Editing Creed (section)

=== Tactical Genius ===
The forces of Chaos reigned victorious over the shattered city, littered with the wounded and dying Guardsmen of the Cadian 503rd. At their head, ready to deliver the killing blow to the last world between him and conquest, strode Abaddon the Despoiler himself, his Daemonblade screaming as it claimed the souls of a score of men, slashing through the staunch but futile defenses of his feeble foe. He had won. Finally, after all these centuries, he had triumphed, and begun to finish what that weakling Horus had started! And now, now it was time to put the icing on the cake and finish off that arrogant son of a bitch Creed, as he routed like a coward no less!

Beside him, his lieutenants roared in delight, cleaving through flesh and bone and steel alike, and his bodyguard made a mockery of Imperial pride. Demons from the warp, incarnations of the entropy of Khorne and Slaanesh hacked their way through droves of fleeing shock troopers, and a flanking force of the Night Lords penned in those who were left, trapping them in a great valley.

His final carnage began in a great valley, the product of a near miss by a melta torpedo. A miss that had spared the Imperials yesterday, but sealed their fates tonight! Abaddon flung himself into the fray, cleaving with full strokes the men who stood in between him and his prey, butchering wholesale with his men. The Cadians fought like men possessed, like monsters cornered. Abaddon's men were possessed, monsters in truth as well as metaphor, and so fought harder still. When the last corpse fell, it was Abaddon who laid it low, sending that cloak, that cigar spinning to the ground with a backhand from his mighty palm. The heavyset, gray-haired man lay flat upon the graying mud, and a pool of blood grew around him. Abaddon felt his breath quicken, and kicked the Castellan over, to see his face as the Daemonblade consumed his soul.

"I've won, Creed! I've beaten you, the Imperium is MINE for the taking! [[Horus|The galaxy shall burn!]] But not before I hear you beg, NOT BEFORE I HEAR YOU BEG!" His voice was torn with emotion, manic laughter struggled free of his throat. The figure tipped over, to lay spread eagle on its back. Silent, broken, and dead. An old man, slain by a casual blow from an immortal warrior. Abaddon felt something leave him. The rush vanished. Creed was dead. He had won... Yes. He had defeated the hero of the Imperium, but Creed was dead. And without ever even knowing that Abaddon had won. The united leader of Chaos knelt down, and screamed at the square-jawed corpse, howling in anger, in the hopes that perhaps his fleeting soul could still hear his words. "I. HAVE. WON. CR-" He froze mid-word, as he realized that the crater was silent. He stood, and thought for a moment that his men were watching him. He was mistaken, for his marines, his warriors, his cultists... Even the demons, were staring open-mouthed, at the crest of the crater that they had swept into.

For one nanosecond. For one fleeting, cursory micron of an instant, Abaddon was confused.

And then he knew. He knew what he would see when he looked up to match their gaze. He knew what he would see when he looked up, and realized why Creed had led this defensive force personally, and why he had not boarded one of the Valkyries that had escaped, or a Chimera to flee. He looked up, to see the barrels of a thousand tanks, the crested figures of ten thousand men, the whirring shapes of countless hundreds of skimmers and fighters. He saw in the distance, the smoking ruin of [[Vengeful Spirit|his flagship]] drifting through orbit a hundred miles away, and heard all of a sudden the unjammed signals of panicked screaming coming in from every one of his officers and aides.

[[Image:EvenInDeathIStillCREEEEEED.jpg|thumb|right|''And he knew, without looking, the expression upon that fat old man's face, despite the shattered jaw and the broken neck.'']]

Abaddon saw, before his eyes, his Crusade crumble. And he knew, without looking, the expression upon that fat old man's face, despite the shattered jaw and the broken neck. And he felt his last emotion before the guns started firing, and the torpedoes struck, and the lascannon-bolts flew. Boiling up inside of him, he opened his mouth, and screamed. And over the din of battle, though battle cannon roared and [[basilisk]] whistled, though lasgun cracked and Guardsmen cried out with tears in their eyes the name of their savior, no voice cried so loudly as Abaddon the Fool's, whose hatred of one man had cost him a victory that could have changed the galaxy, the one man whose name he now invoked. That magnificent bastard. That tactical genius.

"CREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!!!!!!"