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Post by Deleted on Oct 6, 2008 0:18:46 GMT -5
WOW! So much to read, you and Pvt Puffy are just too much. I'm reading from the start and will see how quickly and I can make it to this point.
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 8, 2008 14:28:21 GMT -5
Viconia watched, breathless at the spectacular horror emerging at her through the brutal, cold lens of a sniper's scope. Kamenev Drang- the fearless, half-mad mixture of wolverine savagery and quixotic sophistication, stood like a ruined colosuss in the midst of the killing fields. She watched, unable to tear her eyes from the sheer, crushing agony of the scene, dry eyes keeping a dispassionate tally of events that burned like white-hot shrapnel in the pit of her stomach.
Drang's howl tore through the darkness, terrible fury that seemed to blot out the stars and set the heavens alight as kilometre-high sheets of lightning erupted overhead, the burning wrath of a man who had lost everything freezing the battle in a flash of incandescent light that cast the world into an eerie, monochrome hell.
'Von Luckner?' he snarled into his comms set.
'Here' came the harsh, clipped tone of a man on te edge.
'We've lost Emir.' It was not a question, but a bitter, final statement of fact.
Von Luckner paused, inhaling deeply before he spoke. 'Yes, we've lost contact with her. She was on the flanks with Kasson- we've completely lost communication.' Once more, he paused, unsure whether to go on as Drang pondered on the delightful cruelty of the universe. The woman he loved, dead- scattered into a million, burnt pieces across a rolling vista of blood, mud and scorched earth, else lying in some obscure shellhole, cold blood mingling with the filthy water in some rotten pool. And yet, somehow, when all seemed lost, the universe could still offer more pain, more sick oppurtunities for grief as another friend caught alight and burned up in a blaze of pointless glory.
'We don't think there were any survivors.' Von Luckner flinched, fully expecting for his master to rage, or deny, or curse, even to break down and weep for dear mercy at the sheer brutality inherent to their calling.
But for Drang, those words were simply conformation after the fact- the bitter, venomous fact that scorched his soul like acid. Emir was dead. Emir was dead, and gone. Forever. Forever, and ever, until the long dead void of life chose snap like a cheap thread, and death came to claim what was left of the man. Emir. Gone. Dead. His whole body shivered, knees buckling and collapsing back onto his ankles as he stared up at the inferno overhead.
Nothing to live for now. A few friends, maybe- whom he would either outlive, or abandon as they left their calling, took their wages and fell dead. Nothing besides remained of his life- nothing, besides a trail of terror and violence stretching across entire sectors, a walkway of blood and fire that marked the path of a dead man, a cold, monstrous prescence as alien as any star-spawned evil. Eyes teared as he looked down from the coruscating, twisting blackness overhead to the sound of armoured boots in cold mud, black-coated armour clanking squelching in the mire as a Inquisitor strode into view, the Sisters of Battle falling in behind.
'Good day, Kamenev' Volke said.
Drang responded with a bitter, sick smile. Inquisitor Lord Kaganovar Volke returned it, a sense of calm sadness flickering between the two men before the brutal, cold mask of an Inquisitor fell over his face.
'I really do regret you leaving my service, Kamenev. You were always one of the Emperor's finest servants, despite your...regretable tendancies towards authority.'
Drang smiled again. All the anger had drained from his body, pain burning away all the other emotions in a firestorm of grief to terrible to be actually felt, the strange, lethal numbness of death spreading through his body.
'I was a good dog, you mean' Drang replied. 'Vicious, dangerous but oh so easily controlled. So easy, wasn't it. Yank one's chain, and the other cowers back into line.'
'Indeed' Volke murmured, wandering over to inspect the supine form of his protoge, facing up into the sky, eyes glazed in pain and horror.
'I take it this is your work?' He asked, gesturing his hand to the woman's broken arm. Bone splinters had torn through the flesh, and the entire elbow joint was bent at a grotesque angle. Drang nodded, a slight swell of pride flowing through his heart.
'So, how is Emir?' Volke asked.
'Don't you know?' Drang growled, animal, vengeful savagery rushing over and mixing with the grief in his soul, as Volke stepped back at the sudden rush of anger evident as the seven foot mercenary stood, and towered over him. 'You've killed her. Your little barrage wiped out my entire fifth platoon. And Emir. It was always Emir, wasn't it. Always her you wanted- always her you hated. It was always her the scum like you hated. She, who stood in the background while I killed- while I howled and wrecked and slaughtered and laughed- she, who stiched you bastards up and healed you and kept you alive where I would have torn your godamn rotten hearts out! And the filth like you always spat in her eye and cowered and cavilled to me- to I, I who had killed your friends, tortured your families, burnt your homes and destroyed all you had and you did nothing, nothing but make her suffer for my sins! My sins! Mine!' Drang howled, frenzy filling his heart as fast as he poured grief out.
'And now she's gone' he concluded, realisation flooding through him. 'Now she's gone. And what is there to live for? Your dying corpse-god? Your empire of ignorance, of little men with their little thoughts!?'
Volke blanched, terror flowing through him as he realised what he had unleashed. Without Emir's calming prescence, there was no check on him. No natural restraint. No reason to hold back all his terrible, focused wrath. No way of stopping him.
He turned and ran for his life, the Soriatas closing ranks around the massive form of Kamenev Drang, crackling with raw, agonised rage as the armoured wall surrounded him. Only a pair of medics remained inside the black-coated circle, fearlessly working on the unconscious form the Inqusitress even as Drang's eyes widened, pupils blotting out the rest of the iris behind a inky, lifeless curtain of darkness.
Drang felt the psychotic, inhuman madness reach up, and bite the back of his throat and roar.
'You think I'll weep? No, I'll not weep.' The thunder cracked, and destruction blazed overhead. 'I have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a thousand flaws, before I'll weep.'
Far away, Viconia barely managed to strangle a terrified scream as his eye met hers through the scope.
'O fool, I shall go mad.'
And with these words, the lightning struck.
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Oct 8, 2008 23:52:51 GMT -5
Like 3ff3ct stated-you've got style! I'll never get to this standard of writing!
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 11, 2008 6:52:55 GMT -5
One comment! One COmment!!!! *Wrath*
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Post by Srgt. Master on Oct 12, 2008 7:39:13 GMT -5
I dont think ill get bored of this story!
(now you have [glow=red,2,300]two[/glow] comments!
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Post by Count Elakor on Oct 12, 2008 15:59:11 GMT -5
ok, you want critisism? youl get it: 1: you barely show the thougths of annyone out of the regiment 2: you kill WAY to much, ths tory needs some more calm stuff, a break in the masacres 3: a goal for the campaign and the promise of a ending in the combat 4: maby a move to a new combat area would be fine 5: you killed emir, you bastard
other than that i find no major mistakes or lacks, some minor things migth of cource need fixing, but botom line, you write great just great.
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Post by Srgt. Master on Oct 12, 2008 23:28:04 GMT -5
ok, you want critisism? youl get it: 1: you barely show the thougths of annyone out of the regiment 2: you kill WAY to much, ths tory needs some more calm stuff, a break in the masacres 3: a goal for the campaign and the promise of a ending in the combat 4: maby a move to a new combat area would be fine 5: you killed emir, you bastard quote] oh! and this too: 6: Loyal Outcasts hasn't made an appearance! but really, its really good, and the killing is fine...considering who what and where they are! (but really, emir...thats just wrong........................)
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 13, 2008 10:47:22 GMT -5
Gentlemen of the IGMB... You mistake me.... you mistake me very much....*Sadistic leer.*
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Post by Srgt. Master on Oct 13, 2008 14:12:53 GMT -5
*wispers to everyone*
dont let him near the guns.....
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Post by Count Elakor on Oct 14, 2008 1:45:59 GMT -5
*wipers to srgt* you dont say
so RT, wer wrong ye? corect us then, show us whats realy hapening and give me some more. and not dare deny it, your the best
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 14, 2008 6:54:14 GMT -5
You both misspelt 'whispers.'
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Post by Count Elakor on Oct 15, 2008 12:39:17 GMT -5
care... it dosent matter, people understand
and i see you have droped my regiments story, do as srgt. masters want, and lett them into this story, it could be interesting. only one thing, dont let Drang kill them first thing
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 15, 2008 14:20:27 GMT -5
Cold air around me. Cold mud beneath me. Cold disgrace behind me. Cold death in front of me. Kasson smiled, a smile as cold and pained as the shrapnel wound gouged in the muscle of his thigh, cold molten blood running down cold-stone flesh and into the dead, cold water below, reciting a personal dirge he only thought of as a hymn to the damned.
'If I die' he said to Emir 'I sincerely hope hell dosen't look like this.'
Emir gave a bitter, choked gasp of a chuckle, as watery as the dead, black morass of earth that crumpled like raw, bloody flesh under the boot, it's shiny, black blood welling up around their boots as they trudged on, hidden by the high walls of the abandoned trench. Sporadic, mad gunfire echoed around them, and corpses littered the floor, half-sunk into the filth on the bottom of the entrenchment. Cadians, Kasson's subconscious realised, with a dead, pangreyic calm. Good job they wern't Korpsmen. Else we'd be dead. They continued on, a monotonous, unending trudge through a gallery of manmade horrors, all things dead, black and ruined.
Kasson looked at sidelong at the slight, raven-haired women who marched besides him. Her trenchcoat- a heavy, sinister piece of apparel similar to the gargantuan one Drang sported, though far smaller in size, fell out behind her like a trailing, forlorn cloud, spattered with blood and caked in dirt. Her features were likewise smeared with grime, the dried streaks of reddish-brown blood staining her complexion, utterly out of place with the elegant, smooth line of her jaw, the high brow and intelligent, piercing blue of her eyes ringed an exhausted, heavy black by fatigue, shocking as a bruise on skin as white as the lightning cracking above. After a few seconds, Emir returned his gaze, a the delicate hint of a smile ghosting around her eyes and lips. Kasson blinked and turned away, mentally shaking himself. She was a psyker. An Emperor-cursed witch, a mercurial, inhuman creature kept on hand because the boss liked her. Yet somehow, the revulsion this produced was strangely hollow, and tinged with a new, alien emotion-shame.
He shook his head again, as if trying to dislodge the irksome feeling that lurked in his chest. It was....pity, he decieded. Pity for her cursed, wretched existance. For her contemptible, godless life. Yes.....while she was, as a woman, attractive- bah! What madman would risk the ire of two supremely powerful beings, beings that even the Astarates feared? A slight, wraithlike woman whose mind could tear through armour with terrifying ease, shatter bone and puncture flesh- and the other, the massive, cruel darkness that was the epitome of killing, a malevolent, savage beast fueled by rage and drugs? Better death, one could well think. Kasson blinked, and forced the thoguht away in a storm of self-ridicule and contempt.
It was only her scream that told him that Emir had fallen. Quickly, he pivoted on his heel and dashed back to where she lay, crouched like a hunter ready to spring. Alabaster hands balanced her, shocking white against the black rot they pressed against. Strange, low whimpers issued from the back of her throat, like an animal caught in a trap as her face remained pointed to the floor.
'Emir?' he asked, natural caution and unfamiliar concern crashing together in the blonde-crowned dome of his head as he lowered himself to her level. Her long, matted hair swept forwards and obscured the sides of her face, wreathing her ethereal features in shadows, and immense, Stygian darkness. 'Emir!' he repeated, the taste of fear giving his voice a harsh urgency in the ominous, rumbling silence that towered above them like the trench walls.
'He thinks I'm dead.' Her voice was as cold, bitter, and acid with pain, the twisting knife of her personal torment coalescing off each syllable like venom in the monster's black, cavernous maw, running down the bladed, tearing edge of it's own fangs and sinking into the delicate flesh of the mind.
'What!?' barked Kasson, utterly confused and becoming increasingly on edge, the twisting nervousness hidden behind a stoic, granite mask of grim, fearless dedication.
'Kamenev. He thinks I'm dead.' She paused, and swallowed back the molten, scalding tears that burned her eyes.
'He....' Kasson was dumbfounded. Everyone who knew Drang-who knew Emir- knew of the strange, gestalt psychic connection between the two. 'How in the..... Oh, good Emperor' he said, his features draining of colour as he realised, with horror, what that meant. Drang without Emir was.....terror. Pure, unadulterated terror. A heart-stoppingly, awe-inspiringly terrible creature that could not be stopped, save by his total destruction.
'Emir, you've got to get through to him. He's got to realise that you're okay. You don't-'
'I don't what, Kasson?' she asked bitterly. 'I don't realise? You think I don't realise what this mean!? By the gods Dirk, don't you think I can see the consequences, a thousand times clearer than you?' She cried, looking up at him with eyes half-feral with grief and pain. 'He's going to die. He's going to die because they've killed me. They've killed me without having to touch me.'
Kasson understood. Without Emir, Drang was utterly, completely deviod of his fragmented humanity- a perfect, remorseless killer driven only by grief and fury. But Emir without Drang was something far more terrible. Without his prescence- without the anchoring, calming effect of his prescence, she too was dead. The daemons of the warp would twist, and pull and torture her mind with this, with every horror endured and a thousand more promised, until her will snapped like a dry twig, and the terrors of Chaos unleashed upon the world.
Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed Emir by the throat, lifting her head as he shouted.
'He's not dead yet, witch' he snarled. 'He's not dead-not by a long shot, and I'll be damned as every shade of traitor before I let it happen because you couldn't get through.'
'I...'
'I what? Can't use your powers? Fine! We'll go to him then. You've got legs-make use of them!' He turned away, and began to walk-long, powerful strides propelling him forward a few steps before something stopped him dead with fear. From behinf it came- a low, evil little chuckle that nonetheless echoed off the walls and drove it's way through the ears and into the spine, a wash of ice-cold terror sweeping over him at the haunting, awful familiarity.
Kasson turned even as every instinct, every fibre in his body howled at him to run, to hide, to do anything except confront the author of that sound. Slowly, he turned on his heel, to face a sight that froze his blood and clutched at his heart.
Emir stood, tall, proud and chillingly powerful against the black carpet overhead. Her face- her beautiful, mysterious features that delighted in subtlety, in small, delicate expressions, wore a hideous snarl. Inhuman, savage and incandescent with fury, it resembled nothing so human as the leering visage of a deranged wolverine, teeth bared and white skin displaying a terrifying, burning desire to kill, maim and destroy, so utterly alien and yet so wrenchingly, barbarically familiar. Thunder roared overhead, the flash of lightning reflecting off the dark, nightmarish void of eyes completely black, pupils so grotesquely engorged that they swallowed the rest of the eye, blotting it out in a wall of inky darkness as Kasson, bold, fearless Kasson, trembled with the horror emerging in front of him.
And then, the lightning struck.
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Oct 15, 2008 14:39:39 GMT -5
You've lost none of your touch! You are the uncontested best writer on the boards! I take my hat off to you sir!
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Post by Srgt. Master on Oct 15, 2008 18:10:03 GMT -5
I would take off, my hat, but I have none! but I agree with him, its flawless (is she possesed?! *shakes in armour,coolant leaks from knee joints........ *)
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Oct 15, 2008 22:51:37 GMT -5
Realy! *Shivers.*
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 16, 2008 8:34:01 GMT -5
Who else has a psychotic's grin and black, predatory eyes in this story.
*Hint: He's fornicateing scary*
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Post by Count Elakor on Oct 16, 2008 14:57:24 GMT -5
if this is somkind of mutation mixing drang and emir togther, wow, that would be soo cool, but then again to would totaly ruin the story and they would ripp eachother apart, sadly. so you have not kille emir... yet, but this is a good way going there. you know, if she die, this story will lose a lot of its character, almost half of it. but, yes, you seem to be fokusing this on drang and emir, with kasson as the only sidecharacter with a soul.
GET MORE PERSONS TO BECOME FAMILIAR WITH HERE.
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Post by Srgt. Master on Oct 16, 2008 17:05:55 GMT -5
REALLY, AND GET DRANG POSSESED BY HIS WEAPON!!! AND EMIR POSSESED BY A GREATER DEAMON OF SLANEESH!!
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Post by Count Elakor on Oct 17, 2008 2:27:35 GMT -5
thats gona be nasty, drang posesed(isnt he already?) emir posesed by slaneesh... wow(but it gota be one of the old slaneesh things, the new ones are ugly) so, whats gona hapen if drang gets more powerfull than now, and emir is capable but not willing to restarain him and encurages him to go mad. no that would also destroy the story
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Post by Srgt. Master on Oct 17, 2008 18:49:07 GMT -5
[glow=red,20,300]ALL SUSCUMBE TO THE PLEASURE GOD!!!![/glow]
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Post by Count Elakor on Oct 20, 2008 2:11:52 GMT -5
somthing like that yes, thats bad, wery bad, dangeoruse actualy, but is gona loock REALY great
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Post by Srgt. Master on Oct 21, 2008 15:14:35 GMT -5
*cough -spellcheck!-cough* yea thats true...
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Post by Count Elakor on Oct 22, 2008 2:20:34 GMT -5
*cough-quick reply-cough*
so, RT whens drang gona get on with his life?
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 22, 2008 13:23:20 GMT -5
Howling with triumph, Kamenev Drang stood, a black, terrible silhouette wreathed in white-hot fury, as a single, blinding flash split the sky in half and shattered the ground beneath his feet. Raw, incandescent power crackled around his body as he lifted his head to the sky, roaring in unison with the terrible, earth shattering thunder that boomed overhead. The storm intensified, trail after blazing trail of lightning tearing through the inky curtain, until the sky seemed more fire than night, and the whole world was lit by it's fury.
And suddenly, it ended. Drang remained, crackling with blue-white energy as the armoured women around him stepped back in terror. Small, evil fires danced around the edge of his darkened figure as Emir, his love, his life, dead in thought but cruelly alive to witness this, watched a gargantuan, nightmarish shadow emerge around him, darker and more fearsome than the night sky.
Wings.
With the superb, icy clarity that is born of terror, she caught a glimpse of his face, and screamed. All that was recognisable were a pair of black, ferocious eyes that carrying an inferno of unleashed rage. Nothing besides remained. As she watched, he lifted his right hand, her eyes watching as the air around shimmered, warped and coalesced into the blood-red shape of the Daemonsword Agronmari. Drang smiled, a grotesque snarl so depraved, so hateful that Emir's sobbing was only drowned as he unleashed the thunder. Overhead, it began, a rolling series of detonations that obliterated all other sounds and threatened to rip the heavens asunder, the unleashed rage of the gods given sound as Drang excecuted an elegant, mocking bow, and leapt.
The first woman had not time to scream as Drang smashed the hilt of the daemonsword into her armoured visor, the impact crumpling the adamantium inwards and crushing most of her features into unrecognisable pulp. The body slewed away through the mud as Drang stepped forward, and tore through a second female's collarbone, the blade ripping apart armour and flesh without stopping until it buried itself in the mud below. The two halves flopped to the ground with a sick, wet thump even as the monster ran another woman through, her gasp of pain warping into a cry of awful, mindless agony as Drang twisted the blade and pulled, ripping her insides apart and spilling them onto the cold, sodden ground. He grinned, a wave of sadistic pleasure running through his body as he watched the life bleed from her eyes, twisting and struggling as she slipped into death. Emir crumpled, falling to the trench floor as she to felt the sick, barbarous pleasure that comes from killing, feeling the delightful parting of flesh through the hilt of the blade even as her own hands smashed into the watery, broken surface of the entrenchment.
The rest way even more horrific. Drang, howling with a laughter so malevolent, so utterly twisted it loosened the bowels of those that heard it, butchered his way through the hapless women with a speed and unstoppable power born of blind, incandescent anger. Their black-armoured bodies were flung through the air, the blood trails invisible against the inky backdrop as they closed around Drang, boldly charging with the Emperor's name of their lips.
The lucky ones died quickly. The others, the less fortunate, were simply broken, their flesh torn, bones shattered and pushed through the skin, organs mangled and spilling blood and filth into their bodies, and yet somehow-somehow, still managed to pull ragged, desperate breaths through crushed throats and crumpled ribs. They were left to watch their sisters die, to bear witness to the true power of the gods.
Finally, only one woman remained, Drang tossing aside the corpse of her companion and turning on her. For a few seconds, she could see the true, mad horror of what they had helped unleash, the terror beyond human understanding. Eyes gleaming with darkness, he charged, battering aside her holy weapon with a contemptuous, barking sneer and seizing her by the throat.
Drang watched her eyes- soft, brown eyes, somewhere between hazel and ochre in shade, the silent black of the pupil widening in abject, helpless fear as his hands encircled her throat, the black of daemonic talons harsh contrast against the too-pure sheen of her flesh, the points biting through the skin and letting a thin, crimson wash spread across her throat. The tracks of her tears shone in the cold, violent fury of the storm, the delicous sensation of her convulsive sobs running through his arm. Drang's breathing increased, ragged, intense gasps as evil itself danced with glee behind eyes that burned with a savage, inhuman intelligence, demon and man feeding off one another in an inferno of repellent bloodlust. He leant forward, and brought his lips against her skin, tasting the sweet salt of her tears on his tongue, feeling the terrified, repulsed shudder under his lips. He kissed the Soriotas, revelling in her pain, her disgusted, helpless terror as he drew back, letting his fingers run across and under her chin, savouring the delicate line of her face as he brought his fingers together.
And in a single, sharp motion, tore her jawbone out. Blood sprayed, grotesquely, beautifully, soaking his skin in warm redness as he dropped her like a sack of meat, a choked, gurgling cry of outright agony the only soundin the darkness, and the soft squelch of flesh hitting earth.
Half a mile away, and so aware of the events that she too felt the Soriata's flesh tear under her fingers, heard the sick, wet thud of the mangled lump of flesh and bone hit the ground, that she to felt the intense, hot pleasure of the killing rage, Emir D'Clemancau threw up.
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