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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Oct 22, 2008 15:31:00 GMT -5
You are an artiste!!!!
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Post by Count Elakor on Oct 23, 2008 2:21:04 GMT -5
i just cant say this was beautifull, but it was terific, great and good writing. you realy get the feel uot to the readers, just be carefull, if somone ligth hearted migth read this, they could complain.
ok, fine, it was beautifull. it was damn real, your the best
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Oct 25, 2008 8:35:46 GMT -5
And there was silence, broken only by the soft, strange moans of the dying that his wrath had strewn across the battlefield, clutching at ragged, gaping wounds, bones torn or pushed through the skin, limbs torn and shattered, and everywhere, blood. Blood on skin, violent crimson against flesh, or running through grasping, desperate fingers to mix in a watery, cold palette of filth, rain and incarnadine liquid. Amidst this, there stood Kamenev Drang. Seven foot of muscle, terror and burning with raw, unnatural fury, chuckling with the quiet, malevolent satisfaction of evil deeds done well. Something in the back of his mind twisted in pain, sickened by what he had done, the faint, half-perceived sensation of second-hand nausea tugging at his attention like an unscratchable, maddening itch. A low growl echoed from his lips, and the sense vanished as Agronmari engulfed it in a wave of daemonic rage, the insatiable bloodlust rising in his chest again, daemon and man feeding off each other's need to inflict pain, to kill, to maim. He knelt, spreading his wings across the inky heavens, poised to leap into the darkening sky, to rise up and drop like the thunderbolts still laughing in fury in the upper atmosphere, the roiling tower of dark clouds lit with the wrath of the dark gods as he-
Stooped, black pinions mantling inward even as a cunning, ferocious gleam lit his inhuman features, and pressed his finger to his ear.
There is no way the micro-Vox could have worked. Lightning alone should have destroyed it, but with the thunder overhead even if it had functioned there was no way it could have transmitted more than a few yards.
But transmit it did, as the cold, pitiless intelligence of the warp danced across the earpiece, unconsciously reforming the melted electronics into a functional, working device even as Drang raised his hand up and pressed the vox-button.
'Von Luckner?' he spoke.
Half a mile away, Siegfried Von Luckner, a man who had fought daemon, tyranid and all manner of other horrors for nearly all his life, a man regarded as the closest thing to fearless, a man unfazed by the heaviest of fire, unafraid of the warp, unflinching before the strange technology of the alien, had to bite his lips to hold back a scream. Drang's voice, unnerving at the best of times, had lost all traces of humanity. The tone was nothing more human than the roar of the monsters of legend, of Grendel, of the Hydra, of a thousand terrors that lurked in the dark places of creation, cold, hungry and utterly beyond humanity.
Von Luckner swallowed, his blood frozen to ice and his entrails filled with molten lead, trembling in fear, lifted the Vox-piece and spoke.
'Von Luckner here, Kamenev.'
'Good' Drang said, and once again Von Luckner could barely hold in the mindless terror rising in his throat. 'Call up those tank-riding Gaians. And some reservists. And the Lost Hope.'
'Yes' was all he could reply.
Working on automatic, he switched to the long-ranged frequency, dialled in his command code, and gave the order. Dully he perceived the gnawing terror present in the aide receiving the order. He gave the coordinates, signed off, turned, and collapsed back on to his heels as the horror of what was happening overcame him.
The Lost Hope. Kamenev Drang's personal corps of psychotics, murderers, heretics and other madmen. Each man a volunteer- a volunteer who held such a terrible need for vengeance that they willingly set aside their humanity to be subjected to a grotesque series of psychological tortures. To have their humanity wiped steadily out, leaving only the most gruesome memories, and the burning desire to kill.
A small slice of eternity later, a huge, black shape descended over Kamenev Drang. Sporadic enemy fire pattered off it's armoured hull as it sank ponderously through the atmosphere, as awesome and unstoppable as the movement of a continent as it arced through the air, the brilliant flashes of lascannons glancing off it’s dark, armoured hull. Metal gleamed in the shrouding dark as the beast hit the earth with a deep, bone-jarring thump, the roar of her engines swallowed up by the sodden flesh of the world. The hanger door opened out into the darkness, the gross, jutting maw of the beast lowering and vomiting out it’s cargo. Out of the darkness, and into the darkness.
The Lost Hope filed out alone. Each man held different weapons- two handed swords, axes, halberds, knives and an indescribable armoury of glinting, vicious steel, all wreathed in the low, crackling hum of disruptive energy fields. Some were daubed in war paint, their bodies wreathed in strange, mottled patterns under the landing lights. Some wore fearsome, vicious skull masks. Some wore respirators, others the tattered remnants of their regiment’s uniforms, trophies, medals and ribbons stalking alongside the eight-pointed star of chaos, clan tattoos and decorations too grotesque to mention. The Champion, a six-foot bear of a man, a single-bladed axe slung over his shoulder and two more, smaller axes hanging from his belt, strode up to Drang, face streaked with woad, and uttered only one word.
‘Master.’
Drang nodded in acknowledgement, stretching his hand out to take the cold, smooth laminate of a map-pad. The leaders clustered around as he outlined the plan. One assault group to wing out to the left flank, to help the Gaians punch through with an armoured assault on the flat, alluvial plains and drive an armoured wedge through the lines of the 17th Cadian, shattering the enemy lines of communication and disrupting the links between the enemy headquarters and the Inquisitorial detachment. Two more to swing to the right wing, where the ground was broken by a series of jagged, vicious rock formations and impenetrable armour, to assist three reserve infantry regiments in a hopeless diversionary assault on the enemy’s strongest point. The rest would infiltrate forward, and mass up in the centre to launch a monolithic, brute-force attack right down the throat of Inquisitor Volke’s auxiliaries, and rip the heart out of the enemy with the first, third and fifth companies of Drang’s personal guard.
‘Understood’ repeated each leader, filing off to their groups to explain their missions. Drang smiled, a mirthless, bitter smile as he contemplated the terrors he was planning to unleash. The hours before dawn. The enemy would be jumpy, nervous and close to exhaustion from three day’s successive fighting. That tension would soon turn to abject horror as a wave of psychotic, drug-crazed killers overwhelmed their lines, slaughtering all before them, followed by the rumbling heavy metal of armoured divisions, wave after wave of unending infantry, or the demonic howls of an aerial assault. The Lost Hope assembled, for what for all but a luckless few would be the last time. Drang watched them. Each man different, from knife-wielding commandoes, to the worst dregs of the Penal Legions, to simple husbands, fathers and brothers who had lost everything to an apathetic, pathetic corpse of a god. But they all shared one, key feature. The heavy, bulky inhalers slung over their backs, filled with pain suppressants, inhibitor relaxants, and gaseous amphetamines. And each bore the same, terrible look in their eyes- a cold, barely-controlled inferno of fury. The fury of men who had nothing more to live for. The fury of the damned.
Dark, terrible lightning surrounded Drang as he opened his mouth, and spoke the ritual farewell of the lost hope.
‘I’ll see you in hell, gentlemen.’
The only acknowledgement given was to lift their heads, up to the sky. And howl.
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Oct 25, 2008 9:03:22 GMT -5
This is getting interresting. Keep it up RT man!!!
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Post by Srgt. Master on Oct 26, 2008 16:29:34 GMT -5
my inner daemon is pleased................................ } awsome, master-crafted......unstoppable..................too good....
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Post by Count Elakor on Oct 27, 2008 13:41:12 GMT -5
give it what puffy said, then ad what masters said, then ad some more unspecable supiriority, and you got my comment, this is great, no more than great, more than awsome, its superb.
and this is where it gets interesting, you are soon to get compitition from commissar and his zombies. this will be a interesting and hard battle. In the rigth corner, with lots of muscle, guns and even more atitude, Rooolling THUNDER and his restles band of maniacs. In the left corner, Coommissaaaar, with more dead meat and lust for brains than you could ever imagine.
whats gona tip the scales, high skils and lots of delightfull slaughter? or is the ramblign mass of flesh gourging carcases just gona drown it all out.
stay tuned and find out.
PS: read this with that crazy ringmaster voice
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Post by Srgt. Master on Oct 28, 2008 19:17:45 GMT -5
*executes gauntelacor for treason*
RT! bum!bum!bum! RT! bumbumbum! RT!
wohoooooooooooooooo!!!!!
YEA!
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Post by zumbaz on Nov 5, 2008 18:18:38 GMT -5
so, I just read whole the 10 pages of story/comments/craziness/etc. (as I promised). I say it's a very good story! Only I'm sorry to say that I feel like your going a bit downhill considering the following points which are in the last 2,3 or 4 updates, so you said you wanted some constructive criticism here you go;
At first I must say I'm getting drowned into all the details you give. Sometimes I think you need to tone down the details a bit, because I'm having trouble with making up the plot. That's not fully your fault, it could be that my English isn't good enough to follow things sometimes.
Second, it's a shame that you don't write anymore in the perspective of the smaller characters, which I enjoyed reading so much more than the parts with Drang in it.
Third and last, Were are the thoughts!! I don't know whats going on in peoples heads anymore. Which I did for the most of the time. In the last 2 or 3 updates you didn't wrote down peoples thoughts anymore!
These are just my thoughts and tips on this story though, I can't say I could do it any better myself, and it's up to you if you consider me smart enough to have a thought or two about my tips.
However this story has a big amount of potential! And already is fun to read. You are, sir, with no doubt, a creative mastermind!
zumbaz
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Nov 6, 2008 14:23:47 GMT -5
Zumbaz: Much will be addressed shortly. Prepare to venture once more into the darkness that lies in the engrimed tomb of the human soul.
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Post by Count Elakor on Nov 7, 2008 3:37:01 GMT -5
I hope so.
Both contestants are sirkling eachother, noone making a move, they are all waiting for the oponent to make a mistake. There, Drang is out with a... No, it was only a feint, the rambling zombie horde barely responded to his movement. this is starnge behavour for a zombie, not to go berserk at the prospect of brains within reach, it is almost as the zombie havent notized Drang yet. this looks bad.
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Nov 15, 2008 8:39:01 GMT -5
'What is the purpose of this?' Asked the champion, as he followed at his master's heels like a dog.
Drang stopped, his thoughts derailed by the sharp, high pitch of the interrogative, grinding his boot heel into the soft wetness as he stopped. His mind rumbled with the distinct, sadistic tension of forthcoming bloodshed, the coiled, burning fury smouldering under surface of swirling emotions, mixing together like oils atop an ocean's surface, even as the raw power thrashing wrath churns beneath, and the lightning draws back and splits the heavens.
'The purpose...' Drang began, the balefire drawing the words out in to a savage growl between lengthening, canine teeth. 'The purpose is....-what is your name, mortal?'
'White' replied the champion.
'White...?' Asked the mercenary.
'That is all I remember' White replied, deadpan save for the chemical anger coursing through his blood. 'I used to be.....A priest, I think.'
'A priest of...?' Drang said, a flicker of perverse interest dancing like electric fire above the quiet waters of his rage.
White shrugged again. 'Of the Emperor? Of Chaos? What should it matter anymore?'
Drang chuckled, a cruel, contemptuous noise that mocked the world and universe around, reeking of power and sneering, arrogant brutality untempered by even the slightest gleam of humanity.
'Not in the slightest friend. For tonight, we are all priests of Baal.'
'Indeed' agreed White, his vulpine grin a mirror of Drang's. 'Or worse, of the unknown God.'
Drang laughed again, shattering the quiet into a thousand myriad shards of terror as he stepped between the armoured hulls of a Chimera and a Leman Russ Dragon, the still-warm engines.
'Kamenev?' Von Luckner's tone was as cold and proffessional as ever. Only Drang, his senses so finely attuned for these things, could detect the miniscule alteration in timbre that hinted at the fear the old man felt.
'Siegfried.' He replied, stepping into the torchlight.
To Von Luckner's credit, there was only a seconds flash of the abject horror of what he served, before the ironclad mask of a Mordian officer locked back over his features. Ahmed gasped, his brown skin paling to a sickly beige as he took in the winged nightmare that had stepped into his world, alien terror and awful familiarity mingling in a taloned, predatory monster leering out of the darkness. Constantine's already pale complexion was as white as polar ice, his fingertips fumbling at the holster of a plasma pistol before Drang swooped over him and covered his hand in a cold, black-clawed grasp. Words were exchanged, and the Gaiain commander visibly slumped, almost collapsing into himself as his hands fell away to his sides.
'Gentlemen' he said in a barely modulated snarl, sending fresh shudders around the group.
'You know the premise. Constatine sweeps around the left and breaks through. The mechanised regiments- I'm assuming Ahmed, since he's here- follows through and takes the road junctions and high ground. That'll cut communications between the Cadian HQ and Volke's detachment. The reservists-'
'That would be me' said Palati.
Drang turned, slowly, wings mantling as he turned to face the Renegade General.
'You?'
'I'll be commanding the diversionary attack. I'm going to turn it into a full-out assault. If we can break through on the right, we can turn their flanks and push the whole front back' he declared, staring up into the inky, inhuman eyes of a killer as he delivered his speech.
'They're your men, General.' Drang replied with a dissmissive shrug. 'Do as you like.'
'And Kamenev' Palati began. 'I am glad to see you have seen wisdom, and surrendered to the Dark Gods will.'
Drang turned once again, eyes burning with a delighted glee as he faced the renegade. 'What makes you think it is I who have surrendered, Palati?'
The heretic's complexion drained of colour, the whiteness outlining the red of an eight-pointed star, delicately incised into the officer's flesh as Drang swept back to address von Luckner.
'We will attack through the centre, Siegfried.' Von Luckner nodded, grave and impassive as ever. 'Gentlemen, you have your tasks. See to them.'
Constantine, Ahmed and Palati withdrew to confer with White on the assault. Only Von Luckner remained in the torchlight, and now, with the others gone, Drang could see the shimmering wetness gather in his eyes as he stared at the pale-skinned monster who shared the yellow light.
'Why?' was all he asked, almost numb from the life-sapping terror that gnawed at his heart. 'Why, damnit!'
Once again, Drang shrugged.
'I do not know, Siegfried. But I think...' he paused, his wings spreading twin swathes of darkness against the sky as he knelt. 'I think I'm going to find out.'
'They haven't found her body, Kam. You can't' he began, and stopped, choked by the sheer, agonised intensity of Drang's stare, the toxic mix of indescribable grief, and raw, unholy fury fueling the diabolic conflagration in his heart.
'I know, Siegfried' he whispered, his voice crackling with an inferno of barely-suppressed power. 'And do you know what else I know. I don't want to be alive when they do.'
And with that, he leapt into the darkness.
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Post by Count Elakor on Nov 17, 2008 2:55:09 GMT -5
your still the best, but it seems your writing skills are diminishing with Drangs will to live, fix it.
"An imense blow from Drang into the zombie, punching a hole rigth trough it. wow, that man... or shal i say beast, is imenesly powerfull, now the zombies got to be our of it. But no. The zombie aperently dont need anny internal organs, like lungs or heart, and the zombioe loges his head onto Drangs uper arm and gets stuck. Drang ripes the body off, but the head is still stuck, it is aparent Drang is draining of power, slowly, but his losing it. Man, i dont wana be here if he turnes zombie."
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Post by Deleted on Nov 24, 2008 10:17:52 GMT -5
Talk about intense, i agee with the others, GIVE US MORE!!!! Seriously there realy isn't much to critisize, well truth be told theres nothing there that i can see to critisize. So come on we want MMMOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Nov 25, 2008 4:01:25 GMT -5
Thank you gentlemen. As is, I had an update in the works, but the state utility provider decieded it was not to be so, and cut my power so some bastard in 'Matizburg could run all the lights in his casino.
I'M GOING TO GO STURM UND DRANG ON THIS COUNTRY SHORTLY!!!!
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Post by Count Elakor on Nov 25, 2008 4:58:18 GMT -5
tohe gambling bastards in matizburg... wil they never learn, but now il get an update, rigth?
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Nov 25, 2008 11:37:20 GMT -5
I'll get the thunderbolts to bomb every bloody casino in the US.
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Nov 25, 2008 13:14:25 GMT -5
That wouldn't help me in the slightest.
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Post by Count Elakor on Nov 26, 2008 12:12:01 GMT -5
your not in US rigth? and puffy, i dont care where you bomb as long as it dont disturb RT, he needs all the consentration and inspiration he needs(but then im shure he could fine some insp in bombing of close casinos)
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Nov 27, 2008 3:16:54 GMT -5
The war the Infantry fought.
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me Remembering again that I shall die And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks For washing me cleaner than I have been Since I was born into this solitude. Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon: But here I pray that none whom once I loved Is dying tonight or lying still awake Solitary, listening to the rain, Either in pain or thus in sympathy Helpless among the living and the dead, Like a cold water among broken reeds, Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff, Like me who have no love which this wild rain Has not dissolved except the love of death, If love it be for what is perfect and Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint. (Edward Thomas)
All along the frontlines, a strange, bitter calm had descended on the renegades. Cold, murderous and utterly sickening, it was the calm that would precede the storm of an attack. It wormed and snaked it's way through the soggy quagmire even as the 39th, 277th and 17th Malengradian moved up to the start line, the acrid stink of fear trailing behind the gargantuan coloumns of men as they marched out of the muddy expanse of the flatlands and into the rocky extremes of the frontlines. Huge, kilometre-long lines of grey-clothed, half-terrified human bodies marching through the gaps between boulders larger than a scout titan, followed ever by the pungent, hot suplur-smell of nauseating fear.
Sergeant Fabian felt that same fear, the grimy mordant taste of bile rising in the back of his throat like an curtain of acid, even as he sat around the campfire with the remnants of his squad as he heard the leaden tramp, tramp of the approaching coloumns. He looked up as the first colomn came into view, it's colonel leading on foot in front of a company of grenadiers. He smiled wanly to himself, in part bitterly mocking himself for the hope that his regiment's transfer had been to a quiet section of the line, in part trying to hold down the sudden, helpless impulse to cry. Here we go again, he thought as line after line of flak-armoured puppet marched by.
He turned back to his meal, but now even the steaming, seared, sweet mixture of meat, vegetables and cocoa-butter tasted vile as cold blood in a watery shellhole. Looking up at the rest of his squad, he saw his own mask of fearful exhaustion mirrored in six other faces, torn between impotent, futile anger and pleading tears. Fabian sighed, and the wooden bowl slipped from his fingers as he fell back, the hot food letting off a vestigial puff of steam as it hit the icy surface of the earth as he slid back and lay against the earth, staring up at the mocking gleam of the stars. The sounds of the fresh regiments dispersing into their companies, the barking, savage orders of the sergeants, the tramp of boots, the constant, grinding sound of metal against metal as lasguns struck against armour, and cloth moved against skin- the void swallowed it whole, only the faintest murmurings of it reaching Fabain's ears as he lay back and stared up into cold oblivion. His mind shut down, the extremities slowing and stopping, the neurones deactivating slowly as he focused the whole of his mind, the complete, utter essence of his being, on the only possible thought, the only possible occurance, the only future left to him. It's ending.
The rest of the squad barely noticed. Caquin, the six-foot flamethrower man, simply gazed into the fire. He worshipped fire- it was the only thing left for him to love, the only thing he could be truly sure of seeing when the sun had come up. Diocletian's eyes were glazed, glacid and possessed with the pathetic calm of an animal going to it's slaughter, mechanically spooning food from his bowl to his mouth as the rest of him sat as still as a rock. Or a corpse. Garn, the apostate, likewise stared. The praying had stopped, now, the alms choked back in his throat by a wall of broken corpses, and the utter, apathetic helplessness of all he Gods and Emperors combined. Falstaf, the stoic, frozen in place like a rock in a glacial cavern, the chill preassure slowly crushing him under it's weight. Alan, reliable old Alan, the quiet man who talked people out of their fears, who calmed tempers and softened insults and gently laughed at the world, now utterly silent, the smile dead and his eyes brimming with dread. And Calis, the graceful, quixotic ladies man, barely out of his teens and so aware of it, his handsome face half ripped off, blood and fluid seeping from under a filthy bandage that stretched from his scalp to his left cheekbone, his remaining eye gazing vacantly into muddy nothing.
Suddenly, Fabian's vision was blocked by a large, black-clad figure. A leering, white skull loomed over him, swathed in a cloak of darkness. But there was no terror for him. So this was death, he thought, a white skull wrapped in the swirling darkness night who said in the leaden tones of the crypt, of tombs and graveyards and the long deep darkness in which the deadlay:
'Where looking for the Mercenary encampment. Where is it?'
And sergeant Fabian awoke into the nightmare, the skull masked figure of Quartermaster-sergeant Dirk Kasson standing over him.
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Post by Count Elakor on Nov 28, 2008 2:58:08 GMT -5
just as nice as always, but again, when you post somthing its either completely unemotional and full of action, or just the tougths inside one mans head during about 5min. mix it get a post wit both action and emotion in once, its not so hard
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Nov 28, 2008 5:50:31 GMT -5
Superb. You are the master of 40K fiction!
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Nov 28, 2008 8:02:18 GMT -5
@gantletkor- You'd be surprised. Can anyone actually meld the two properly? I've yet to see it done.
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Post by Cadian 117 on Nov 30, 2008 22:12:05 GMT -5
Ive seen it done badly. Nice writing RT, just as good as ever.
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Post by Count Elakor on Dec 1, 2008 2:56:24 GMT -5
ofcourse it is imposible to get it perfect, but he wanted response, and in the lack of somthing more to say, i said that. and yes, i have seen the meld of the two done greatly several times, read Eragon series, Artemis Fowl and Dan Browns books
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Dec 1, 2008 7:56:06 GMT -5
Eragon is a god-awful pile of sh!t. Please refrain from mentioning it inmy prescene- I would never use any of that writers base, crude techniques to provide even the forum-fluff entertainment I do now.
Artemis Fowl is a nice series, but again, note- there is a distinct seperation between the people fighting and the people thinking. The obvious exception to this is Artemis himself, but he does very little fighting.
Dan Brown's books are pop-culture fluff, but even then there is, again, a distinct seperation between 'fight' and 'think'. Very few people actually think about fighting, most of it is done on instinct and adrenaline.
Thinking occurs beforehand, at the levels of 'Right, I'll break his nose with a headbutt and then drop a knee into his groin' to 'Send 8 Co. to hold the crossroads, 3rd and 7th can make a diversionary assault on the right flank while 4th and 6th Companies take the hill' equally.
Thinking during an attack is a phenomenon that usually occurs to civilian characters- like Artemis Fowl and Robert Langdon. Having a drug-crazed psychotic stop and think "Well, I think I'll go for the kneecaps this time" seriously disrupts to flow of the action, as
1. The reader knows what's going to happen. Bad.
2. Even if it goes wrong, it will still risk damaging the atmosphere.
3. Simply describing the kneecaps shattering, the bone slowly pushed through the flesh by the enemy's weight, the blood staining their clothes and slowly trickling down, down to pool on the cold cement floor as, with an audible, sick crackle, the space marine fell, the weight of his armour ripping his knees apart even as Kamenev Drang dispatched another of his brethern...
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