Harbinger of Woe…
+“Contact! Contact! Gods, it’s in the trench! Get suppo-[BRZZZT]”+
+”Fire! Fire damn you! Fill that thing with rounds, and clear this damn vox net!”+
[The distinctive bark of autoguns, cut intermittently with the dull whump of mass reactive shells. Static on the comms.]
+”Khorne’s teeth, what is that thing?”+
+”It’s an envoy from the warp! Space Marines, come to kill us! The gods have forsaken us! Forsaken us al-[BRZZZT]”+
+”I said fire, Gods damn you! And why isn’t the vox clear yet?”+
[The autogun fire lessens, the mass reactives steady and relentless. The interference gets worse. Screeches and blurts, like a badly tuned radio, echo in the distance.]
+”What do you mean ‘it isn’t the vox’? Where the hell’s it coming from?”+
+”It’s them, sire! It’s coming from their helme-[CHRRRK]”+
[Silence, briefly. An autopistol clicks as it is loaded.]
+”Alright, you damned beast! Dark Gods, guide my haAAAAAAAARRGH-”+
Static, though no vox remains to transmit it. A squawk of interference from a badly maintained vox-grille.
Perhaps it is laughter.