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Mjuron Vvarkhor, The Drowned



“Sons of Horus? Where I come from you don’t gloat about being the son of a bastard.”
Mjuron Vvarkhor, The Isstvan III Atrocity
He recognized the pup.
Sarul, aye?’, Vvarkhor growled while deflecting the axe. This one was fast, vicious and aching to prove himself. He’d fight with only his teeth, if it came to it. Good, they had something in common.
‘This is a new one, one of Angron’s butchers that talks during combat’, the Son of Horus mocked, ‘Are you going to recall the time we fought together, is it? Make me shed a tear?’
Vvarkhor bark-laughed, a second before the Nails kicked in. His sight went dark red, his thoughts burned inside his brain and in the next moment he was launching himself at the Justaerin with a roar. The traitor shook his head in contempt before bringing his combi-bolter up. He should’ve made the shooting first, but some still took the MKI’s bulk for sluggishness. Vvarkhor’s right thumbclaw entered right above Sarul’s collarbone, while the other two went around the traitor’s head, severing cables.
The Justaerin gasped both out of pain and half-feigned shock. He came face to face – too literally for his own good – with one of the earliest Lightning Claw designs, one made to wreck bulkheads and heavy vehicle systems. One equipped with palm-mounted Yggdrasil-pattern drills.
As the sound of flesh, ceramite and bone being pasted filled his hears, Vvarkhor roared, a horrid distortion of his hearty laughter. He kept roaring as his other claw dismembered and disembowelled Catavak Sarul. He finally managed to laugh when he started charging the three Heavy Support Squads that took aim at him…
It’s a well-known fact that, for some of the World Eaters Legion, the implantation of the Nails changed little of them. Yet there are two sides to this. While for some their inherent aggression and bellicosity was already great and ever-present, for others, like Captain Kharn of the 8th Company and Mjuron Vvarkhor of the 43rd, it was the dichotomy of their behaviour on the battlefield and outside of it that changed little with the hellish procedure Angron instituted among his sons. But while Kharn was a more serene soul, Mjuron Vvarkhor turned his frightening aggression into camaraderie, boisterousness and prowess at the table, causing some to say he should’ve been assigned to the Wolves, where his love for drinking and creating his own legend would’ve made him the new Primarch. The Drowned, the Eaters called him, as much for his appetite for alcohol (especially the dark, bulky Sandman of Caliban) as for the time when an artillery shell threw him into a pit with all the corpses he’d made, to be dug up at the last second, already unconscious, his lungs filled with blood. Recruited from the hunter tribes of northern Europa, the Terran Vvarkhor could never fully come to trust Angron, though he had no qualms with his non-terran brothers. When Isstvan III came, chosen to die with the other loyalists, Mjuron fought with his Legion’s ferocity, but also the wrath that comes with being right in distrusting the one you should trust the most. His laughter, even as Lascannon and Multimelta shots left him a walking, burning carcass, would haunt his killers’ dreams for weeks after that.
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KingOfCopper16's avatar
that helmet looks like something out of a chaos warrior of WHF!
great work.