The Fall of the Hellwalkers

The Hellwalkers

 Iron Hands Succesor Chapter... Current status
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Renegade.

The Hellwalkers were a ssuccesor chapter of the Iron Hands. Often they would field along side the Mechanicus from Stygies VIII. When the Malediction tore the universe they responded to a distress beacon by their allies.

A small mechanicus fleet had been clipped by a warpstorm. Engines were offline, and to make matters worse Chaos had begun taken root in the bowels of the vessels. They were dead in the void and slowly being used to open a rift to the Warp.

The Hellwalkers arrived on the vessel and made their way through. They cleared room after room with the cold, caculated efficiency of their parent chapter. Their advance was methodical. But the ten millenia of rage in their geneseed began to surface more and more. Occasionally a battle brother would brutally overkill a target. A waste of Ammunition, but they each knew that it felt... good.

"Rip and tear"

The thought slowly wormed into their consciousness. Not like a spoken whisper or command. It was deeper. Their efficiency faltered as they found themselves unleashing new brutallity on what stood against them. It felt right.

When one of their brothers fell. His weapons would be handed to the nearest marine that more death could be caused in revenge, but revenge did not sate the fury they felt. It did nothing to abate the quest for vengance they found themselves on.

There was delight in slaughter. The patterns of blood splashing on the wall felt like art. The sounds of their chainsword tearing the warp stuff that made up a hapless daemon they might encounter was like music.

"Rip and tear"

They tore their way through the ships. They felled foe after foe... This is what they deserve. Slaughter them all!

Their thoughts turned more ignoble as they fought. All semblence of their parent chapter was lost now on the Hellwalkers. A tactical marine would dismember a daemon with his bare hands just to be handed a chainsword from a fallen brother. Only so he could do better next time.

The daemons were routed. The ships were cleared. But the marines stood there. Their hearts still pounded with rage. White hot, inescapable fury burned through their veins. Each breath... A new, gutteral growl.

"Rip and tear... Until it is finished."

The mechanicus priests on the vessel had little to no warning. It did not matter. They could not have held up against the enraged Astarte.

Now lost in their rage they were turned... Marked. Khorn admired their resolve and unleashed them.. Their millenias of rage unfettered, now burned freely.

The damned ships they retook became the basis for their new fleet as they began to seek favor in their new master's eyes.