+ inload: Brother Veridias +

Opening the helmet's grille, he exhaled raggedly. A mist of aerosolised blood hung briefly in the hot still air under the void shields.

Blinking to clear his head, he chewed the side of his tongue thoughtfully; a childhood habit that hypno-docrination had not removed.

He took a tighter grip on his boltgun and looked down at the counter on the back. Seven rounds remaining. Sufficient.

Scarred and pitted, his armour wheezed and creaked as he turned to move out; its slick motions reduced in parts to juddering, squealing protest.

Still. The walls must be held. Sacrifices must be made. He chewed the side of his tongue.

1 comment:

  1. Excellent painting, he really looks good and battle worn.


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