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Post by Helmian (M.I.A) on Mar 12, 2009 15:34:52 GMT -5
This. is. awesome! You sir are truly a magnificent fluff writer. May the inspirational(spelling?) light always shine upon thee
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Post by Inquisitor Lord Graenis on Mar 13, 2009 10:31:38 GMT -5
damn good my good sir. Also, what is Drang exactly?
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Post by aeonian on Mar 13, 2009 10:41:05 GMT -5
I believe that Drang is a man, an Ex-Imperial Guardsman, perhaps ( ) whose entire world was destroyed by the Inquisition. He is nearly superhuman, and I think I read somewhere that he has psychic abilities. He has killed more living creatures than can possibly be counted. That is why whenever someone writes *See's Drang coming, and runs away screaming* they actually mean it!
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Post by Ymmot (M.I.A) on Mar 13, 2009 11:17:08 GMT -5
psst- he is a renegade evesor assassin,
and possibly more...
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Mar 17, 2009 7:28:06 GMT -5
Crouching in the bunker of his enemy, an enemy now dead or running for their lives, Sergeant Fabian cursed. He cursed the enemy, the dead man lying on the floor, the armour, skin and thin, delicate layer of flesh scorched away by a melta hit, exposing the brilliant, shocking whiteness of the ribcage in full detail against the brown-black flesh that still steamed from the heat, the organs still cooking in the pot of it's chest. It stank, and Fabian cursed it- cursed it for being dead, and cursed it for the terrible, grotesque smell assailing him- half-revulsive, the vile stench of another man's pain and death, and half-pleasant, the animal part of him appreciating the smell of cooking meat, and hating himself for it. He cursed the Emperor, the blind, distant figure as dead as the pile of scorched flesh and disorganised tissue that had once been a man. But most of all, he cursed the guns, cursed them for their roaring, terrible fury, their monstrous wrath that shook and cracked the very rotundity of the world, for the ghastly, sickening silence that echoed between the booming cracks of artifical thunder.
"Well, this is familiar" said Kasson, idly nudging Fabain, sitting, back against the dugout wall, the nightmare face of his gasmask hanging on his chest as he dissembled his hellgun, removing the thick, heavy sleeve that covered the barrel and replacing it with a new one, the pitted, dull surface soon replaced with a a shining, new cover, gleaming with it's own cold lethality as it slid into place without a sound.
"I suppose you feel right at home" grunted Fabian, irritation briefly overcoming fear as he turned to the brutish Korpsman.
"I suppose" replied Kasson, the barest hint of a smile ghosting across his features as he pulled the a heavy, half-armoured gauntlet of his left hand. Fabian blinked as he saw why- the flesh of Kasson's palm was a hideously blistered, scorched by the sheer, raw heat of the hellgun's fire.
Kasson saw his counterpart's expression of sudden, violent suprise, and smiled. "Yeah, the heat discharge on these is a right pain. Still, it's not so bad once you get used to it" he said, unslinging the long, vicious blade that he had attached to his left forearm, in the style of the Renegades of Vraks he had fought so long ago.
"Liar" said Emir, a mimic of Kasson's smile draped across her elegant, noblewoman's face, so overwhelmingly delicate save the long, slick trail of blood that caressed the side of her face, arcing down from a vicious-looking scalp wound, eyes shockingly blue in the low, yellow light. "It damn well hurts, but your just too happy to admit it."
"Same difference" Kasson replied, incongruously cheerful. "The bombardment should stop shortly" he said, before he returned to bandaging his hand. "They're blind-firing. Artillerymen don't blind-fire for long, especially if they've got a fire pattern to adhere to. Still, one can never be- Ah!"
The explosions had stopped, and the silence they left was as shocking and violent as any noise they had. All along the battlelines, Silence reigned once more, her ebon hands softly crushing all noise in their grasp, planting her chill, deathly kiss on every mouth and drawing forth the breath from the lungs, a deep, terrible cold settling in the pits of every stomach. Only the thunder defied her, his cries of unliving fury still erupting across the sky, incandescent light still casting the hollow, broken fields in a sporadic strobe of monochrome, brilliant white.
Still smiling, Quartermaster-Sergeant Dirk Kasson climbed out of the ruins of the Cadian dugout, Emir, then Fabian and his men following behind the man who's face was but a mirror of death, as he climbed a nearby mound and watched the twin, long coloumns of Palati's renegade infantry begin their ponderous advance into the enemy lines.
"And so Laeretes did weep, for the fury of Posiedon had claimed his son, and bold Odysseus did lie dead within the endless deeps of the ocean. For though the sea had claimed his son, twas the storm that had taken the last, best hope of humanity."
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Mar 17, 2009 14:19:03 GMT -5
The dull tramp, tramp of the marching infantry regiments could be felt for miles around, for even where the noise died the earth still carried it's ponderous, implacable rythmn for all those miles. Standing on a miniature hillock, Kasson, Emir, and the shattered remnants of Fabian's veterans watched as the twin Leviathen marched on in the dim, weary grey of the pre-dawn light, half-dead with fatigue and half-stunned with admiration of the incredible, monstrous glory of thirty thousand men moving as one. Thirty thousand minds, thirty thousand souls, all acting as one gargantuan, unstoppable creature, a wandering behemoth of a human apocalypse, thirty thousand men, men of flesh and blood, welded into a single, terrible weapon stronger than adamant, harder than granite, and more merciless in it's fury than any mere creature of nature. And behind them for now, came the voracious roar of the chimerae, a full dozen of the beasts dashing at the flanks of the titanic coloumns like hounds at the heel of Atlas. One detached itself from the group, identifiable only by a modified communications aerial running along the rear of it's armoured turret. The ramp dropped with a shuddering, clanging retort, and Field Marshal Palati stepped out.
"Kasson. Fabian. Lady D'Clemanacau" he said, finishing the last with an incongruously courtly bow. "I must ask you a favour."
Kasson chuckled, the sound at odds with the deadpan stoicism of his features. Emir smiled, cynical and knowing as Fabian's eyes narrowed, hand raisin slightly from his side to hang omninously near his holster as he replied: "Yes?"
"I need...I need you, and your veterans, to screen the advance in the armoured company."
"Let your Armoured company do that" replied Fabian, his features now twisting into a snarl more fitting a cornered wolf than a man, an atomic flash of fury lighting up his eyes as he glared at the renegade commander. "We've done our bit."
Palati nodded, quietly rolling each phrase, each word over his tongue, testing the cadence and tone of his voice. Fabian was sitting right on the edge. Any further stress could easily see him and his men snap, and then- and then, all the weapons they had been given, the hurried session with Kasson in the bunker- all that knowledge, all that firepower, all that terrible, desperate ferocity- that would destroy him, and most likely the entire offensive.
"Fabian" he began, voice soft and concillatory "I'm sorry, but half those chimerae are command vehicles, and the other half are undermanned. Now, I can use the 39th as a base, but they're just as exhausted as you are. And besides- at the moment, you, and your men, are the finest men we have. You men have seen the worst that our enemy can throw at us, and survived. And you are honoured for it. But we need you. We need that experience- we need your toughness. We need a saviour. And I think that you're just the men to be that."
The offer hung in the air, twisting this way and that like a corpse in the air, the tension mounting, straining at the nerves, a delicate sheen of bile coating the tongue as the massed veterans considered the prospect of one, last dance with death.
"Do it" said Kasson. "Gotta die sometime."
"Very well" said Fabian, stress flaring in the air in that visceral, almost savage moment before he spoke, and, like the cold shock of an ocean's swell, the clear, utter finality of their decision became clear, a shocking rush of realisation running through the veterans, a ripple of stunned silence that swept away the poisoned, frustrated half-rage.
"Thank you" whispered Palati, breathless relief evident before he turned away and, signalling the scurrying mass of armoured warhounds to collect their lethal cargo.
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Post by Count Elakor on Mar 18, 2009 3:56:50 GMT -5
nothing more to sai, i have said everything i can posibly sai, nothings new from me, still awsome
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Mar 19, 2009 13:52:00 GMT -5
Nobody else?
I think I'm going to cry.
(No offence Elakor)
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Post by Helmian (M.I.A) on Mar 20, 2009 13:50:55 GMT -5
By god. . . you sir are a natrual
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Mar 21, 2009 17:05:17 GMT -5
I'll read it tommorrow (its 10PM already!) but it is wrought by the godly writers tools of THE master. So it is destined to be awsome. I'll comment when i read it.
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Post by Srgt. Master on Mar 26, 2009 15:16:35 GMT -5
...It's like that picture of the thunderstorm.......
Pure Awsome-ness in its basic form...
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Mar 26, 2009 15:36:33 GMT -5
By god man! Your lordly powers of description are GOD LIKE!!!
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Apr 26, 2009 8:31:26 GMT -5
On the left flank, the lantern-fires of the Cadian lines shone, a scattering of manmade stars against the lurking, malevolent blackness of the night, and the silent graveyard of the earth, a scorched charnel house where, the day before, ten thousand men had gone forth to war, and still lay- either dead, or else lying in pain and terror, flesh and mind ripped apart by the forces unleashed around them. But despite all this, the lines still stood, as the bold sons of Cadia pered out into the quiescent dark, searching for sound or sight of any foe in the silence. No fire came from the enemy positions, some several miles away at the base of the walls of Malengrad. All was quiet. All was calm, soft and cold in the night air, as Colonel Dias surveyed the darkness from his dugout on the hill.
"Anything?" he asked of his vox-officer, handing the trooper a mug of steaming caffine. He and the lookout shook their heads as one, unwilling to open their mouths, lest the biting cold close it's jaws around their throats.
"Lucky us" murmured the third man, Dias's subaltern, as he handed placed another steaming mug of caffine before the lookout.
"Indeed. Four miles of low, open ground rising up to our position from their lines" Dias chided him. "You'd think they'd have just been aching to hit us with an infantry attack. Not even heretics are that mad."
"Sorry sir" replied the subaltern. "I guess-"
The lookout's drawn, rapid hiss silenced them all in a single, crushing moment as he gestured frantically. The subaltern dropped into a crouch, seizing his lasgun and levelling it over the lip of the parapet even as Colonel Dias snatched at his binoculars, moving to stand next to the lookout. Through the rigid lenses of steel and glass, he too surveyed the earth before them, fully expecting to see the telltale, rippling line of glinting shadows that signified a line of attacking infantry. But no matter how much he looked, no such shadows moved in the darkness.
"What is it!?" he rasped, the overhanging quiet now leaden with tension and pressing down, as if the very skies were slowly crushing him down into the earth, brow slick with ice-cold sweat that slowly condensed and cooled, a cold finger brushing down his face as he scanned the horizon still.
"Sir, the 192nd is reporting an attack by renegade forces on their position" said the vox-officer. "Sir, they say the renegades are mounting a counteroffensive."
"They cannot get at us here, Warrant Officer" Dias replied, eyes glinting with determination as steel-hard as the field glasses he still looked through. "By the Emperor, they cannot-Ah!" he exclaimed, for, in the very corner of his eye, he had seen something.
A long, dark shadow crossing the plains, faster than any man could run, the cold gleam of metal now clearly shining off it's hide in the darkness. Like some monster of legend, it moved in the darkness with incredible speed. And then he saw it's true form.
Low, dark and terrible, they swept across the plains, their shadowed forms multiplying in his vision, their murderous intent clear as he watched them charge towards him. As he set down his binoculars, the claws of terror clutching at his heart as he ever they came on, growing ever larger in the night, gleaming with their monstrous purpose.
"Armour!" screamed his subaltern.
And then, the nightmare began.
Like an iron fist in an armoured gauntlet, the front ranks of the Gaian First Armoured smashed into the Cadian lines, the trenches, dug outs and positions simply disintergrating as a hell-spawned wall of metal crushed the defensive positions in a single, shattering blow. Men, guns and walls of earth simply dissappeared under their treads in a haze of blood and gore. It was not an attack, it was a cataclysm- a single, hideous moment of destruction that shattered men and machine with contemptuous ease.
And now the guns spoke, with the Gaian infantry leaping from the rear of their armoured steeds and carving their own bloody swathe through the Cadians. Fiery trails streaked through the night sky, slicing though armour and flesh with an unliving, ravening hunger, literally tearing men open as the infantry fought. Shrapnel erupted as grenades began falling in the trenches, white-hot shards opening wet, bloody seams across skin, or else burying themselves in flesh, slicing through arteries and rending organs to so much bloody pulp. Above the red-black clad infantry, the massive cannon's of the armour erupted, a single, ringing cry as the air about the muzzle buckled and warped, near-invisible trails of superheated steam trailing behind the missile like a vast, ethereal pennant as the dull crump of the shell's detonation roared in savage, unliving triumph as the heavens erupted in a shattering retort, the sky warping as the sheer, godlike power of the guns was unleashed.
The iron fist, in the armoured glove, thought General Constantine as he smiled, aligned the turret of his tank, and then fired. The ringing, shattering yell of the shell was followed, not by silence, but by a hellish, howling scream as it tore the air asunder, leaving a trail of fire hanging in the darkness, followed by a shattering, monstrous bellow as it blew the Cadian command bunker in to innumerable, gory hunks of scorched flesh and steaming filth. Again, he aligned his turret. Again, the Dragon spoke. Again, the earth shook.
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Post by Julian Sharps on Apr 26, 2009 21:29:11 GMT -5
RT clearly has the art of description down to a science. This is truly a masterful piece of work, and absolutely must continue. Drang himself is a refreshing change from the courageous, sporting and honorable commanding officer that often appears to be the run-of-the-mill commander of Guard forces; he really lends a view of the darker side of the Imperium to the reader, and Emir makes for an absolutely beautiful (in more ways that one, I might add) counterpart to Drang's utter madness. Keep it up, RT! We're all rooting for you here!
By the way, thanks for your commentary on Occupation. I'll be sure to work on the description element some more (although the fight you spoke of was more a brawl than a fight to the death).
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Post by Count Elakor on Apr 27, 2009 2:20:50 GMT -5
your as good as ever, closing on the point of writing God here.
yepp, you are supreme
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Post by The Refined Gentleman (M.I.A) on Apr 27, 2009 10:49:28 GMT -5
Still here. For comments, see my posts above. HOW THE FALK DO YOU DO IT?
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Post by Kaikelx on Apr 28, 2009 20:03:45 GMT -5
Oh. My. God *Jaw drops in disbelief* Are you sure you aren't a black library writer in disguise?
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Post by Rolling Thunder on Apr 29, 2009 9:58:56 GMT -5
Nope. If this gets published, it's not going via the Black library. They'd demand the rights to all my characters (Drang, Emir, Kasson etc) and, frankly, some of the characters here aren't even mine (General Constantine and the Gaian regiments are actually Gaunt Elakor's intellectual property- I simply hold a personal licensce to utilise them)
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Post by Count Elakor on Apr 30, 2009 11:29:36 GMT -5
take it easy, i wont sue you for using them....... maby if you dont update soon, but thets just the standard threat i make in the lack of somthing(good) to read
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Post by Kaikelx on Apr 30, 2009 22:14:45 GMT -5
Nope. If this gets published, it's not going via the Black library. They'd demand the rights to all my characters (Drang, Emir, Kasson etc) and, frankly, some of the characters here aren't even mine (General Constantine and the Gaian regiments are actually Gaunt Elakor's intellectual property- I simply hold a personal licensce to utilise them) Are you a real writer? Tom Clancy? Anthony Horowitz? Elmo?
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Post by Colonel-Commissar, (M.I.A) on May 24, 2009 10:04:49 GMT -5
very life like. Ive done my part
*Listens to the radio with a amasec in one hand*
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Post by Ymmot (M.I.A) on May 25, 2009 10:42:40 GMT -5
Look. Let me point this out to you. Marines Do Not Work like that. A marine does not blubber in fear, mainly because he is brainwashed and conditioned to the point where he cannot feel fear. I agree with this statment... the reason you need to make your opponents more bad ass is because it makes your hero look even better. glorify the SMurfs a little bit then tear them to pieces. (I know, the thought of it makes you want to retch, resist the urge!)
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Post by RedsandRoyals on May 25, 2009 12:22:50 GMT -5
I would just like to point out that the SM have a rule that says "And they shall know no fear", which stems from the offical GW fluff.
Take that as you will.
Reds
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Post by Ymmot (M.I.A) on May 25, 2009 13:06:59 GMT -5
RT does not always use his mod powers for good, which is all I am going to say about that.
So...Space Marines, yep...they don't feel fear, that is kind of the whole point... see, they are really jacked up in the head from all that brain and body modification surgery, not even human beings any more really, they're just numb inside.(4 of the 19 impalnts required to become a space marine directly effect brain fuction, they are the Catalepsean node, the Omophagea, the Occulobe, and the Sus-an Membrane. )
If the Emperor says They Shall Know No Fear they damn well better not know any fear.
unless this is relating to some sort of potent psychic attack, which may have some effect(and necron pariahs...who do seem to affect spacemarines just like anyone else, but the SMurfs always rally, they can never be broken in spirit so long as they have a cause to fight for.) CSMs fear dying apparently, since you can totally route the spikey bastids!
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Post by aeonian on May 25, 2009 16:49:32 GMT -5
Space Marines DO NOT: - Fear anything. They cannot
- Shirk from battle against an enemy of the Imperium
- Die of bloodlose. It clots
- Give up or surrender
Space Marines DO: But I still like this story quite a bit. It's fantastic
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