Post by psycho on Jan 23, 2007 15:48:43 GMT -5
Of Faith and Fire
Chapter One
Sergeant Murone ran forward, blood pumping from his ruined leg, to the edge of the stairs, keeping as low as he could. He watched in silence as the enemy passed over the lip of the staircase, armoured trucks, thousands of infantry and at least 500 tanks. He waited until; the last had passed, taking some 15 minutes, before clambering up the stairs. He hunkered down behind the ruin of a car, its windows shot out and body burnt, and checked the surrounding area for enemy troops. Deciding it was clear, he ran, as well as his wounds would let him, into the nearest building, drawing his only weapon, 2 foot of iron girder, and slowly walked up the ruined staircase, into one of the largest rooms. There he sat, ripping part of his tunic and using it to plug the hole in his leg, waiting for the relief platoon to arrive. The relief platoon that was supposed to have been there when the rest of his platoon had been slaughtered like lambs by massed enemy infantry, numbers at least three times of their own. He remembered watching Sergeant Gray, the commanding officer, get ripped apart by enfilading lasfire, the shots passing straight through him at the middle, separating his torso from his legs and spraying the nearest men with gore. He remembered seeing his men fall back to the street corner whilst he hid in the ruins of a vendors cart. Although leaderless, they had managed to hold that street corner for a further 20 minutes, killing twice their number. The last of the 30 had killed himself on a suicidal run into the mist of the troopers, strapped with grenades and explosives. The resultant explosion had taken out many of the enemy, yet the hole made filled in a matter of seconds. Murone had hidden until the enemy had left that position before sneaking off and getting to his current position. Murone’s eyelids began to droop as shock set in. He shook himself awake. He had to wait until the relief got here.
Trooper Manning rounded the corner, lasgun held tight to his shoulder, eyes down the barrel. He looked everywhere, his sharp eyes taking in everything. Lieutenant Dragh had put him on point on account of his keen eyesight and hearing, and Manning wanted to prove him right in his decision. They had received Sergeant Gray’s platoon’s frantic message about an hour previous and had left their position on the double. Although, by the time they had reached Gray’s reported position, all that was left was a few corpses wearing the white and tan camouflage of the Segathin 59th infantry regiment, his regiment, and lots of charred hunks of flesh, still smoking. He felt bile rise in his throat, and retched, spitting out a thin stream of that mornings breakfast. He pulled back round the corner, throwing his guts up, stopping briefly to radio the all clear to the advancing squads, but even that he couldn’t get completely out before he retched again. Dragh and his command squad approached him, looking at him in distaste, before Dragh spoke,
“Corporal, what is going on”?
Manning looked at him through watery eyes and spoke softly,
“Take a look round the cor-“, he was cut off by a violent spasm in his torso as his body tried to eradicate all food sources from itself. However the Lieutenant caught his drift and peered around the ruined building’s pockmarked wall. The sight made his
adjutant recoil backwards, tripping over the recovering Manning. Dragh surveyed the scene before him. He spotted bloody footprints leading to a ragged staircase on the far side of the street and motioned for Manning to resume point. The trooper obeyed the order without question; always a good sign of a loyal man, there might even be a brevet rank for this man. Manning scurried forward, up to the foot of the stairs, rifle tight to his shoulder as usual. He quickly scanned the stairwell for signs of movement, before carrying on with his search. Upon reaching the top, he knelt down and radioed for the platoon to advance in his wake. The bloody footprints were still visible, and they disappeared into a large building on his right. He cautiously advanced to the doorway, entering the building, and began to precariously place one foot in front of the other in a bid to keep his noise down as he walked up the flight of wooden stairs. Spying an open door he approached it, peering through the crack in the frame, and seeing a man passed out on the floor, wearing the camo of his regiment. He entered without second thought and radioed in for the platoon to make it to his position. Pulling his canteen from his back he poured cold water onto the wounded mans face. He awoke, spluttering, and instantly hammered his right fist into Manning’s jaw, sending him tumbling backwards. Grabbing Manning’s’ rifle, he aimed at the startled private.
“Who the hell are you”, growled Murone, the rifle barrel never leaving Mannings chest. There was a crash, followed by heavy footsteps, and then 25 troopers spilled into the room.
“Hoy Emperor” exclaimed a large, heavily muscled man, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant. “Your Sergeant Murone of the Draxan Campaign. I served under you at the battle for Fort Kasrn as a private. Dragh’s the name”, the lieutenant held out a gloved hand, which Murone grudgingly took. “My entire platoon is dead and I swear on my oath I will not rest until they are avenged”, said Murone, pain oozing from his face like a scent.
“Then join us brother, and we will make the enemy pay for this wrong. With their lives”!
Within the hour the entire platoon had moved out.
what you guys think then?
any good?
ads
Chapter One
Sergeant Murone ran forward, blood pumping from his ruined leg, to the edge of the stairs, keeping as low as he could. He watched in silence as the enemy passed over the lip of the staircase, armoured trucks, thousands of infantry and at least 500 tanks. He waited until; the last had passed, taking some 15 minutes, before clambering up the stairs. He hunkered down behind the ruin of a car, its windows shot out and body burnt, and checked the surrounding area for enemy troops. Deciding it was clear, he ran, as well as his wounds would let him, into the nearest building, drawing his only weapon, 2 foot of iron girder, and slowly walked up the ruined staircase, into one of the largest rooms. There he sat, ripping part of his tunic and using it to plug the hole in his leg, waiting for the relief platoon to arrive. The relief platoon that was supposed to have been there when the rest of his platoon had been slaughtered like lambs by massed enemy infantry, numbers at least three times of their own. He remembered watching Sergeant Gray, the commanding officer, get ripped apart by enfilading lasfire, the shots passing straight through him at the middle, separating his torso from his legs and spraying the nearest men with gore. He remembered seeing his men fall back to the street corner whilst he hid in the ruins of a vendors cart. Although leaderless, they had managed to hold that street corner for a further 20 minutes, killing twice their number. The last of the 30 had killed himself on a suicidal run into the mist of the troopers, strapped with grenades and explosives. The resultant explosion had taken out many of the enemy, yet the hole made filled in a matter of seconds. Murone had hidden until the enemy had left that position before sneaking off and getting to his current position. Murone’s eyelids began to droop as shock set in. He shook himself awake. He had to wait until the relief got here.
Trooper Manning rounded the corner, lasgun held tight to his shoulder, eyes down the barrel. He looked everywhere, his sharp eyes taking in everything. Lieutenant Dragh had put him on point on account of his keen eyesight and hearing, and Manning wanted to prove him right in his decision. They had received Sergeant Gray’s platoon’s frantic message about an hour previous and had left their position on the double. Although, by the time they had reached Gray’s reported position, all that was left was a few corpses wearing the white and tan camouflage of the Segathin 59th infantry regiment, his regiment, and lots of charred hunks of flesh, still smoking. He felt bile rise in his throat, and retched, spitting out a thin stream of that mornings breakfast. He pulled back round the corner, throwing his guts up, stopping briefly to radio the all clear to the advancing squads, but even that he couldn’t get completely out before he retched again. Dragh and his command squad approached him, looking at him in distaste, before Dragh spoke,
“Corporal, what is going on”?
Manning looked at him through watery eyes and spoke softly,
“Take a look round the cor-“, he was cut off by a violent spasm in his torso as his body tried to eradicate all food sources from itself. However the Lieutenant caught his drift and peered around the ruined building’s pockmarked wall. The sight made his
adjutant recoil backwards, tripping over the recovering Manning. Dragh surveyed the scene before him. He spotted bloody footprints leading to a ragged staircase on the far side of the street and motioned for Manning to resume point. The trooper obeyed the order without question; always a good sign of a loyal man, there might even be a brevet rank for this man. Manning scurried forward, up to the foot of the stairs, rifle tight to his shoulder as usual. He quickly scanned the stairwell for signs of movement, before carrying on with his search. Upon reaching the top, he knelt down and radioed for the platoon to advance in his wake. The bloody footprints were still visible, and they disappeared into a large building on his right. He cautiously advanced to the doorway, entering the building, and began to precariously place one foot in front of the other in a bid to keep his noise down as he walked up the flight of wooden stairs. Spying an open door he approached it, peering through the crack in the frame, and seeing a man passed out on the floor, wearing the camo of his regiment. He entered without second thought and radioed in for the platoon to make it to his position. Pulling his canteen from his back he poured cold water onto the wounded mans face. He awoke, spluttering, and instantly hammered his right fist into Manning’s jaw, sending him tumbling backwards. Grabbing Manning’s’ rifle, he aimed at the startled private.
“Who the hell are you”, growled Murone, the rifle barrel never leaving Mannings chest. There was a crash, followed by heavy footsteps, and then 25 troopers spilled into the room.
“Hoy Emperor” exclaimed a large, heavily muscled man, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant. “Your Sergeant Murone of the Draxan Campaign. I served under you at the battle for Fort Kasrn as a private. Dragh’s the name”, the lieutenant held out a gloved hand, which Murone grudgingly took. “My entire platoon is dead and I swear on my oath I will not rest until they are avenged”, said Murone, pain oozing from his face like a scent.
“Then join us brother, and we will make the enemy pay for this wrong. With their lives”!
Within the hour the entire platoon had moved out.
what you guys think then?
any good?
ads