“Developments to report, my lord,” spoke the ugly, metallic voice emanating from the swiftly descending servo skull. “Proceed to relay, little one.” Gazak stroked the rusted little object with a single extended talon. These older technologies required a gentle touch, even from a hulking champion of chaos such as himself. “Lord Bulgar’s forces have arrived at the outskirts of the city. The blood of the Emperor’s servants flows freely.” “Losses?” “Brother Ephaedrel is fallen.” The mighty Ephaedrel was long ago entombed in the corpus of an awesome dreadnought, his taste for devastation never faltering. Until, apparently, just now. These Imperials were such a nuisance.
Lord Bulgar was hopelessly addicted to carnage. Strategy was not his specialty, and he could squander valuable resources quite carelessly at times. They had worked the will of the dark Gods together for nearly a thousand years, and it had always been this way.
They had entered orbit two standard days prior, and rather than lay down a simple orbital barrage, Bulgar had led a small cadre of his most savage brethren planetside for a dawn attack on Gowrain's pitiful defenders. Still, the secrets of the ancient C’tan armory would soon be theirs for the taking. And if Bulgar were to fall at the last, Gazak could step forward and claim the prize along with the command. All that, and the prospect of slaughtering possibly thousands of mortals before nightfall… he could linger no longer.
He pulled himself free of the spindly, arachnoid limbs surrounding his command throne and turned to leave the forebridge. With five large strides he arrived at the sleepchamber entrance. It would take only a few moments to revive his brothers and arm for battle, and perhaps a moment more to teleport directly into the fight.