window separating the Sach's office from those of Bobby Drake. The thick glass never stood a chance, showering Ragnar with bits of safety glass as he was wheeled on his back into Bobby's office. |