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Post by Rolling Thunder on Jan 31, 2008 6:23:15 GMT -5
Fabian's squad surged up and over the rampart, each man silent and hard-eyed with vengeful fury. The boltgun spat once, twice, then crashed to the ground as the guardsmen swarmed over the marine, knives scraping along armour, plunging into the chinks and weaknesses to cut into wire and flesh. The marine crumpled, it's armour failing as the power supplies exploded in a hail of incandescent sparks against the night.
The men backed off, each one canny and wary now the initial rage had passed. Fabian tossed aside his shotgun, reaching down and scooping up the discarded bolter and advancing on the kneeling superman, looking down at it's armoured head, bright red eyes glowing in the murky gloom.
The marine looked up, and Fabian fired a single round, straight through the unarmoured lens of it's right eye.
Fabian looked up, the beastial rage in his mind retreating before a wake of glacial, cold fury, the world cut into spectacular clarity as his mind purged itself of all emotion.
'This is the end' he said, each word enunicated in a tone absolutely dead of feeling.
They all nod, silent under the rumbling guns. No-one knows why, but they can all feel it. A finality to the moment. An escape, one way or another, is possible. Dead or alive, these men were now free.
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Feb 3, 2008 6:21:47 GMT -5
whow! evil! EVIL! awsomeness! still abit fuzzy about the plot, first theres the battle at the beginning with a traitor regiment with a sergeant, then we've got ultramarines, inquisitors! SIMPLIFY THE PLOT DAMN YOU!!!!!!
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Feb 3, 2008 9:08:33 GMT -5
I am running two plot lines at the same time:
Fabian (sgt): Renegade sargent, on the frontlines in a giant trench/siege battle between a rengeade and loyalist army.
Drang: Is currently theoretically employed by renegade army. Only reason he signed on with the renegades is to kill Inq. Tyrus who is the leader of the loyalist army.
Leffens (sgt): Memeber of a random inquisitorial stormtroopers unit accompanying Tyrus. Drang just put him in the hospital.
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Feb 3, 2008 12:00:01 GMT -5
ah right. the multiple plot lines bit wasn't that clear, you don't have to answer this question if it will ruin the story but do they cross at some point?
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Post by Commissar on Feb 3, 2008 16:47:50 GMT -5
Awesome story! I love it.
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Post by Deleted on Feb 4, 2008 5:22:13 GMT -5
AWSOME MAn one pice of critcasicem tho watch your spelling man I have spoted one or to mistakes in there but thats about it my good friend yes, this is true. And I like that there isn't tons of space marines dying from autogun shots. Or shotgun But do never think a space marine would even flinch from having a nose crushed. Then a commissar would shoot him. Twice, one bullet in each heart. For being weak. This Drang guy must be a bit overpowerfull to alone kill three power armored guys. Even if he's possesed (it's spelled Daemon in the warhammer world) he's still more human than a space marine is, and therefore weaker. Lots of weaker. Remember that the inquisitor probobly have killed real daemons, even thought they where lesser they would be more powerfull than a strong human filled with thoughts of vengence. The Inquisitor must be an good example for all of the imperium where hate is the most valued feeling. (or thats at least what the propaganda says.) You wanted critics...
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Feb 4, 2008 23:46:31 GMT -5
bloody hell! he'd walk all over my 100 guardsmen!
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Post by Cadian 117 on Feb 5, 2008 9:05:39 GMT -5
Ya same.
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Post by lordcastellenjon on Feb 5, 2008 17:43:10 GMT -5
OO WOW okay thats it *calls in cortanne (that my baneblade) and oblitorates drang in a hail of fier* plz for the love of god tell me he is dead
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Feb 8, 2008 9:33:58 GMT -5
The wind howled. Corporal Heydrich Aartsgart and his squad lay pressed into the earth of a massive shell crater, the scorched sticking to their armour and fatigues like wet cement as they looked out over the renegade trenches that lay stretched out before, mile upon mile of criss-crossing, zigzagging lines stretching out into the smoke-obscured gloom, punctuated by the squat forms of bunkers or the lighting flash of a artillery piece firing, pockmarked with millions of waterlogged craters. Hundreds of thousands of men lay sprawled out in front of them, each one fighting a small, dirty and private war for each watery shellhole out in no-mans land. What had begun as an offensive meant to liberate the city that stood before them fom the grasp of the heretics had turned into a bloody, futile slogging match, the loyalist infantry stung out in the salient pushed a further hundred metres into the enemy lines and now fighting a desperate, close-in battle for the shellholes and ruined trenches they had just claimed. The Ultramarines 6th company had been all but wiped out, landing behind the front lines which had fallen soon enough into the loyalists hands. But the traitors guns, men and sheer force had soon begun to tell, and now they were barely ten left alive on the whole field, from a company once mustering over a hundred fighting strong. the loyalists had no more energy to continue the fight, and the traitors had no pressing urge to expend thousands of men when they could simply tie up the loyalists in a futile struggle for a valueless strip of territory, costing themselves very little except for the occasional loss as the heavy shells infrequently landed amongst their own men.
Heydrich turned as one of his men cursed.
'Schultz!' He barked. 'Watch yourself!'
To his consternation, Schultz did not apologise straight away, but rather turned on his side to face his superior. Heydrich instantly recognised the look in his eyes, a glassy stare of utter numbness as he sighed.
'Why?' Schultz said wearily. 'What's the point? All this "yes sir-no sir" bullsh*t? I've had enough' declared the soldier, emphatic despite his utter exhaustion. 'I've had enough of this damn fighting. I've had enough of this damn war. I've had enough of all the damn sh*tty rations, the roaches in the barracks and the sodding bugs in my bed. And by the Emperor I've had enough of this (I'm a naughty boy) killing on behalf of one group of overambitious psychos to stop another little soire of psychos from being the biggest psycho around' as the anger, fear and utter misery cracked his facade of soldierly confidence, the tears starting to roll down his cheeks, stark white streaks against the dark muck caking his skin. 'I didn't sign on for this.'
Heydrich didn't know what to do, as his comrade broke down into uncontrolled tears, softly repeating 'I didn't sign on for this' as he sobbed. A impulse to reach out and comfort his comrade, his friend produced an almost immediate counter of stupid, foolish embarassment. He wavered, arm half outstretched, for what seemed like an eternity until trooper Hart, the only female soldier in the squad, clambered across her silent colleages and held Schultz close to her until he regained some measure of control, the comfort of physical closeness even through a foot of armour, ammunition and explosives calming him to a point where he looked up at Heydrich and, with a barely registrable quaver in his voice, apologised.
Heydrich waved off the apology, and patted his friends shoulderplate in a comforting manner. Schultz lifted himself back up to the parapet, and the rest of the squad smiled, the private, resigned deppression in each of them lifted by the sudden intense outpouring of the greif that each one of them held in their hearts. They each returned to their overwatch of the battle, each one confident and assured of the unity of their squad once again. Though they had yet to fully realise it, but at that moment they had transcended the bonds of trust into a strange kind of familial love unique to the warrior, comrade to comrade, hero to hero.
And within thirt seconds this bond was broken, leaving them all stone dead on the ground, as the artillery burst overhead, and shrapnel tore them apart. Five more casualties for the innumerable tally of the Reaper.
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Post by lordcastellenjon on Feb 8, 2008 12:41:45 GMT -5
OO my baneblade OO *shots shesa with 5 plasma pistols 10 bolt pistols and 50 las guns then 16 hell guns 5 plasma guns and 4 meltas as well as 3 auto cannons and 3 heavy bolters 3lascannons, 3 missle lunchers 2 demnol cannons 3 hunter killer missles 1 multi laser and finaly 4 plasma cannons OH and sry for got the 3 hevy stubbers LOL
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Post by Cadian 117 on Feb 8, 2008 20:24:35 GMT -5
aww drang killed the cadians.....
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Mar 20, 2008 13:29:25 GMT -5
Leffens awoke. For that one blissful second, he though he was lying on his bunk on the Leon, waiting in those long slow moments of drowsy peace for the soft tread of his comrades to trudge into the warm, dark room and announce, to general disbelief and cursing, that it was time to go on shift.
Then he remembered.
Pain tore into his body, lancing up and down him in a flurry of incendiary flashes as his brain began to register the throbbing, dull bruises mottled across every part of his body, the life-sapping ache of his broken right arm, the red-hot pinpricks from shrapnel cuts and the terrible, ragged wound to his abdomen that left him gasping in agony with every breath.
Twitching and convulsing as his own body tortured him, Leffens squeezed his eyes shut and ground his teeth together as he desperately tried to smother his own screams of pain by sheer force of will. He kicked, and was rewarded with a fresh stab of red-hot agony as his leg connected with something hard, smooth and unyielding. He groaned, and cursed violently.
Leffens froze. From above him came a faint, almost silent noise more terrifying, more sinister and more utterly chilling than the daemon’s scream of artillery or the lone, loud report of a sniper rifle. A dark, evil little chuckle that poured ice into his chest and froze his blood.
Fighting to retain his composure, Leffens had to use all his willpower to simply roll over and look up.
Drang blocked out the sky, his features void and black in the feeble twilight. Lighting crashed, and for a second Leffens could see, clearly, the features of his killer. Eyes utterly black and empty, the retinas engorged to such a point that the rest of the eye was blocked out. Skin white as bone in the brilliant glare of the lighting. Face twisted into a psychotic, animalistic snarl that pulled the skin all the way up to a vicious scalp wound that trickled blood down his features, adding a terrible savagery to his already fearful countenance. A brutal, red-black blade hung at his hip, its form contorting and twisting as the daemon imprisoned in it strove for escape.
Drang looked down, his mind fighting desperately to retain control of his actions against the madness and drugs coursing through his brain, nerves and muscles, all screaming for blood, vengeance and glorious, uncontrolled violence. The daemon at his hip snarled and cursed, its own savagery railing further against the restraints imposed on it by his will. He shuddered, and with one, last, desperate rally, pushed aside the madness, the hate and the fury, and collapsed to his knees, his body tallying up the wounds, the stress, the ignored pain and the drug poisoning all together in one, crippling blow that forced him to his knees.
So much pain, thought Drang as he pitched forward onto the hard, cold rock.
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Post by Cadian 117 on Mar 26, 2008 7:54:59 GMT -5
well done as usual. Cant wait for more!
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Mar 26, 2008 13:02:03 GMT -5
Thank you cadian. Your attention and compliments bring warmth and happiness to my heart. Well, they would, but I'm too spaced on Jet to notice.
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Mar 26, 2008 13:16:52 GMT -5
so, recap, drang has died from a drug over dose? sorry, i keep losing the plot. love the way this is written, very graphic and gritty.
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Post by Cadian 117 on Mar 26, 2008 20:12:59 GMT -5
no hes merely in pain. Again.
@rt: Well I couldnt let my comrade go unnoticed now could i?
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Mar 27, 2008 0:23:52 GMT -5
no man is left behind!
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Post by Deleted on Apr 11, 2008 8:22:24 GMT -5
Good sized quick sentence. Corporal Heydrich Aartsgart and his squad lay pressed into the earth of a massive shell crater, the scorched sticking to their armour and fatigues like wet cement as they looked out over the renegade trenches that lay stretched out before, mile upon mile of criss-crossing, zigzagging lines stretching out into the smoke-obscured gloom, punctuated by the squat forms of bunkers or the lighting flash of a artillery piece firing, pockmarked with millions of waterlogged craters. Sentence ... too long ... can't breath ... brain melting ... (chuckles darkly). I think your work is really explosively creative, you're pouring loads of time into producing loads of writing, and your work definitely fits into the number one category of stories. Its fast paced, action packed and has the body count to match. This is ALL really good, positive practice, writing is 90% perspiration and practice and you're showing fantastic commitment. Okay... now criticise!! I want criticism!!! I WANTS IT!!!!! Ahem. Thanking you in advance. Now I give you what you begged for: THE CRITICISMNB: It is constructive honest. Most of these points are things that your own writing drifts into sometimes ... don't be disheartened, most of your work is great - but anyone who says they can't improve is talking out their arse. 1) Action as Stage Blocking: NB: blocking is the process of directing actors when to stand where during rehersals. When the proverbial fit hits the shan, there's a real danger of resorting to "he moved left, he shot, he stepped forward, the other ducked, he jumped up and down and giggled with glee, his head exploded" style of writing. Try to avoid this, I've noticed it a couple of times. It doesn't read well, it sounds like a list, its not actually that interesting. Putting in context (how does being stabbed feel) and emotion (are you crapping yourself) and perception (can you see the knife sticking out of your chest) all add a level of depth, immediacy, emotional attachment and enjoyment to your work. It also increases your word count per sequence and entertains people. On the perception side, try putting yourself in the position of the character, because his view will be limited (Character A can't see everything like you, so don't show the reader everything. This adds to the sense of confusion of battle (try to avoid just confusing the reader though). This leads onto the second related point ... 2) Omnipresense writing style: This is closely related to the first point. There's nothing as unreal sounding (and therefore a turnoff) as omnipresense writing. It reads wrong and is actually rather irritating. As you are the writer. We know (as readers) that you (the writer) know everything about your characters and the story... but don't write like you do! This is really important, and key to managing peoples anticipation and expectation (which is essential to KEEP them reading). Keep your story secrets close and only disclose them when it makes sense and improves the story. Choose either to write from a first person persepctive (ie:Eisenhorn with his asides to the reader is a good example) or third person. Try to keep the "Through the smoke, he strode with bolter blazing and a whip of doom!" style to only those bits where you actually want the reader to be confused/intrigued and trying to guess what happens next. Otherwise have some other character "witness" it (and give their interpretation/sensation/feelings). As an example, in JK Rowlings books, I believe there are only two examples of this "invisible viewer" perspective - At the start of book one (when Dumbledore delivers Harry to the Dursleys) and the start of Book 6 (when Bellatrix and Narcissa visit Snape). The main reason to avoid the camera floating over the action viewpoint is that it is lazy. It fails as literature in so many ways, and should be used only when neccessary, and well thought through. Finally, my toughest criticism of this particular story (and actually the easiest one to fix): Call out the guards, your main character is missing! Who is Drang, what is his motivation, where did he grow up, does he love, feel pain, what are his judgements based on ... I struggle to find anything that I can relate to Drang about. It would even be better (and more fun) if he was actually a wholely dispicable character that we could love to hate, but he seems to be absent of even that. To state my case, even you RT, specified you character in the following way: Errrr.... Drang is not human. He's got the same profile as an Eversor assasin. Similar sort of setup. And he's a mutant. ...edit... Drang is not possessed. he's high on combat drugs and raw psychosis. And the inquisitor might have killed daemons, but it must be pointed out that the most dangerous adversary is the one who has the least to lose..... and Drang (in my army) has so far killed: 31 marines 7 terminators Abbadon the despoler (he had help though) 11 sisters of battle Infinite numbers of tau An entire squad of ork shoots boyz The nightbringer (again, with help) You've defined your own character by who he's killed. Being Psychotic and a nutter isn't a character trait, its a symptom - why is he a nutter? Let me put this another way, if you were a professional actor, and asked to play Drang, how would you play it? Is he surly, agressive, witty, nasty, bitter, deranged, is he straight, gay, obsessed with his own gun? Does he have friends/colleague/slaves/anyone he actually talks to. I don't know, and I don't think you've really thought about this ... I think you've come up with a great character concept (And a great name by the way), and filled in his stats line to the max. So far it's a extra nice tabletop model fluff - but it isnt a well rounded character which we can believe in. So have a think about who you want Drang to be... and reduce the stats, after all Ventris (from the ultramarine novels) is less impressive than Eisenhorn or Gaunt exactly because he is superhuman. He does experience doubt and question himself, and worry, but in a fight he just lays a smackdown again and again and again ... yawn. Anyway that's enough critlit for the moment - back to working for a living.
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Apr 11, 2008 11:50:14 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Apr 11, 2008 15:28:42 GMT -5
Wow, RT, you have my respect for taking that on the chin. I enjoy writing great stories and I love helping others refine and develop their skills and ideas. Let me know if you want any more input or want to bounce some ideas around. I'll be writing some of my own gumpf in the next few weeks - feel free to wheel in with the constructive critique - you've easily earned the right to wade in, in my book.
PS: Please don't call me sir, I ain't that old (ask TB), and I ain't no-one's better - so chill compardre - we're cool.
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Apr 12, 2008 5:23:21 GMT -5
Okay, for the drang charecter develpoment, log onto the chat centre and check out the RP Co-OP and New RP threads.
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Apr 20, 2008 9:42:50 GMT -5
don't worry merc, i'm following! we are all guardsmen and the emporers servents. you're my comrade and i would never abandon you!
by the way, new monian 37th story coming soon. i have an idea that might stick! this will not be the last one. i'll keep writing them!
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Post by Rolling Thunder on May 10, 2008 8:37:41 GMT -5
Darkness. Black, perfect and total, a total void of beautiful nothing that shrouded Drang’s eyes as he felt his senses randomly sway between consciousness and unconsciousness, at one moment the perceiving the world from beneath layers of numbing fatigue and shock, and at the next hearing the scream of the shellfire, the shouts and cries and weeping of the infantry as they battled all around him, the stink of blood and earth and thick, acrid smoke, the rough graze of the metal on his skin as he lay there, amid the wreckage of a burnt out starship while war raged around.
Slowly, he slipped into the dark, the sounds of battle becoming muted, the sensations fading away in his mind. For a few seconds, he was at peace, alone, calm, safe.
And then there came a voice. Or rather, there didn’t. Instead, the demonic impulse simply cut into his body, hotwiring his spine in a burst of warp-energy that sent Drang writhing and twitching with agony, his body contorting with the effort to control the unbelievable, heart-stopping torture that scraped along the edge of his nervous system like a million, tiny razor-sharp scalpels, that burned and poisoned his tissues like venom. He bit deep into the flesh of his lips, drawing blood as he desperately trying to control the howls of anguish that ripped through his body and built up like a tsunami behind the ragged defences of his already broken mind.
Drang opened his eyes, and screamed as the hellish dark closed around him, again and again the screams breaking through the gloom round him, so laced with pain and terror that the very skeletal walls of the downed cruiser seemed to shy away in fear, the screams so loud the air twisted and distorted around them, until they died, torn from the air with a half-strangled sob.
And then the daemon spoke.
‘You have failed me’ it snarled. ‘You are weak, you always have been weak and forever you will be weak. Weak, powerless, helpless as those pitiful creatures who fear and despise you,’ it continued at a low growl ‘whose deaths you took such delight in. Monster, they call you. Traitor, heretic, butcher’ it crowed, sensing a crack appearing it Drang’s wearied psyche. ‘You are a killer, Drang, ’it continued, it’s voice changing from the deep bass growl to a sibilant, persuasive whisper. ‘I have seen your soul, Kamenev, and it sings with joy at the death of those weaklings. Your own spirit calls for blood and still you deny it!?’ the creature raged, battering at Drang’s mind. ‘You have strength’ it murmured, ‘strength enough to defy that weakling Emperor who betrayed you, strength enough to set yourself above the petty strife and rules of humanity, strength that has called you again and again and still you deny yourself it!”
‘I have offered you this strength’ the daemon rumbled, ’and you have, time and again refused my power. I shall leave you now, to die, alone, so you may suffer your last hours knowing that through your cowardice, you have condemned your friends, your home world, and yourself to an eternity of misery and torture. I shall personally’ and here it paused, as if licking it’s lips in twisted anticipation ‘hunt, hound, harry and butcher that psyker female dog Emir. I will tear her soul apart,’ and here it’s gloating was apparent ‘a thousand times for you, a thousand times before I let your cowardly, weakling soul go down into the depths of Tartarus’ .
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on May 10, 2008 14:17:46 GMT -5
phycoticly brilliant! like the relative originality of the story.
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