|
Post by Count Elakor on Dec 1, 2008 8:41:54 GMT -5
you do got a point there, but i stil think Paolini is a great writer, now away from him(i dont want Drang on my back) you write great, but i stil think there is somthing lacking, somthing is not there, it is like a car without the suspension, it works great, but a sma thing added does improve it so drasticly its sad
|
|
|
Post by Rolling Thunder on Dec 1, 2008 13:57:39 GMT -5
I know- I'm trying to figure out what. It's a right bugger, because you've always got the feeling you could be doing better, but you don't know how. So I just have to experiment and see how it feels from ym perspective. And you guys, of course.
|
|
|
Post by Helmian (M.I.A) on Dec 1, 2008 18:08:10 GMT -5
pure avesomeness...... need more!!!!!!
|
|
|
Post by Rolling Thunder on Dec 5, 2008 13:50:12 GMT -5
"We're looking for the mercenary encampment. Where is it?" The skull-masked figure's voice rasped in the silence, the harsh, barely-modulated snarl of a man born to send men to their gory deaths shattering the reverent silence into a hundred, thousand daggers that tore at the heart, and loosened the bowels.
A second passed, wreathed in the sharp, shocked silence of the figure's words. And then the renegades reacted. Bowls dropped, spoons rattling against the smooth hardness of cheap enamel as they went for their guns.
The figure stood, grim, unflinching despite the wall of bayoneted, violent death sudden'y staring down at him. A second later, a slight movement of the air, a delicate alteration in the patterns of darkness on the Titan-sized boulder on their left told them Caquin had fired up his flamer. Fabain rolled and came up with the dead marine's boltgun, the weapon cumbersome and heavy to his grip even as he swung it's muzzle, gleaming pinpricks of light dancing off it's grey-black surface, at the greatcoated, gasmasked figure.
A second passed, as cold and silent as the last, despite the fact that each renegade could audibly hear his own pulse beat away in his ears, despite the sudden, hammering tension pounding away in their chests, the gasping, low breaths of men who's bodies had flooded with adrenaline. The masked, terrible figure let out a hideous noise, somewhere between a rasping growl and a serpentine hiss. The renegades recoilled, only to realise that it was merely the sound of a sigh through the gasmask. With a slow, deliberate calm, the figure raised both black-gauntleted hands to it's face, and began to remove the mask, the coarse, stiff leather crackling in the cold, silent air as the figure's fingers worked up the sides of his face, serperating chill, pallid flesh from iron-hard leather, fingertips massaging the sides of his face as he pulled the mask off, and looked up.
'I know you' said Fabian, lowering his boltgun. 'You're one of those mercs, aren't you?'
Kasson nodded slowly, his face devoid of emotion.
'Sorry about that' Fabian said, stepping forwards as the squad began to stand down, his men simply collapsing where they stood, the strength draining out of their bodies as they fell back on their haunches, weapons dropping out of their grasp as they slipped back onto the unforgiving, cold earth. 'We're all a bit-'
'You're exhausted and terrified. You've seen most of your friends and comrades die, and you're still trying to work out if you'll be the one to go next. You're sick to the stomach with blood, killing and death, and you feel as if you're life is nothing more than a pair of boots and a lasgun.'
Fabain was too tired to gawk, or even stare at the strange, stone-faced figure who had surmised the sum and total of the past week. 'You've done this before, I take it?' he replied, a rueful, drained smile ghosting across his features.
Kasson returned the smile, the slight twitching of his facial muscles the only indication of the wry, fatigued exhaustion he felt as he spoke. 'Let me introduce myself. Quartermaster-sergeant Dirk Kasson, formerly of the Death Korps of Krieg.'
Fabain merely nodded as he reached out and gripped the man's hand. They shook, both taking an estimation not from the grip, but from the half-visible, subtle movements of the eyes. Kasson saw a tired, cunning old man of war, young in years but already greying around the temples from constant, grinding terror, exhaustion, hunger, the acrid scent of wasted dreams hanging around this man as he stared back into an inscutable, almost souless face, a product of the iron-willed, remorseless world of his birth, cold, fearless and ruthless as thy came, half-broken to the will of a new master but as implacable and remorselessly cold-blooded as ever.
As there grips disengaged, Fabain made to sit, idly, carelessly gesturing for Kasson to do the same. However, he stopped as an iron-hard, brutal grip closed on his shoulder, tight as the jaws of a bull Grox, the preassure stopping just short of causing actual pain.
'If you're up to it, I'd like you to come with me' said Kasson, deadpan as ever.
Fabain looked at his squad, all of them slumped, sprawled across the hard-packed, frosty soil, hovering in between consciousness and sleep in the desperate, numb exhaustion of men too tired to actually sleep. He supposed he could contest with the man. After all, he was technically not even in his chain of command. Technically, and the fact that he had seven men and the Korpsman had none. But what was the point? Why bother to fight? He thought, as he pulled himself upright, his numbed hands automatically brushing himself off as he turned and followed Kasson.
|
|
|
Post by Rolling Thunder on Dec 7, 2008 4:46:44 GMT -5
Oh god, it's awful isn't it?
|
|
|
Post by Count Elakor on Dec 8, 2008 3:31:04 GMT -5
not awfull, but somthing is wrong with you. there have ben a sligth decline in the awsomnes of it, it seems you have lost some of the pasion, try to get some of Drangs pasionate killing into it, or, at best, give Drang an injury so he cant figth and let us find out how anyone els of your regiments does their killing. it is al based around Drang, it seems he is the only one in combat.
|
|
|
Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Dec 8, 2008 12:16:56 GMT -5
I know Drang is sort of know as the remorseless killer but what about the human side in him? I mean, there must be some human consiosness resisting his deamonic possetion?
|
|
|
Post by Count Elakor on Dec 9, 2008 10:17:35 GMT -5
second that
|
|
|
Post by Rolling Thunder on Jan 1, 2009 21:41:31 GMT -5
Silence, that most mercurial of gods, sister to Darkness, gripped the dust and mud of the Malengrad plains in her delicate, immovable fingers, clutching at the hearts of every man, woman and beast she reigned over, like a glassy, opaque screen that would at any moment shatter, and explode into a hundred thousand shards, destroying the listener as it destroyed itself. Through this veil, Fear and Terror worked their evil magic, their dark talons reaching out into the souls of thousands, unleashing uncountable horrors upon uncoutable minds, watched over from a high by their champion, his great black wings spreading over the land as he rode the skies.
At 00:00 AM, 900001. M42., the voice of the nightmare spoke.
"A new millenia arises. Out of the darkness we have walked, out of shadow we are freed. The time of darkness has ended. Now, is the time of the Inferno. Now, we shall arise from shadow, to flame. Attack."
And from the long, hellish dark that seemed to open it's maw and swallow the stars, and from the deep, cold darkness that resides in the human spirit, there came fire.
With a screaming, feral howl to announce it's passage, the first artillery round smashed into the trenches of the 192nd Cadian, breaking apart the concrete shell of an armoured bunker like an eggshell. For a second, silence reigned still as the ringing shock of it's impact dissipated through the earth and sky like a thunderclap, the screams of terror and pain pitifully weak after the indescribable fury that had just ripped the world asunder.
And then the shell exploded, it's triumphant roar breaking apart the facade of silence as it tore open a wound upon the earth, sending clouds of soil and body parts hundreds of meters upwards as it wrought it's cataclysmic destruction.
"Ranging shot accuratte" said Palati. "Begin the barrage."
And so the birth cry of a millenia sounded- the deep-voiced, savage laughter of an artillery barrage. All along the frontline, the shells landed, blasting positions into clouds of dust clotted with a fine, bloody mist. Whole trenchlines dissappeared, the souless anger of the Earthshakers shattering apart the ordered lines and rows with horrific ease, even as those who found refuge choked and burned, brilliant fires lighting as white phosphorous shells lit up the night with their incandescent anger.
As the regiment's of Malengrad emerged from their rocky hiding places and began the mad, four-hundred yard dash to the enemy frontlines, a rolling, unending wave of grey-clad figures pouring out onto the open ground, the barrage began to shift, blasting away at the second defensive line, ripping up the trenches and collapsing dugouts, spreading terror and destruction. A few potshots began to emerge from the Cadian frontlines, the faint crack-crack of lasfire as the surviving defenders crawled out to meet the onrushing hordes. A man stumbled and fell, the laser round burning a hole through his flak armour and evaporating a fist-sized hole of his flesh, burning it away in a microsecond and gouging into his lungs.
Come on, Kasson thought, come on. Without you, we're dead. Come on, you miserable heretic bastard, come on, even as the monstrous thump-thump-thump of a heavy bolter began to shred the front of the attack. Men dropped, limbs wrenched off or simply disintergrating as the massive shells pulped and mangled their bodies. The line wavered, and, for a second, as more and more heavy bolter shells began to blast apart the advance, Kasson's mind replayed again the dozens of other attacks like this, the faceless, nameless figures being blown into pieces as they stuttered, and shuddered to a halt.
And then the night sky lit up, as sergeant Fabain's veterans unleashed fire and destruction upon the sons of Cadia.
|
|
|
Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Jan 2, 2009 4:00:06 GMT -5
Your writing's still as perfect as ever. You've added a very climactic feel to this.
|
|
|
Post by Count Elakor on Jan 4, 2009 11:22:58 GMT -5
ye, thats better, your geting it. its still not perfect, but its better than the last, its an improvement and all improvements are welcome
|
|
|
Post by Srgt. Master on Jan 14, 2009 16:05:03 GMT -5
I feel something good..........and its not gass...its better..... your getting closer!
|
|
|
Post by Count Elakor on Jan 15, 2009 2:47:11 GMT -5
unable to continue evaluation, not enugh fluff writen: error: needs more writing about Drang. Damnit RT, you realy got to update soon, and fast
|
|
|
Post by cathedralsquares on Jan 15, 2009 8:25:06 GMT -5
I want to review it, but I can't until I get back my edited copy of my chapter! T_T
|
|
|
Post by Count Elakor on Jan 26, 2009 2:33:08 GMT -5
shame on you RT, you complain on puffys for a slow update, but you havent updated on a long time your self, UPDATE
|
|
|
Post by Rolling Thunder on Jan 26, 2009 3:47:59 GMT -5
White-hot and terrible to behold, liquid fire streamed into the Cadian trenches, burning, melting, blackening flesh, searing the nerves and immolating the tissues, boiling the blood in the veins and turning living, breathing human beings into nothing but thrashing torches, their silent thrashing a testimony to the awesome power unleashed upon them. Blistering, incandescent heat rose from the trenches, waves of energy causing the night sky to shimmer and warp as Sergeant Fabain and his men poured torrent after torrent of fire into the defenses. All along the trenchline, the same scene was reneacted again and again- the veteran renegades emerging from the darkness to wreak terror and destruction. And all along the trenchline, the same chemical fire lit up the night like the plains of hell.
From behind his gasmask, Sergeant Fabian directed his squad to it's duty even as internal conflict sought to rip him apart. Even as his mind, his soul, the very elements of his humanity wept and mourned the destruction he brought, the pain and fear that his passage meant, he felt another part, the dark, animal part that lurked in the cold, uncharted depths of the human mind, come to the fore. And how it rejoiced. How savage the triumph, how utterly intoxicating it was- to fight, to kill, to be the very incarnation of horror and brutality, the adrenaline igniting in his veins like the fires that danced and announced his passage. How utterly....godlike. Kasson's words echoed in his mind, over and over like some ghastly, peverted chant of praise to some monstrous god.
"You are no longer Sergeant Fabian. You are no longer a soldier. You are no longer human. You are a shock troop. You are not an enemy. You are a nemesis. You are the living, breathing epitome of vengeance, the very stuff of their nightmares, the unstoppable edge of the shockwave, the lightning strike of the rolling thunder. You are a creature of fang and talon, a servant of darkness and terror, and you shall be the blade of Charon's scythe."
And so, wreathed in fire, festooned with spikes, blades and grotesque trophies, and cloaked in darkness, the veterans wrought terror and destruction even as the human wave of the Malengrad 37th smashed into the Cadian defences. Hundreds died, impaled on bayonets or cut down by lasgun fire, but hundreds more poured into the defences, crushing their adversaries under an unstoppable wall of humanity. With bayonet, blade, fist and boot, they overran their enemies, rushing through the trenches with reckless abandon. Now was their turn to unleash terror and destruction. Now, they would show their adversaries the mettle of the warriors of Malengrad.
And at the leading edges, there were the veterans, burning and destroying all in their path with a terrible efficency that bespoke of a long-held rage, an indiscriminate, remorseless anger as they took vengeance on their tormentors.
In his watchtower, the Cadian commander took stock of the situation. His men were being decimated, the defences were breached and they appeared to be no end to the attackers numbers, nor any limit to their fury. A prescence at his side made him turn, and the figure of regimental commissar Quailin Vos stood at his side, fear clearly etched on his face too.
"We must hold" was all the commissar said, pallorous and wreathed in a cold sweat.
"By the Emperor, we will" the commander replied. "In his name, we will hold to the last man. The Emperor protects."
It was not the deep, monstrous roar of the artillery that froze their blood. It was not the agonised, tormented screaming of the wounded, not the piteous moans of those not quite dead, or the harsh, barking laugh of the gunfire. It was a soft, cold chuckle that sounded above them, a small, ghastly noise that could well have come from the mouth of Hell.
"The Emperor protects? I doubt it."
And then, the Lost Hope attacked.
|
|
|
Post by Count Elakor on Jan 26, 2009 6:31:09 GMT -5
AAAAAAAANNNND WE ARE BACK IN ACTION. ROOOOOLLING THUNDER IN ITS FINEST.
but realy, great work, i have longed for that
|
|
|
Post by Srgt. Master on Jan 26, 2009 16:11:25 GMT -5
nice....creepy *shivers*
|
|
|
Post by Rolling Thunder on Feb 3, 2009 5:01:05 GMT -5
Like the very face of the nightmare, the skull-masked killer swung down from the rooftop, silently landing amongst the command squad. For a second, he stood there, empty-handed and and utterly terrifying. They looked at each other- taking in the long, ornate sweep of the Commissar's greatcoat, swathe of black carved across his chest, the tall, high jackboots, shining in the firelight, the cold, dull gleam of his bolt pistol, levelled at the ghast-faced apparition, the slow-gathering glow of the plasma pistol as the commander held it out, grim-faced and fearless as a Guardsman should be.
"I don't suppose that you would consider surrender?" the killer asked, his voice mangled and rasping from the chem-inhaler strapped across his back, clad in the remnants of a stormtrooper's uniform, a glinting bandolier of knives hanging off his rangy, predatory frame.
Commissar Havarkin sneered, his lips peeling back into a contemptuous, almost animal-like snarl, baring his teeth at the intruder as he stepped forward, eyes wide open and burning with fear and fury, the savage cocktail of emotions mixing in his blood, flowing into the brain and locking the muscles of his neck into place.
"Im nomem et Imperator!" he shouted, almost screamed as the neuro-electrical impulse travelled from the base of the mind, down, richocheting through the network of tunnels and pathways and firing in the tiny, delicate muscles of his right, index finger. The bolt pistol answered with it's own furious roar, the high explosive round igniting with a spurt of fire and a cry of chemical, mechanical rage as it spun over the ducked head of the killer and exploded against the wall of the watchtower.
With a visceral, brutal thud, the commissar was thrown back against watchtower wall, a barbed spine lodged between the plates of his flak armour, the impact echoing in the bones of the killer's shoulder even as he kicked out at a Guardsman, feeling the shin bone break through his armoured greaves as the soldier dropped to the floor, screaming in pain. Like a plate-armoured whirlwind he tore into the Cadian troopers, relishing in the savage concussion of bone shattering, the soft tremors that ran through human flesh as, time and again his gauntleted fists broke against their bodies. Warm rivulets of blood trickled through the interlocking steel plates, the the vivid, gory red a grotesque contrast against the shining, gunmetal-grey as he disposed of another man.
Another soldier swung a gun-butt at him, the heavy wooden stock slamming into his abdomen, battering him to his knees. Another caught against the plasteel of his helmet, and his vision span and blurred, darkness creeping in at the edge of his eyes even as he eviscerated the impudent cadian, the hapless man screaming in agony as the knife opened his belly and spilt it's gory contents out onto the floor. With death he danced, maiming and killing at will as the final, hopeless scream of the vox-man tore out of his crushed, mangled throat, the soft, strange firmness of his larynx crumpling like paper under the remorseless grip of those iron-clad fists.
Now, only the commander remained, cold, splendid and abjectly inhuman in his regalia, power sabre raised high in the classic duellists’ stance. A soft, metallic click echoed like a thunderclap in the silence, and the a low, lethal humming filled the air, the sibilant blade in his hand rasping like a swarm of monstrous bees, left arm outstretched, palm up, as if offering the skulled one something intangible, invisible.
Maybe his life.
The killer smiled behind the skull mask, and drew out his own weapon, a cruel, many-bladed mace, the dull bronze shining in the reflected firelight. Again, the soft little click resounds like a gunshot, and the air is filled with an elemental, electric crackle, as if in his grasp this man holds the mastery of the thunderstorm still raging high above, the blue-white arcs of tamed lightning dancing around the head of the mace, contorting, snarling in their unliving fury.
Maybe not.
Twin cries of "For the Emperor" one sincere and heartfelt, one mocking and corrupt, sounded, loud, bold and utterly lost as the thunder exploded overhead like a monstrous, terrible fanfare, drowning the entire battle- the entire war in a gargantuan, demonic roar as the two men met, and became one in a haze of fire and fury.
|
|
|
Post by Count Elakor on Feb 3, 2009 11:00:14 GMT -5
I have no idea that annyone could recover this fast. a few updates ago you was at your lowest so far, and now you are marking a new goal for writers all around the world. two things. 1: your absolutely briliant 2: your damn random
|
|
|
Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Feb 3, 2009 15:40:43 GMT -5
Seconded, no critisism here.
|
|
|
Post by Srgt. Master on Feb 3, 2009 16:23:46 GMT -5
Thirded(?) ' "For the Emporer!" ' that was nice...
|
|
|
Post by Rolling Thunder on Mar 12, 2009 13:32:51 GMT -5
"Verloren Haufe!" screamed White, as he charged the Cadian officer, a frenzied snarl etched onto too-human features behind a mask of death, as he lowered his shoulder and charged. There was a clash of blades, and a melee, a razor-edged whirlwind of steel and lethal energy as they struck and danced, surrendering will to the animal ferocity buried within, the leering beast guiding their each shattering, savage blow. But White was too fast, the Cadian officer falling away with half his shoulder mangled into ragged, scorched flesh and fragments of bone. But he kicked out as he fell, and with a visceral, hideous crack, bone shattered as White's kneecap exploded inwards, the tissue of the leg lacerated and shredded from within.
Slowly- terribly, deceptively slowly, both men fell back, the twin impacts echoing through the floor and walls of the watchtower as the air was driven from their lungs. And yet, despite the rending, white-hot pain that erupted through the nervous system like molten lava, the sysnapses flaring and twisting as a corona of pain exploded along the body, travelling along the spine to the brain, exploding into an inferno of ghastly, unbearable pain. And yet despite this, despite the terrible, raging agony that coursed through their bodies, scorching the mind and sapping the life force like the kiss of a vampire, despite it all, the sheer, iron will of both men prevailed, as they reached for their guns.
White got their first, the grey-nickel gleam of his bolt pistol blurring in the low light as it swept up from it's holster, paused for a second, and fired.
The bolt tore into the Cadian's hips, blasting his pelvis apart in a sudden, horrible moment of agony as it travelled up, parting the arteries and pulverising the organs, incinerating flesh and evaporating the fluids with it's passage, before it stopped in the chest. For a moment, the Cadian officer lived still, still in grotesque, indescribable agony, still as death but alive, alive and enduring every second as his own blood filled his chest, and his body screamed in monstrous torment.
And then the bolt exploded. The Cadian's chest simply dissappeared in a detonation of gore- bone, tissue and blood exploding outwards and filling the room with a gory haze. And so he died.
But he did not die in vain. For in the moment White had gone for his pistol, the Cadian officer had seized the true, lasting victory in his death, his last breath screaming out the only orders that could possibly save the campaign, the last, desperate orders of a true hero, he chose the course of Roland, of Sigismund, of Wagnerian self-immolation on the pyre of victory.
"On my coordinates!"
White turned, but the Commissar's shot had already sliced through the tendons of his wrist, the laser beam opening flesh and incising the vital parts of the hand, cauterising the wounds before a drop of blood spilt on the floor, the bolt pistol clattering to the floor with a hollow, metallic thump as the last guardsman called in the final, selfdestructive order of Colonel Falcon Hoarce.
Commissar and murderer faced one another, prostrate on the floor, both grievously wounded, the steely-eyed defender of the Imperium staring down the barrel of his laspistol as the last phrase of the orders carried over the vox-net. The vox-man finished his order, and then moded to his superior, as if to lift him and carry him out of the fire.
"No, no, don't be foolish" said the Commissar, brushing the guardsman's hands away. "You'll never get out in time. Just run." The soldier blinked. "You can't fight this, trooper. Warn the men. Tell them to run." Still, the guardsman stood there, gawking in sheer, terrified amazement as the very foundations of the world seemed to turn upside-down, and found himself standing on empty, endarkened sky.
"Run!!!" screamed the Commissar, and so, finally, the trooper ran, leaping down the ladder and sprinting, screaming his warning as he went careering away from the site of the impeding cataclysm, running with the desperate, singleminded intensity that only a prey animal can muster, running further and further into the murky gloom as the Cadian lines began to withdraw, turn, and begin their own desperate flight.
"A commissar ordering a retreat" said White, chuckling darkly at the bitter, ironic beauty of the world as he waited to die. "Now I have seen it all."
The commissar turned, his face etched into the stone-walled snarl of a commissar, uncompromising, fearless and terrible to behold, but met with White's gleaming, mocking eyes, and was silent for a moment. And then, slowly, a fissue ran along the stone wall, a long, slow crack opening up along the granite, and the commissar's face crumbled into helpless, dizzy laughter at the sheer, elegant peversity of creation. And so they laughed, killer and saviour, defender and nemesis, iron will and chemical rage, laughing together even as the Emperor's guns voiced there opinion, laughing together until foutry-five pounds of high explosive landed amidst them with an raucous, inhuman crack that tore apart the world, and all laughter was ended.
|
|
|
Post by aeonian on Mar 12, 2009 13:55:00 GMT -5
Jesus! This story is possibly the awesomest fluff on the entire board! Suggestion: when it's done, you should remove this entire thread and send it to Black Library for publishing. It really is that good!
|
|
|
Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Mar 12, 2009 14:06:47 GMT -5
Your description is more vivid than is humanly possible! How will i ever match up to THIS!!! 10 out of 5 mate!!!!
|
|