Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-1734134-20180205203006/@comment-27830834-20180205235422

Tarrack carves a line into the exposed meat of one forearm with his Falax blade, ignoring the mortified looks from his fellow Astartes. This is the eighth twist of his Triumph Rope. Insofar, his overmuscled arms bear six Red Twists in victory and one Black Twist in defeat. He does not intend to add a second dirt-packed keloid to his skin. Never again.

The shame of the last offensive still gnaws at his brain, even more so that the neuropathic Nails twisted into his gray matter. Not that he mourns his fellow Rampagers; Skrall and his lot knew the risks, they died with blades in hand, foaming at the mouth and blood misting in their wake, just like any proud son of Angron. Their names would be fine additions to the Mortuus. That wasn't the issue. The issue was that he had lived, and as such, he alone bore the burden of their disastrous final charge. Honor demanded that he scoop up the ashes of their failure and mark his wounds with its foulness. That didn't make it sting any less.

Part of his admonished his hubris. ''Stupid child. You thought you could live unmarked? You're not the Red Angel. You'll never be him. ''

The rest of him just wanted to vent. ''Watch me, Child of Ultramar. You want the xenos dead? Consider it done. I'll carve my worth into their flesh!''

And just like that, Tarrack's smile returned. Anxiously he ran the edges of his prized blades together, the scraping of mono-edged adamantium on adamantium producing a harsh squeal. Forget Skrall. Forget the Black Twist. This was going to be glorious.