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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Sept 15, 2009 14:15:17 GMT -5
This is art. And I'm running out of words with which to compliment this masterpiece, Oh!
*Jotts down on notebook.*
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Post by Colonel-Commissar, (M.I.A) on Sept 16, 2009 14:25:02 GMT -5
Small vocabs are not a good quality amongst the Grammissars Im sure
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Sept 17, 2009 13:11:58 GMT -5
"Ach, Heil!" spat Hrax, as he was thrown hard by the impact, his armoured body smashing back in it's. "Nightmare three going down! Mayday, mayday - Hellion, we are going down!" he screamed, desperate, insane laughter bubbling up in his throat as the world beyond twisted and spun, the fires streaking into comet-trails as his aircraft tumbled from the crackling, blazing darkness, Hrax's laughter ringing in the screaming, reddish darkness of his falling steed, mocking the destruction, the terror, the sheer, contemptible scale of the war being raged outside. Throne, but it was so funny, adrenaline pouring into his veins as blackness welled up before his eyes.
The Valkyrie hit the ground with a shattering, crushing scream of tortured metal and broken steel, a sheer, shattering destruction that would have blotted out any scream, any thunder, any booming cry of artillery as it smashed, and tore into the pavement of of the Imperial square, ripping asunder the slabs, leaving a great, furrowed gouge behind in the ceremonial marble where the it had shredded the earth, nose plowing up yet more devestation across the consectrated ground, ripping a scar over the inlaid marble that annoted the Imperial Aquila, the great, white wings of the two-headed eagle severed, it's feathers clipped and ruined by the death-mark of an entirely different raptor.
For a moment, silence reigned, within and without the Valkyrie as the last of the carnage ended, and the black, looming form of the aircraft settled amidst the torn-up paving and rubble. And then, from within, a voice sounded.
"Arise, you bastards!" howled Hrax, as his kick tore the side-door from it's ruined mountings, and the First Company charged out onto the square, all guns blazing.
Firestreaks tore across the square as they opened up, precise, efficent lines of flame as incendiary rounds tore across the darkness, setting a flame amongst the Imperial lines that had nothing to do with faith whatsoever as men fell, their screams torn from their lungs by the chemical inferno that consumed them. Terrible, white-hot gobbets of plasma cut across the night, alight with the blue-white incandescence of a birthing star as they plucked yet more men from the ramparts and windowframes. What fire was returned was skittish and panicked, lasrounds flashing in stoic, bold defiance as to these black-armoured demons that cut them down with such ease and terrible precision, the staccato roar of a heavy bolter tearing two men apart, before a turbo-round from Hrax's rifle tore through the heavy, armoured wall of the Arbites Precinct, through the heavy, bulky carapace of the gunner and ripped open his heart.
"And remember - we're the Fendark Commandos!" cried Hrax, as he ducked behind the shattered wing of the Valkyrie as a hailstorm of shrapnel erupted nearby,as a timed-charge from a grenade launcher sent white-hot metal scorching through the air, the long-dead warcry of a half-forgotten planet alive and burning on his lips, as he dropped to one knee and sent a precise, four-round burst into a nearby window, invisible in the darkness save as three massive, sledgehammer-like blows on the opposite wall, his intended target diving away faster than should have been possible.
"Damn" he snarled, as a subtle, arrogant snicker ran through the vox-net. Missing was not something that happened to a Mercenary, let alone an officer of the First Company. Three misses, and he might as well pack it in for good, unless.....ah. With a cruel, predatory smile worming it's way onto his features, he resumed his aim, and adjusted, downward and to the right. A heavy, unadorned piece of wall sat in his scope, it's brown-black plainess a sharp contrast to the grandiose, regal magnificence of the precinct as a whole. Now, if he were right....
The sudden, snap-bark of his autogun, and the heavy-handed blow of it's recoil in his shoulder told him he was. The sight of the gaping, heavy hole in the wall assured him. The scream of the Inquisitorial trooper behind as a heavy slug tore into his body and bisected his spine, was merely an added pleasure, a triumphant little flourish in his ears, as Hrax smiled to himself, and resighted.
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Post by Deleted on Sept 20, 2009 3:04:41 GMT -5
good work, but you are not elaborating on the details, as much as before. This is giving it a kind of clunky feeling as you go from update to update. but nether-less i am in awe ,of you story telling so, (checking clip) where is the next update (cocks pistol)
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Post by Deleted on Sept 28, 2009 12:44:42 GMT -5
I've just started from Page 1, and only a few posts in, but already I must say...awesome work here. I'm loving it already...and to think I've 11 pages more of this stuff to go through!
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Sept 29, 2009 19:20:26 GMT -5
"Burn you hound, burn!" screamed Hrax, the staccato roar of his autogun resounding in his soul like nothing more than an elemental warcry, a visceral, wonderous hymn to his rage, to this eternal, flaming bezerkergang which had consumed them all, this fury that had was nothing to do with gods, daemons, darkness or light, but a intoxicating, ravening desire that coursed through the blood in a chemical inferno, the nerves aflame with passion and delight as strobing muzzleflashes cut across the darkness. Bezerkergang it was, that old, animal lust for blood that the tamers of man thought they had muzzled and chained to a yoke of god and nation. But now the dog was off his leash, and rampaging through the tattered remainder of civilisation for profit, screaming in maddened exhultation as a round dozen of his foes lit up like the beacon-fires of old, screaming his defiance of the sporadic return fire that had cut down fully half his squad.
"The darkness has come for you, little men!" he cried, even as he ducked back behind the ruined wing of the Valkyrie, a spray of thunderbolt-eruptions tearing up the pavement as a heavy bolter raked it, each bolt punching clean through the heavy stone to explode beneath it, sending a coloumn of fire and shattered rock skywards. Hrax laughed again, even as the sky flashed white with flame, and the deep, crimson thunder erupted about him, feeling the cold-steel caress of a fresh magazine in his palm, even as the soft 'chin' of the magazine catch ran through his fingertips, the discarded drum clattering to the shattered ground with a distinct, loud clang that was lost in the rage and armageddon erupting all around him, quite, quite forgotten.
A duo of Valkyries swept high overhead, curiously silent, silhouetted black against the burning madness that was the skies, peeling away to descend upon the massive, blue-black form of the Imperial chapel. A vast, regal artifice, cut of the same black granite as the Arbites precinct but lit up by the domineering intricacy of it's frontwork, a legion of angels and saints standing sentinel, a legion of purity and Imperial pride so vast that the even the screaming Valkyries, and these mad, brilliant killers seemed quite inadequate in comparison, armoured in gold, skins of ivory, eyes gleaming in inset, iridescent gems as the two raptors swept over it, hovering over it's vaulted, bulging roof as The Mercenaries within leapt without. A third arced overhead further still, hovering at the top of the vast, square tower that stretched upwards into the burning sky like a vast, iron fist raised in defiance.
"Ready to kill, Diego?" purred Viconica, idly leaping from the side hatch of the howling Fury that held them, six hundred foot above the earth.
"Readier than you've been at aught, save within the bedchamber" retorted Diego, as he to made the leap between the Valkyrie, and the empty, massive tower, feeling the momentary, lurching clutch of vertigo at his mind, tensing as it ran up his spine and into his brain, before his balance reasserted itself and he found himself upon as solid a platform as any. A vast, ebon-winged statue, over thirty foot in height, stood upon their platform. Unlike those below, it was unadored, plain save for the painstaking, wonderous detail that had been put into it - detail that eclipsed even the splendid grandeur of the saints and seraphim below, a wonderful, awe-inspiring intricacy. What struck Diego most, though, was the power that radiated from this thing. Vast, incomprehensible, unimaginable power, as immense as that of the stars and heavens, a great, terrible purity of force that this thing represented. And well it did, for upon it's base, it told of what it was avatar to.
Emperor of Mankind.
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Post by Ymmot (M.I.A) on Sept 29, 2009 19:29:33 GMT -5
Aces, as always.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Sept 29, 2009 20:19:17 GMT -5
You still have a fine balance of storytelling and description, but I find the perspective shifts a bit disorienting.
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 5, 2009 15:01:24 GMT -5
"And beneath the eyes of the Emperor, I shall strike down his servants" intoned Diego, taking the solemn, slow rythmn of the hymnal, and twisting it, a mocking edge as hot and deadly as the screaming bullet that spat from the muzzle of his rifle. The loyalist Captain crumpled, the bullet throwing him to his knees even as it ripped his chest open, tearing a bloody path of torn flesh and splintered bone, opening the man's lungs to the air and punching clean through his ribcage. Oh, the sweet, venomous irony of it all, to sit here, hundreds of metres above the chaos and fire reigning supreme below, at the very feet of the winged, angelic Emperor, and contemptuously strike down his servants, one after the other. Doubly so, that the dealer of this chill, vindictive ending have been once a Priest of The Imperial Creed.
"You betrayed me, Lord" he whispered, as he resighted, took the habitual, calming breath, unshed tears gleaming in his eyes. "You left me to die, left me to burn and be cut down by the alien tide. Or perhaps you never left. Perhaps you never cared for we, mere, short-lived mortals and our petty struggles. Our petty lives, our petty deaths" he said, as he fired again.
Through the scope, he witnessed a second loyalist die, the bullet neatly bisecting his jaw at the apex of the man's raised chin, reducing the fine, chiselled buttress of a fellow human's features into so much blood and gore even. A momentary flash of pain, so hot and bright in those eyes as his mind exploded into screaming, flaming agony, and then, oblivion, as the bullet cleaved open his spine, and ended his life.
"Petty deaths" he echoed, sitting back on his haunches for a moment, looking up into that inferno that raged above, fire blossoming across the dark canvass. "Preach a creed, tell a lie. Preach death, end a life. Ha. Well, better I kill than I lie" he whispered, slowly closing his eyes, and then opening them.
Another retort, and another loyalist died, his brains pulped in his skull, vomited out of the fist-sized mess that was the exit wound.
"Still preaching Diego?" asked Viconia, as her own lasrifle snapped it's vengeance, incinerating the entire shoulder joint of a Inquisitor's aide, leaving him screaming even as the remainder caught ablaze, and he fell from the window frame, a burning torch plummeting to splash against the hard cobbles.
"Preaching to the converted, or else the dead, Viconia" muttered Diego. "The living have better things to do, that hear more of the Emperor's doggerel."
"Heretic" she responded playfully, even as she watched another man die, a red-armoured Inquisitorial Grenadier hurled across the battlefield, head exploding as the heavy lasround vaporised the flesh and burst the domed bastion of the skull like an overripe fruit.
"Better heretic than a fool" he murmured, as he idly killed another, the white-hot streak of a bullet striking the Guardsman down like a thunderbolt.
"Better-hey" Viconia. "Movement in the adjoining square. Administrative centre, fifth floor, approximately fifteenth window inwards-"
"I see them" replied Diego, as he sighted his rifle on the position she laid out with the long, dark line of her arm. Despite all their teasing, the two were a flawless team, and the direction she gave let him line up his scope with an almost mathematic precision. He blinked, pausing as his eye refocused on the target. Movement, indeed, within, a black, shining surface. Another. A hint of flesh, pale in the darkness and burning lights of the lightning. The gunmetal gleam of a boltgun, and Diego's sharp inhalation cut through the silence around them, shock tightening it's icy grasp around his heart, eyes tearing in surprise.
" Adeptus.....Sororitas" he breathed, and indeed, it was they, the legendary warrior-women of the Adeptus Terra. The mailed fist of faith, in the clothen glove of redemption and piety. Ha. The supreme irony of it all, thought Diego, even as Viconia cooly relayed the message back to the swooping Valkyries arcing overhead, and the ground troops now efficently dismembering enemy resistance throughout the city.
"Viconia" he said, softly uttering her name. A brief finger to his lips, and then she turned back to him. The lightning flashes bleached her skin, paling it to whiteness, hollowing the delicate brown of her eyes into pits of darkness, shrouding much of her beauty, and obliterating the rest under the harsh, flashing incandescence. And yet, she was still beautiful.
"Diego" she responded, calm, and yet with that subtle, tender edge that brought a quiver of a smile to his lips.
"Listen, pray. Sororitas are not normal warriors. They serve not strategy, not tactics, but only faith. They're warriors of the Imperial Creed, not the Imperial Army, foremost, and-"
"Oh Gods" she rasped, blanching further white. "The chapel- Vosef's squads!"
It was at that moment, however, that the distinctive, vicious bark of bolter fire erupted below them, as Mercenary, and Battle Sister clashed together for the first time.
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Oct 8, 2009 15:16:04 GMT -5
Fantastic work mate! Your powers of description are of a grade not yet seen on earth.
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 16, 2009 15:56:37 GMT -5
From high up, Siegfried Von Luckner circled the battlefield, the slow, everpresent pull of gravity, and the invisible caress of G-forces pulling on his body as he watched the flaring, strobing lights of war through a pair of silver-inlaid field glasses, the occasional, terse command issued from his aged lips. Otherwise, there was silence, his Valkyrie's engines muted and as it traced it's slow, idle figure-of-eight pattern over the settlement, the low murmuring of the wind ruffling his coat and hair, cool and serene as he flew between fire. Inferno above, Armaggedon below.
"Officer of the Watch, relay orders to Fifteenth Company to disengage from the westwards flank" he said, the words softly brushing over his lips, cold rims of his field glasses still pressed to his eye as he surveyed the hovering, black shapes of Fifteenth Company's Valkyries. A platoon, the fourth he knew, had disembarked upon the roof of one of the city's manifold proto-habs, and even from here he could see the fire and distorted patches of air that signified the eruption of high explosive as they systematically tore their way through it's interior.
"Aye, sir" came the reply, muted and calm as his own words. To permit the wing of their aerial assault to overlap onto the west could well have disasterous consequences, once General Constantine rallied his Gaian Armoured and began his own attack on that flank. To the east, he knew, the Malengradian assault had begun, a vast, unending tide of brown-black clad infantry spilling over the plains and pouring over the defenders, supported by the ragged, bloodied remannts of the Second Company, and their 37th infantry regiment, and the brilliant, white coloumn of light that told him all he needed to know, even if Malefan had not confirmed it himself. Emir was alive. Emir was alive, thank the Emperor, and for that he would offer up prayers even as he directed the ending of his Servants.
And now, the loyalist flank was breaking, disintergrating where it stood as the renegade attack struck home like a great, unending tide of humanity, a tidal wave of men and machines that darkened the ground. Rationally, he knew, only some 10,000 soldiers were attacking the loyalist flank - less, in fact, than the loyalist defenders facing them. But even without the the thunder boiling in the heavens and scorching the aether, even without the feral howl of the Valkyries as they vomited forth destruction and death into their ranks, even without the teams of Mercenaries tearing into their commanders, their heavy weapons, clearing away the rooves of the buildings and pouring blazing fire into their numbers, even without the snipers decimating the Commissars and Sergeants, an anonymous, inglorious death finding them in the gloom of night, they would have broken. No man would stand before that towering, incandescent fire that blazed over their flank, burning hot and bright as a sun as she screamed, and wrought such destruction it beggared understanding. Power, he could understand, for Emir was powerful. But this, this raging, god-ending fury that would leave the most bloodied veteran in tears, trembling with horror and shock. Nothing compared - not the thunder, not the roar of artillery, not the Valkyries, nothing. Not even the unending hordes of Tyranids could have stood before this fury, Von Luckner knew, not even the Orks, not the ironclad will and power of the Space Marines, and not even the bold, brave men who stood before her now.
- - - - - -
"Damn you for a coward, stand!" screamed Fabian, as he seized the fleeing trooper and threw him back towards the window. The man stumbled, terror clear as the lightning's flash upon the distant horizon. "Damn you, stand, and man the heavy weapon. Drive them back!" he cried, taking cover behind the shattered window frame, levelling his hellgun at the vast, seething mass of men that swarmed towards them. A stream of howling, continuous laser fire vomited from it's muzzle, each precise, controlled burst tearing back into the scorching air, fury as tightly controlled and desperate as his own cutting down a pair of renegade troopers as they crested the low mound that had once been the outer defence lines. A moment later, and the staccato roar of the heavy bolter joined him, the massive brass casings flung through the air, scattering across the floor like a plague of brassy cockroaches, renegade infantry blown into so many flying, ragged chunks of flesh, the spatter of their blood forming a misty haze marking their passing.
The roar of weapons fire, the whining, ululating cry of laser fire pouring from each and every window, the serried, steely ranks of defenders, imposing and fierce as any force assembled in defence of the Imperium. And it was all for naught. The onslaught had no end, each man falling replaced by another stepping forth from the darkness into the burning flare-light of the witch's passing. To his left, the burning husk of a hab-block stood, lantern-fires flickering as it crumbled into so much rubble, dust and smoke. There own fire was nothing but a pitiable flicker compared to the sheer weight of fire the defenders were throwing at them, a literal curtain of lead, lasfire and high-velocity rounds ceaselessly smashing into the building like a great, leaden tide of burning metal. Autocannon rounds smashed clean through walls, blasting men clean in half or else hurling them, screaming for those few, dreadful seconds of purest agony, across the room, before they died, entrails spilling out onto the floor, or else so horrificly mangled it defied belief. Las and auto fire poured ceaselessly into them, his men dropping like flies as a well-placed bullet, or the scything caress of hot metal tore open his flesh, laying open the blood vessels, cleaving open bone and carving it's signature upon the flesh and organs. Death was all around him, and yet, somehow, he lived, laughing out his defiance as he killed, and killed, and killed in the name of The Emperor he served.
A flash of light, and then such intense, horrible, burning heat enveloped him, and he was flung through the air, his armoured body flung against the wall with such incredible force as the burning promethium cooked off the massive bolt rounds even as it immolated the gunner, his mouth open and screaming in silence as flames poured into his mouth and lungs, incinerating him from the inside out until the concussive thunder of the explosion blew them both into oblivion.
Fabian awoke, not to gunfire, but to a curious, alien sound. The tramp, tramp, of heavy boots, close and yet strangely muffled. The world was grey, a monochrome half-oblivion of shock and adrenaline blocking out all sensation, his hearing dull. He wondered if he was dead, with the same, curious detachment as he would wonder if someone he'd never know had bought themselves a house some floors below him. Such an idle, unimportant thing, life, when you thought about it. Born, grow, screw, die. Ha. Worship the Emperor.
The shock and pain cleared soon enough, as the two figures stepped over him.
"This one's alive" rasped Kasson, voice so hideously inhuman and cruel behind that skull-mask it was if he were become death himself, scythe blade strapped around his forearm in the manner of the Vraksians he had once fought. The other, was too bright to be looked at. The Emperor? Maybe he was dead, and this was death, come to take him, and the Emperor, come to claim him. What luck, what- psyker. Witch. That was not the Emperor, but the other creature, the strange, blazing woman who had cast a fiery radiance across the battlefield, and levelled their defences with her nightmarish powers. A fine figure, she cut, slim and elegant against the light, blazoned in elemental glory like the wings of Sanguinius. And this one, a Mercenary, evil and cruel as no other heretic could be. As cruel and imposing as that nightmare that had stood above him before, he thought, remembering the savage, bloody leer of that face, the inhuman contrortion of flesh into that psychopaths' leer. That face....
"That face!" gasped the witch, dropping to her knees and clutching at him. "That face! How do you know his face!? How!? Where!? Where did you see him!" she cried, clutching at him. "Where?" she said, voice breaking into a ragged sob. "Please, please tell me. Please. Throne, you've got to tell me!"
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Post by Colonel-Commissar, (M.I.A) on Oct 16, 2009 19:35:47 GMT -5
Wow,the witch seems quite desperate XD
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Post by Lord General Armstrong on Oct 17, 2009 4:21:58 GMT -5
I just started reading this story, And I find it very confussing. The multiple plots are hard to follow. And i think this Drang guy is to Uber.
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 30, 2009 17:45:01 GMT -5
"Charges!" cried Hrax.
"Set" replied Riana, her rasping, broken voice soft over the helmet mikes, and a momentary pang of conscience flared in him as he saw her face contort in a brief wince. He'd forgotten she hated shouting. Hated the screaming, hated the yells. Thunder, or else gunfire, she managed, but the sound of a friend's voice raised in bloodlust and anger - oh, it hurt her. Hurt her like claws, tracing lines of bloody through her body. Their eyes met, and he gave a little, apologetic glance at her. A small smile forgave him, and his spirit was once agains set free as she walked, upright and fearless despite the lasbolts that still scorched the black stone of the Imperial chapel, or else blistered the lammelar of it's wood, and Hrax smiled again, watching her stride across the plaza and crouch beside him, sheltering beneath the wing of his Valkyrie.
"Blaze, my love" he said, and she pressed the firing charge.
The demolitions charges exploded against the massive, iron-bound bulwark of the chapel door, sheer force tearing a vast, hideous gouge into the frame, an eviscerating wound that tore out the entirity of it's undersection, it's imposing frame torn asunder, sheer force disintergrating it into a vast, whirring hail of fragments. A vast, elemental wave of force passed through the building, a monstrous bellow erupting like a thunderclap as the stained glass buckled, then shattered into a hundred thousand pieces, a great, billowing wave of shining glass, gleaming like starlight - reds, blues, golds, all the halycon colours of the heaven and earth - erupted out from the chapel, raining down around it like a shimmering dawn.
A moment passed, and, save for the ringing in his ears, all was silent. Void. Empty. Dead. The sheer, mind-numbing force of the eruption has dazed them. Shock and awe left them all silent, save for the all-present rumble of the burning heavens. Drang would have approved, thought Hrax, as he stood again, clutching at his autogun with quivering hands, and idly spat on the ground.
The door, shattered, ruined, a gaping wound torn in it's underbelly, it's hinges warped and torn asunder, now fell before him. A slow, long moment, as his eyes registered in numbed horror as it began it's sweep earthwards, as five tons of sheer, raw force plummeted to the ground in a silent, awesome sweep, the air blown away and into their faces as it fell, with the impossible, graceful elegance demanded by physics.
The impact was a god-hand. A monstrous, crushing thing, a flat palm of an enraged deity slammed into the ruined paving of the plaza, smashing the rock into pieces as a criss-crosswork of cracks spread beneath their feet. The shattering, all-encompassing moment of impact, the sheer, undeniable force blotted out the world, even as the swirling dust flung was flung in their eyes, and obscured their view.
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 30, 2009 17:47:09 GMT -5
Okay, if you people want any more of this damn story, you better comment. Critiscism, suggestions, appreciation - anything! Just blasted well comment! If you think my writing style sucks, then damn well say so! If you want me to keep writing, please, just say something. Else I might as well not damn well bother.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Oct 30, 2009 19:21:36 GMT -5
Did you expect someone to comment in those two minutes? I still say you need to post a list of characters again. Just to avoid confusion.
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 31, 2009 5:03:07 GMT -5
Dramatis Peronsae:
Kamenev Drang: Mercenary Commander. An eloquently-spoken, malevolent prescence, twisted by hate and chemical rage into an almost-perfect killer, save when Emir is around. Love conquers all, and all that, but it's hard to kill when those eyes are staring into your soul, and forgive everything you've ever done, and still hold you in there gaze.
Emir D'Clemancau: Delta-Level psyker, lover and companion of Kamenev Drang. A slim, elegant woman with an albaster complexion, and a wounded, disintergrating heart, she refuses to accept that Kamenev is irrevorably, inalterably changed, and seeks to save him.
Quartermaster-Sergeant Dirk Kasson: A tough, vicious old sergeant, originally of the Death Korps of Krieg, and then sent to the Penal Legion when his Siege Regiment mutinied in attack. A dangerous, cunning fighter, grizzled by decades of service and as uncompromisingly fierce as Drang himself, Kasson has embraced the Mercenaries as loyally as he embraced his former cult of Death. His entire Second Company is composed of members of his former regiment, or other Death Korps Regiments, their skull-masked attire almost exactly that of the Grenadiers of Krieg.
Field Marshall Siegfried Von Luckner: A Mordian Strategic Commander of great reknown, and a supremely gifted strategist and tactician, often refered to as 'Old Man War' or 'Ironclad', Von Luckner is a hardened, fearless commander, able to employ every element available to him with devestating ease and precision. Sometimes, the rough-hewn, informal command structure of the Mercenaries becomes deeply annoying to him, as commanders are often far too enthusiatic and independant for his Mordian-inculculated mind, but his profound respect for Drang, and his growing fondness for Emir (seeing her as something of a surrogate grandaughter). Commands the Third Company.
Marcus Dr'aek: Drookian infantry commander, Sixth Company Commander. A hardened, toughened fighter, Dr'aek and Kasson maintain a fierce, if friendly competition, as to which of their companies are the better assault troops.
Lucius Hrax: Lieutnenant of the First Company. A gung-ho, slightly mad individual, Hrax is a deadeye shot and a merciless fighter, as well as being a competent tactician.
Sergeant Fabian: Renegade (Malengradian) Infantry Sergeant. Leads the shattered remnants of the Malengradian 37th, one of the many regiments that were decimated during the initial loyalist assault. Now, of an original ten thousand men, barely two hundred remain, and are now serving as auxillaries to Kasson's detached Death Korps.
Diego and Viconia: Snipers. Diego is a defrocked Imperial Priest, Viconia, an ex-Cadian 101st sniper. Sporadic lovers, when not sleeping with someone else in an attempt to hurt the other.
White (Now Dead): Psychopathic killer, now deceased.
Marshal Palati: Supreme Commander, Malengradian forces. Has taken operation command of this counterattack in hope of clearing the enemy artillery away from Malengrad. A lethal, competent tactician and strategist, he is a deadly infantry commander and, while young, is extremely experienced.
General Constatine: While the Mercenaries themselves possess no armoured forces, they do possess an armoured auxillia. The Gaian 1st Armoured are a Combined Armour/Armoured Infantry breakthrough regiment of some reknown, and are used by The Mercenaries to achieve, well, armoured breakthroughs. Constantine is a young, calm man of great compassion and even temper, functioning in a position he is about twenty years too young for.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Oct 31, 2009 10:42:13 GMT -5
That's great. It actually cleared-up something that was bugging me. Two things actually. I hope to see more from you.
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Oct 31, 2009 13:07:25 GMT -5
Thank you RT. You just made the story allot clearer.
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Post by ElegaicRequiem on Nov 13, 2009 21:51:23 GMT -5
Maybe if I post here, and put this back on page one, RT will update it...
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Nov 19, 2009 18:05:00 GMT -5
Out of the haze and dust, a shadow emerged. Hrax didn't even pause, pure, animal instinct bringing the autogun to his shoulder, tightening his gauntleted finger around the hard, sluggish steel of the trigger. The recoil hit his shoulder like a flurry of blows, each fist-strike of force melding into the other, imperceptible through the adrenaline that deadened the nerves and widened the eyes, chemical fire spreading through his blood, the world curiously grey and sharp in his vision as he watched the figure stagger in the gloom, and then crumple to it's knees, an armoured gauntlet pressing into the shattered marble as it struggled to stand.
A fourth, final gunshot ended that desperate struggle, punching clean through the armoured helm, the grisly spread of shattered armour and skull mingling with the spray of blood as the high-velocity slug tore open the figure's head, carving a bloody path through the brain matter before ripping a fist-sized gouge in the back of the head, sheer momentum not so much penetrating the cermacite, as ripping it clean open. The silhouette wavered for a moment, and then pitched forward, toppling face-foreward, red, dark blood mingling with the lifeless dust and grime, flowing from the armour in thin, ceaseless rivulets that pooled around the power-armoured corpse.
"Faith will not protect you, Sisters!" cried Hrax, as a vengeful salvo of bolter rounds screamed out of the shrouded gloom, streaking through the air as his men hit the deck. One of his men screamed as the massive, heavy slug tore open his shoulder, blowing his arm away in a spray of arterial blood, the delicate construct of his shoulder joint shattering into mangled, torn flesh and a ruined mess of bone, his own body tearing itself apart as the Sisters blazed into the gloom.
"Alas, poor Casin, I knew him poorly" muttered Hrax, sneering a little as he lifted up a frag grenade, and hurled it into the chapel. The dull, muted thunder rang hollowly in the vaulted space, a concussive 'clap!' erupting inside, shrapnel tearing up the ruined frescos, fire scorching the marble even as a second squad sprinted up the staircase, Hrax's men blindly spending ammunition into the smoke to cover them. The leader, a sergeant who's name Hrax did not recall, smiled, hefting a heavy, Imperial-issue shotgun, ducking beside the ruined doorway. Bolter fire cut down two more of his men, one killed as a round blasted clean through his unprotected face, atomising his jaw, throat, and brain, hollowing out an imperfect sphere in his flesh, the second falling as the heavy slug mushroomed on his shoulder guard, armour cracking open as the bolt detonated, a fireball concussion flashing off him, until the blast threw him back down the steps, still alive and cursing fouly.
"Damn fool could never duck" said the sergeant, a wiry, dark-skinned fellow, a small, contented grin spread across his face as he nodded to Hrax, who politely declined the offer. The sergeant shrugged, and leant out, peeking behind cover. A bolter shell smashed into the stonework, sending chips of stonework flying like shrapnel, but the sergeant didn't even duck, even as a fragment of rock signed it's bloody name across his cheek, a ragged gash torn in his flesh even as he leant out, and fired two slugs into the chapel.
One missed. One did not, and, as it struck the power armour, it erupted. A gout of pure, white-orange fire exploded across the Battle Sister's chest, a flaming rose blooming upon blackened armour as the mix of phosphorous and promethium ignited, chemical fire blazing across her, lighting her up like a beacon-fire. A beacon-fire indeed, lit in unholy retribution, thought Hrax, as he ducked out from his own hiding place and killed another woman, a heavy-handed burst of fire ripping open her chest with a spatter of blood, her broken scream gurgling in the air as he paused, and took stock of the situation.
At least thirty-plus Battle Sisters stood before them. From behind the massive, heavy pillars, and from rank after rank of wooden pew, they returned fire, boltguns snarling out their battle-cry, as they joined in a single, one-voiced Psalm of battle, singing in defiance of the unholy curses and rasping, cruel shouts of the renegades that assailed them. Another fell, a krak grenade detonating on her armour, the sheer, concussive force shattering her ribcage, her own bones turned to blades as they tore her lungs apart, ripping into her still-beating heart even as she fell. Two Sisters stood furthest back, one, a stocky, heavysett woman, bulk apparant even under her armour, a heavy flamer unslung and lit in defiance as she silently directed her warriors to their. Another wielded a heavy, bladed mace, hanging at her side as her voice ringing over the cry and din of the battle as she sang, her voice high and terrible in it's piety, defiance ringing in the high, vaulted archways as two of the finest forces of Humanity clashed together.
"Don't let them get worked up lads, it's cruel to let them hope" snarled Hrax, as he killed yet another, a single round punching through her helmet, tearing open her jaw with the same, inhuman ease as it tore apart the metal, leaving her helpless and thrashing on the floor as she drowned in her own lifeblood, and the guns blazed away into the darkness.
By now, both sides were bloodied. The Sororitas had suffered horribly, their front ranks decimated by the terrible, heavy-handed fire the First Company had laid down, dead and dying strewn about the chapel, blood pooling beneath black armour, sticky and dark, a place of worship turned to a charnel-house of pain and destruction as the Sororitas retreated back into the nave. Mercenaries too, lay dead, or else helpless where a well-placed bolt shell had torn open their bodies, ripping apart flesh and bone with the same contemptuous ease their heavy slugs opened the Battle Sister's armour. Blood, and pain, and suffering, and yet all Hrax felt was the savage, triumphant elation of victory, the animal fury sated and the insane, mad-dog desire to kill, to vanquish and see their opponent's as they were, dead and bleeding upon the earth, torn apart, each one a monument to his - to the First's - victory, and prowess, as that wolf pack stalked fore into the chapel.
"Retribution" he whispered, a smile like a wraith's nightmare ghosting across his nobleman's features as he looked at the dark-hued sergeant, who could do naught but smile back, bloody and satisfied in his work, and raise his head to the heavens, and howl.
It was a long, deep, terrible howl, all bloody, vengeful satisfaction, a lupine delight in the death and pain they had laid in a bloody curtain before them, a greivous, hideous thing, more animal than man, savage, dark and so unspeakably cruel it could stop the heart of those that heard it's evil, monstrous gloating, revelling in the sheer, elemental euphoria of killing, and the maddened relish of killing yet to come.
But it was the reply that was most terrible, a deep, monstrous, screaming howl of rage and vengeful, world-consuming bloodlust, as elemental and awful as the roar of the thunder that bellowed all the louder at it's passing.
Hrax looked down, feeling cold, long streaks of ice make their way down his face, chill and wet tears of awe-struck horror, at the monster that had made that noise. For he knew- he knew, as easily as he knew that his men were behind him without looking, or as he knew of the ceiling above - for those ancient, animal senses that had served him, and preserved him so many times, told him so, screaming at him in mindless, desperate terror. For the monster that made that, was only a few dozen yards ahead of him.
"Drang" he whispered, as the horror descended to earth.
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Post by Ymmot (M.I.A) on Nov 19, 2009 18:38:44 GMT -5
Oh, what a bloody scene. Lots of fun. I noticed a little redundancy in the discriptions for this installment, a prime example being... imperceptible through the adrenaline that deadened the nerves and widened the nerves widened the senses maybe? (perhaps this was just a typo) Anyway, I try my best not to resure the same word more than once a paragraph when writting a discription...the lines flow a lot more smoothly that way. Still, great job...very gory!
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Post by nicholasakira on Nov 19, 2009 21:56:13 GMT -5
Your writing style has a very heavy emphasis on deep, passionate, usually violent, details, though you probably already know that. Some of the metaphors/similes are very creative, the one that stuck with me was the description of an explosion’s fire as something not even the devil could choreograph. The grim mood, of course, is omnipresent.
What gets me is, what exactly is the plot? To be frank, there's not a been really much development. There was this opening warp gate mentioned near the beginning that I have trouble pinpointing in later installments and the past significant part has been largely a continuous action scene. My analogy is, your story is a lot like World War 1: both in face and in pace. Is this a story in the sense that it has a beginning, middle and end with a protagonist and an antagonist, or is this more like a showcase for your characters and associated themes?
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Jan 1, 2010 20:57:16 GMT -5
"Rage of a Darkling God" whispered Hrax, eyes wide, hollow and dead with sheer, thunderstruck horror, or possibly awe, at the abject, inhuman....power, contained in that howl that screamed through the annexe and chambers of destruction wrought, and out, ravening out onto the battlefield to erupt across the tortured heavens like a great chain of fire. "Boss....you're back."
"Back from the dead" murmured the dark-skinned sergeant, unconsciously spreading his bloodied, armour-clad fingers like the wings of an eagle. "This....this is not natural" he said, to himself.
"Good" snarled Hrax, rounding on the sergeant like a rabid dog. "Sergeant Tannenberg, isn't it? Yes. Well, sergeant" he sneered. "You may call it unnatural. You can call it evil. You may call it heresy, or else what you like. But Captain Drang....he's seen this Company through the fires of hell and back - a hell that damned Eagle made for us!" he screamed, face twisting in fury as he bore down on Sergeant Tannenberg.
"Sir, calm" said one of the troopers, a cold, authoritative tone cutting through the close-in, personal fury like an ice-bladed scimitar, neatly bisecting the mind from the soul, the reason separate from unreason, and gently pressing them apart with chill pressure on the mind.
"Can it" muttered Hrax, but his heart wasn't in it. The knife had fallen back to it's sheath, as it were, and the only violence he wished to enact was against whomever was standing between him and his next paycheque.
"Yes, can it soldier" said a voice from over their heads, chuckling darkly as eleven heads snapped up and stared into the shadows, weapons raised and searching the gloom, eyes wide in fear, cold, limpid terror bathing their limbs in sweat and freezing the muscles as a vast, flowing pool of darkness detached itself from the far-flung, high-vaulted roof, and plummeted to the floor.
The stones cracked beneath it's feet, shattering into a haze of chips and dust, as yet more darkness followed it down, billowing around it's form, spreading wide in the wake of it's master's passage like the very banners of Tartarus, the abyss emerging in Leviathen's wake to claim the world in it's vast, black maw. Wrapped in shadows and dust, wreathed by the fires of war as a ruined hab erupted into flame, the inhabitants and defenders paying the price for their arrogant defiance as a trio of Marauders arced overhead, their engine-flares kissing the sky orange, and the great, cataclysmic eruption of six five-thousand pound incendiary bombs sent a pillar of fire so high into the skies it engulfed the Gods, Cronus burning like an immortal torch as his children sent hell into Olympus. And, as the dust settled, the shadows fled, and the vast, all-consuming roar of flame passed, the darkness turned to them.
White, pallid flesh, cold and lifeless and lit only by the blazing inferno behind him, twisting up his face into a savage, grotesque snarl, the skin rippling back across his skull to bare long, canine teeth set in a visage more suited to a Terran wolverine than anything human. The face of horror, set in a psychotic, Grendelian leer of bloodlust and utter, inhuman fury, eyes that were pools of purest darkness, as the pupils swelled up and swallowed the eye in a tide of anthracite blackness, a blackness as deep and chill as the depths of space, so dark that is shone.
Hrax stepped forward, and saluted. "Captain Drang, sir."
Drang nodded, stepping forward to the men. A brief, informal clap on the shoulder, and he strode on past Hrax, still grinning that lunatic, insane grin, blood dripping from gauntleted fists which clutched a massive, heavy-bladed mace, and a archaic bolt pistol of uncertain descent.
Hrax's men fell in behind him, spreading out through the chapel to engage the Sororitas as more and more of their soldiery came through, flooding through the torn-asunder gates of the chapel, freed from their duties as the initial points of resistance fell, and burned.
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Post by StillANoob on Jan 10, 2010 7:05:55 GMT -5
I'm really liking this story so far. I'm just confused as to where the plot is going. Although your descriptive skills and imaginative action-packed scenes make that very forgivable.
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