Yavule stared at the corpse, a purring chainsaw still buzzing where it was embedded in flesh. He grinned, by the emperor that must have been a hell of a throw… he turned back to Kellen’s body, and walked over. He nudged him with his boot, and flipped it over. Blood pooled out on the ground on either side of Kellens body, and the huge gash in the center of the Carapace armor showed where the Cultists had delivered the killing wound.
He glanced to his right and saw a bloody scrap of metal lying not 10 yards away from his body. Holy throne he must have been one hell of a fighter, to take a blow like that and keep going. He picked up the piece of metal and inspected it. Odd, he thought. That’s a strange shade of blood, haven’t seen that before. Ah well, he shrugged it off and walked over to Kellen, preparing to make sure the weapon fit the wound. He bent over to inspect the weapon and glanced back up at Kellens torso. Suddenly he dropped the metal, staggered to his feet and stumbled backwards.
“Holy throne, this…this can’t be….”
For the first time in 40 years, Commissar Urian Yavule of the Imperial Guard felt afraid.
