Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-32600226-20200213215034/@comment-25684606-20200214115859

Solon closed his eyes briefly, exhaling deeply. The alarm, the flashing light. Their brief time of brief had come to an end yet again. Still glistening with the sweat he had worked up, the Flesh Tearer hurried to his assigned chamber. He felt his hands twitching, yearning the familiar hilt of a chain sword or the grip of a Bolter. There it was. The urge to rip and tear. Low still, but he knew it would well up soon.

In the familiar steel walls, he found his armor. The sight of the deep, rich black and the silver arm were still alien to him, so used was the Marine to the deep red, scarred by countless battles. He smiled grimly to himself, feeling the right, molten and re-grown half of his face tense. It seemed like soon enough, he'd had the chance to put some blemishes into the deep black.

With routined motions, he donned his armor, the familiar weight calming his nerves as usual. Mag-locking the helmet to his belt, he strapped his chain sword on his right, the signs of attrition on the scabbard and blade still there. It seems the serfs had not had the chance to renew its paint yet. With the sword in its scabbard and the combi-melta on his right, he grabbed the bolt pistol on his way out, leaving nothing behind as he was not expecting to return.

Fully equipped, he headed off to the designated meeting point, passing frantic serfs and defense personnel.