Pyres of Syprios

The muffled footfalls of the Dreadnought sounded through the night, monotonous and yet at the same time erratic. Within its graven, bespiked chassis, the ancient pilot snarled and writhed with the wires and fleshmetal cables that held his ruined form within its formidable walls. A constant buzzing, slathering noise crawled from the hulking monster's vox-caster, the sound of heavy breathing, anticipation for the slaughter to come. The monstrous form cut a swath though the tall grass, each plodding footfall crushing more of the crop beneath its cuboid frame. Hellfire and smoke belched forth from the exhaust pipes upon its back, the smog constantly shifting into the screaming, scorched faces of the souls constantly burned and tortured within its daemonic engine. A new sound snapped from the nightmare form as the assault force neared the point of ambush, the Reaper Autocannon mounted at its left cycling rounds, an instinctual reaction to the mounting battle lust that so possessed the beast.

"Lord Geudan hungers, we must hasten our approach!" The lithe, robed form keeping pace with the monstrous engine of war hissed through her vox-caster, sickly green bionic eye leering from the darkness of her tattered and defiled robes at the hulking form with its back to her.

"Silence Heretek! Lord Umbal leads this strike force, your 'master' will get his fill when he sees fi-" One of the Raptors snarled at the Tech-Sorceress, only to be reprimanded by the Dreadnought's savage glare, the burning lenses of its spiked helm forcing even the prideful warrior of the Prince of Pleasure to avert his gaze.

Umbal cracked a smile behind his golden, fanged vox-caster. In a voice of slick quicksilver he cooed over the strike force's vox-frequency;

"Remember, dear Battle Brothers, we must hold until the mercenaries make the first move. We simply cannot allow your... better halves to sully our best laid plans. This ambush must be absolutely flawless. Is that understood?"

With the Slaaneshii Champion's words came a low din of horrendous voices, each in the affirmative. The nightmare horrors that stalked in the grass beside both the Raptor squad and the Helcult bore the basic shape and size of the average Chaos Marine, but that is where all semblance of the once sacred form of the Space Marine ended... and the barbaric shape of the Daemon took over. The Possessed Chaos Marines of the 13th Storm, the infamous Death Eaters of the Storm Draugar, stalked through the five meter tall grass as silently as a child's nightmare, the occasional growl of their Power Armor or rasp of chitinous exoskeleton and razor sharp claws sounding over the general din of war that lit up the clouded night.