Yea, we're chillin' XD 
posted by yandaoben at 9:53 PM
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Thursday, September 30, 2004
Fighting With Faith- Sixteenth Entry
“Jovial looking bunch are they?”
“Aye, indeed. Especially with that lad over there with his hair looking as though some warp storm was conjured upon it.”
Commissar Leetol and Tactican Abjax were concealed behind a glazed plasteel viewing window, studying and examining the latest batch of recruits disembarking from freighter As0051-C. They all appeared confident and composed, showing no sign of weariness. However, of all the fifty-one batches of recruits that arrived in twenties so far on Pholorine Recriut Camp’s arrival depot, none showed the hidden potential of an aspiring warrior or leader.
That all the more asserts my role in this. Alphaues thought equitably.
“Commissar, it is time for us to venture to the mass hall.”
“Lead the way.” Commissar Leetol replied calmly, turning his back onto the viewing window, shunning away the scene of the last few freighters going into their lockdowns onto the arrival depot’s docking bays, dispatching the remaining cargo of recruits.
“So damn many of them to train in so damn little time, Abjax…so damn little time…” sighed the Commissar.
“Jovial looking bunch are they?”
“Aye, indeed. Especially with that lad over there with his hair looking as though some warp storm was conjured upon it.”
Commissar Leetol and Tactican Abjax were concealed behind a glazed plasteel viewing window, studying and examining the latest batch of recruits disembarking from freighter As0051-C. They all appeared confident and composed, showing no sign of weariness. However, of all the fifty-one batches of recruits that arrived in twenties so far on Pholorine Recriut Camp’s arrival depot, none showed the hidden potential of an aspiring warrior or leader.
That all the more asserts my role in this. Alphaues thought equitably.
“Commissar, it is time for us to venture to the mass hall.”
“Lead the way.” Commissar Leetol replied calmly, turning his back onto the viewing window, shunning away the scene of the last few freighters going into their lockdowns onto the arrival depot’s docking bays, dispatching the remaining cargo of recruits.
“So damn many of them to train in so damn little time, Abjax…so damn little time…” sighed the Commissar.
posted by yandaoben at 8:04 PM
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Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Fighting With Faith- Fifteen Entry
Bukom lay on his back, breathing hard. His breathing came out in ragged, shallow gasps, as if a huge boulder was placed on his chest. He felt dizzy, light, as if he was in a gaseous state. His sense of hearing was rendered useless, only able to detect low, powerful booming vibrations along his spine. The booming was coming nearer.
He raised his head and looked at his body. What remained of him was intangible to every aspect of his human senses. He shuddered, only to the point where his deformed body could allow. He was mutilated beyond recognition; he now knew why the badly wounded solider he saw earlier in the hands of Ladin was as he was: they were fighting Tyranids, not some battle crazed Ork who only attacked moving things and not caring about the dead and dying. Tyranids were aliens, biologically tailored for efficient slaughtering of any living form. Killing machines.
His lacerated and gashed legs were ruined. There was no way he would be walking again, except with the help of augmentations which Bukom loathed.
What use is the Emperor’s blessed body when you replace it?
The Hive Tyrant was dead at his feet, bleeding from a dozen wounds and scores of las shots. It was decapitated at the head, with thick black ichor still pooling out of it. Blood was what it was covered in, both itself and its victims. Now it in turned was Bukom’s victim.
Bukom himself had suffered numerous cuts, gashes and slashes. His torso was a ripped, unrecognisable lump of bleeding flesh. Countless bioshards and hooks were still impaled in his many wounds. His arms were no better. His right arm was sliced deeply at the wrist, when the Tyrant had resisted his initial thrust of his scabbard and did a counter swipe to Bukom, targeting his hand. His left arm, eviscerated at the forearm, was becoming stiff, its senses long dead. His head was a bloody mess, acidic solutions dripping off his scalp, eating away his skin and sinew, secreted by the flailing Tyrant in its violent death throes. He may have killed the Hive Tyrant, but the Hive Tyrant destroyed him.
Bukom let his eyes peel off his ruined form and looked around. Not far away, was a Ripper Swarm. Tiny, scuttling insect like creatures surging en mass towards a Guardsman corpse. What followed Bukom decided not to witness.
He agonisingly turned his head right, and saw what he thought was himself, but in a more dire situation. Trooper Galfon, Bukom recalled dimly, was in no better state then Bukom was. However, Galfon, unlike Bukom, was not dying, but being killed. Galfon was screaming, through his blood chocked mouth, in vain, as Hormagaunts, mutants and cultists mercilessly hacked away at his entrails, eviscerating him. Soon, Galfon was nothing more then a crushed and mangled corpse amongst thousands on the battlefield.
The enemy that killed Galfon stopped their gruesome slaughtering once they were satisfied with Galfon’s sudden silence. Their eyes turned onto Bukom.
Ignoring the sharp and acute pain that immediately shot up his right arm; he raised it, along with his laspistol held firmly in his bloodied hand and depressed its trigger. A mutant fell, shot clean in the forehead. He shot again, blowing a huge chunk of flesh out of a Hormagaunt’s limb. He kept on shooting, always scoring wounds or casualties amongst the ranks of the oncoming enemy.
I lost this fight, but the fight is yet to be lost for the Imperium...Was Bukom’s final thoughts.
Bukom lay on his back, breathing hard. His breathing came out in ragged, shallow gasps, as if a huge boulder was placed on his chest. He felt dizzy, light, as if he was in a gaseous state. His sense of hearing was rendered useless, only able to detect low, powerful booming vibrations along his spine. The booming was coming nearer.
He raised his head and looked at his body. What remained of him was intangible to every aspect of his human senses. He shuddered, only to the point where his deformed body could allow. He was mutilated beyond recognition; he now knew why the badly wounded solider he saw earlier in the hands of Ladin was as he was: they were fighting Tyranids, not some battle crazed Ork who only attacked moving things and not caring about the dead and dying. Tyranids were aliens, biologically tailored for efficient slaughtering of any living form. Killing machines.
His lacerated and gashed legs were ruined. There was no way he would be walking again, except with the help of augmentations which Bukom loathed.
What use is the Emperor’s blessed body when you replace it?
The Hive Tyrant was dead at his feet, bleeding from a dozen wounds and scores of las shots. It was decapitated at the head, with thick black ichor still pooling out of it. Blood was what it was covered in, both itself and its victims. Now it in turned was Bukom’s victim.
Bukom himself had suffered numerous cuts, gashes and slashes. His torso was a ripped, unrecognisable lump of bleeding flesh. Countless bioshards and hooks were still impaled in his many wounds. His arms were no better. His right arm was sliced deeply at the wrist, when the Tyrant had resisted his initial thrust of his scabbard and did a counter swipe to Bukom, targeting his hand. His left arm, eviscerated at the forearm, was becoming stiff, its senses long dead. His head was a bloody mess, acidic solutions dripping off his scalp, eating away his skin and sinew, secreted by the flailing Tyrant in its violent death throes. He may have killed the Hive Tyrant, but the Hive Tyrant destroyed him.
Bukom let his eyes peel off his ruined form and looked around. Not far away, was a Ripper Swarm. Tiny, scuttling insect like creatures surging en mass towards a Guardsman corpse. What followed Bukom decided not to witness.
He agonisingly turned his head right, and saw what he thought was himself, but in a more dire situation. Trooper Galfon, Bukom recalled dimly, was in no better state then Bukom was. However, Galfon, unlike Bukom, was not dying, but being killed. Galfon was screaming, through his blood chocked mouth, in vain, as Hormagaunts, mutants and cultists mercilessly hacked away at his entrails, eviscerating him. Soon, Galfon was nothing more then a crushed and mangled corpse amongst thousands on the battlefield.
The enemy that killed Galfon stopped their gruesome slaughtering once they were satisfied with Galfon’s sudden silence. Their eyes turned onto Bukom.
Ignoring the sharp and acute pain that immediately shot up his right arm; he raised it, along with his laspistol held firmly in his bloodied hand and depressed its trigger. A mutant fell, shot clean in the forehead. He shot again, blowing a huge chunk of flesh out of a Hormagaunt’s limb. He kept on shooting, always scoring wounds or casualties amongst the ranks of the oncoming enemy.
I lost this fight, but the fight is yet to be lost for the Imperium...Was Bukom’s final thoughts.
posted by yandaoben at 10:22 PM
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Sunday, September 26, 2004
Fighting With Faith- fourteenth Entry
“E-T-A two minutes and five seconds to takeoff. Standby for requisition to takeoff.”
“Affirmative Bird One. You are clear for lockoff in three…two…one- lockoff complete.”
The transport freighter shuddered slightly as its restraining harness attaching its exterior Ceranium hull to the interior of the vast commercial converted militarised departure bay walls unlocked its mechanisms of cables and pipes off the freighter. Hisses of high velocity air diffused out into space and depressurising compartments on the various portholes built into the freighter’s hull resounded off the interior of the ship, causing its passengers to cast wary glances around them. This was their first time in a spaceship, and it could even be guessed from the look of their faces.
Benlian sat stiff and rigid in his seat, harness and belts strapped tightly over his chest and thighs. It wasn’t supposed to be tight; the boarding briefing already indicated clearly that one’s index finger and thumb should be able to slip comfortably through the gap between one’s body and the harnesses. Benlian wasn’t taking any chances. The air coolant vents blowing directly towards him from above wasn’t helping the situation either, he felt cold, almost numb; one couldn’t blame him and his fellow friends for not being in a ship before.
Across the freighter, safely strapped into his seat, Stratile didn’t look any better. His face had taken on a wan hue; which Benlian didn’t realise was almost identical to his own. Their eyes met and both gave a reassuring smile to each other. The constant humming and vibration of the freighter’s engine beneath them was getting louder by the second. It was unnerving.
“Passengers, ready for takeoff. Advised to recheck safety straps and harnesses. Please close all bulkheads and keep your posture straight and head up.” A booming metallic voice, with a bit of static in the lower decibels of its narration sounded out of both black vox-boxes situated at the far end of the cockpit side of the freighter.
Zeralton, seated two seats to Benlian’s right, gave a whoop as the freighter gave a violent lurch forward, along with the passengers’ stomachs. The queer and awkward feeling of his body beginning to float off his seat came into him. Wait, Benlian thought, I am floating!
Feeling curious, Benlian turned his head to his right to look out of a conveniently placed porthole. What he saw would remain in his memory forever.
Against the stark blackness of space were ships. Hundreds, thousands, all of which were disembarking from their various piston clamps and hydraulic portholes, releasing depressurising air and vapour into the surroundings in bright white jets of gas, their grey hulls reflecting bright sun rays off itself. In them, Benlian mused, were probably twenty almost identical feeling recruits as those in his own freighter, along with himself, all shaved down to their skinheads, strapped tightly into their seats with hearts in their mouths.
So this is space…wow…Benlian gazed in wonder at the hugeness of it and the enormous amount of planets and energy it contains. Wow-
A violent and gut wrenching drop suddenly overcame the freighter and Benlian was immediately thrown out of his reverie.
“Bloody H-” Jobash managed to utter beside Benlian before the freighter did another extreme altitude maneuver in space. This time however, the freighter was boosted upwards. Benlian felt dizzy for a slight moment as the blood in his body rushed down into his legs.
“Takeoff to cruising juncture acquired. Passengers may now feel free to be mobile within the freighter’s quarters. E-T-A to destination, Pholorine Recruit Camp in seventy-two hours and three minutes. Refreshments are situated in the aft of the passengers’ quarters.” The robotic, monotonous voice boomed out of the vox-boxes again.
Metallic clicking begin to sound around the passengers’ quarter as the wide-eye recruits began to unfasten their harnesses to stand up to stretch and yawn cumbersomely. Benlian unfastened his own and stood up. He walked over to the front of the quarters, where a main viewport was located. Most of the recruits had already begun walking to the back, where food was.
Benlian was mesmerised. What he saw defied belief. Space, in its entire splendor, stood in its mighty silence in front of him. To his right, Benlian could see, for the first time in space, the Frazium Sphere where he collected its debris in the harvesting fields on his homewolrd. Never did he imagine it to be more beautiful. Harsh sun rays deflected off the Frazium fragments, infiltrating into his eyes to appear has wild, multi-coloured rocks dancing around within its imaginary sphere. Occasionally, the rabid mixture of Frazium framents clashed, emitting incandescent untamed sparks of pure white light. When the dust settled, Benlian could see smaller, rounder fragments drifting away from the sphere, soon to be attracted by the gravity wells in orbit around his planet and the various other resivovice planets.
A warm and firm hand clasped over his right shoulder. Benlian turnd to see the warm and friendly face of Jobash, and the rest of his friends. All seven of them stood in silence facing the viewport, marveling the wondrous scene in front of them. Indescribable feelings overcoming them. Shock and awe was all that they were.
Deep-rooted, they stood, eyes peeled at the viewport, never wavering.
The transport freighter still journeyed on through space, among thousands of others similar freighters, towards its destination where the soon-to-be warriors of the Emperor would be rigorously trained and conditioned to fight the approaching alien swarm.
“E-T-A two minutes and five seconds to takeoff. Standby for requisition to takeoff.”
“Affirmative Bird One. You are clear for lockoff in three…two…one- lockoff complete.”
The transport freighter shuddered slightly as its restraining harness attaching its exterior Ceranium hull to the interior of the vast commercial converted militarised departure bay walls unlocked its mechanisms of cables and pipes off the freighter. Hisses of high velocity air diffused out into space and depressurising compartments on the various portholes built into the freighter’s hull resounded off the interior of the ship, causing its passengers to cast wary glances around them. This was their first time in a spaceship, and it could even be guessed from the look of their faces.
Benlian sat stiff and rigid in his seat, harness and belts strapped tightly over his chest and thighs. It wasn’t supposed to be tight; the boarding briefing already indicated clearly that one’s index finger and thumb should be able to slip comfortably through the gap between one’s body and the harnesses. Benlian wasn’t taking any chances. The air coolant vents blowing directly towards him from above wasn’t helping the situation either, he felt cold, almost numb; one couldn’t blame him and his fellow friends for not being in a ship before.
Across the freighter, safely strapped into his seat, Stratile didn’t look any better. His face had taken on a wan hue; which Benlian didn’t realise was almost identical to his own. Their eyes met and both gave a reassuring smile to each other. The constant humming and vibration of the freighter’s engine beneath them was getting louder by the second. It was unnerving.
“Passengers, ready for takeoff. Advised to recheck safety straps and harnesses. Please close all bulkheads and keep your posture straight and head up.” A booming metallic voice, with a bit of static in the lower decibels of its narration sounded out of both black vox-boxes situated at the far end of the cockpit side of the freighter.
Zeralton, seated two seats to Benlian’s right, gave a whoop as the freighter gave a violent lurch forward, along with the passengers’ stomachs. The queer and awkward feeling of his body beginning to float off his seat came into him. Wait, Benlian thought, I am floating!
Feeling curious, Benlian turned his head to his right to look out of a conveniently placed porthole. What he saw would remain in his memory forever.
Against the stark blackness of space were ships. Hundreds, thousands, all of which were disembarking from their various piston clamps and hydraulic portholes, releasing depressurising air and vapour into the surroundings in bright white jets of gas, their grey hulls reflecting bright sun rays off itself. In them, Benlian mused, were probably twenty almost identical feeling recruits as those in his own freighter, along with himself, all shaved down to their skinheads, strapped tightly into their seats with hearts in their mouths.
So this is space…wow…Benlian gazed in wonder at the hugeness of it and the enormous amount of planets and energy it contains. Wow-
A violent and gut wrenching drop suddenly overcame the freighter and Benlian was immediately thrown out of his reverie.
“Bloody H-” Jobash managed to utter beside Benlian before the freighter did another extreme altitude maneuver in space. This time however, the freighter was boosted upwards. Benlian felt dizzy for a slight moment as the blood in his body rushed down into his legs.
“Takeoff to cruising juncture acquired. Passengers may now feel free to be mobile within the freighter’s quarters. E-T-A to destination, Pholorine Recruit Camp in seventy-two hours and three minutes. Refreshments are situated in the aft of the passengers’ quarters.” The robotic, monotonous voice boomed out of the vox-boxes again.
Metallic clicking begin to sound around the passengers’ quarter as the wide-eye recruits began to unfasten their harnesses to stand up to stretch and yawn cumbersomely. Benlian unfastened his own and stood up. He walked over to the front of the quarters, where a main viewport was located. Most of the recruits had already begun walking to the back, where food was.
Benlian was mesmerised. What he saw defied belief. Space, in its entire splendor, stood in its mighty silence in front of him. To his right, Benlian could see, for the first time in space, the Frazium Sphere where he collected its debris in the harvesting fields on his homewolrd. Never did he imagine it to be more beautiful. Harsh sun rays deflected off the Frazium fragments, infiltrating into his eyes to appear has wild, multi-coloured rocks dancing around within its imaginary sphere. Occasionally, the rabid mixture of Frazium framents clashed, emitting incandescent untamed sparks of pure white light. When the dust settled, Benlian could see smaller, rounder fragments drifting away from the sphere, soon to be attracted by the gravity wells in orbit around his planet and the various other resivovice planets.
A warm and firm hand clasped over his right shoulder. Benlian turnd to see the warm and friendly face of Jobash, and the rest of his friends. All seven of them stood in silence facing the viewport, marveling the wondrous scene in front of them. Indescribable feelings overcoming them. Shock and awe was all that they were.
Deep-rooted, they stood, eyes peeled at the viewport, never wavering.
The transport freighter still journeyed on through space, among thousands of others similar freighters, towards its destination where the soon-to-be warriors of the Emperor would be rigorously trained and conditioned to fight the approaching alien swarm.
posted by yandaoben at 10:00 PM
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Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Fighting With Faith- Thirteenth Entry
To fight such abominations, is to fight your greatest fear.
They offer no mercy; only merciless carnage.
Smite every last of them, as though it is your first.
The wise verses of the wondrous and revered Epistles of the Great Tutelage, written by the great Farlton Exigen himself, late Warmaster of the Segmentus Obscurus drifted its way into Roidan Tanoit’s greiving mind. Farlton Exigen was a great leader who Roidan revered and respected; having served countless crusades against the never ending tides of enemies for the Imperium and eventually elavating to the chivalrous and dignified caste of Warmaster of Segmentus Obscurus. Almighty and adroit a human may be, Farlton was still a mere mortal. He held his last valient stand against an inexorable swarm of Tyranids, of Hive Archigon. On his well defended and equipped capital world, he fought with the true wrath of the Emperor’s fury coursing through him. An hour prior to his eventual fall, he resided in his office, writing the last chapter into his data-diary. The last chapter was what Roidan thought to be the most important chapter. It reflected Farlton Exigen’s fury, anguish and calmness amid the bloodcurdling horrors that stood prowling, in ambuscade and deception at his doorstep. That was where Roidan drew inspiration from.
It had been two hours since his last communication with his dear friend, Commissar Bukom. Bukom’s fate was sealed the moment he had given the order. It could never be otherwise. Roidan now was pacing his command pulpit, clenching and unclenching his right fist, with the pommel of his Honour Scabbard tight within his left hand. He benevolently lowered his Honour Scabbard into his finely crafted sheath hanging at his waistline. The reassuring sound of the blade entering its protection echoed around his pulpit, breaking the silence in exception of white noise emanating from his vox-unit he had left turned on on his desk. He then walked to the full length mirror at the end of his office. From there, he admired himself one last time.
In full battledress, he looked more efficacious and enforcing then before. His Grand Command Headdress was proudly placed on his head; the Royal Aquila proudly displayed in gold encrusted tabloids at the head of the headdress, the sides of the headdress sloping down to the sides of his head. His tan, grim features. A long and deep scar running down from the right side of his forehead to his chin, caused by a fight between him and an Eldar Witch, which he slaughtered, but almost fell foul to the foul Witch’s Death Scythe as it came screaming down to his face in its last stand. His sharp, finely shaped nose which rose above his lean, hollow looking cheeks with high-cheeked bones, and lastly, his piercing, acute hawk eyes which many were afraid to be within its view.
A blast sounded beyond his Adamantium vaulted office doors. The Tyranids had broken in.
Imperial defences were overrun and Guard units were scattered all over the Administratum city, displaying their last desperate belligerence before they were efficiently slaughtered by bio-engineered killing machines. Now, battle has been joined at the Smorjorn System’s Sector Command Centre.
Intoning a litany of peace onto himself, Roidan camly strode to the doors and flung it open.
Whoever had been on the other side of the doors would definitely be cowered by the magnificent sight of Roidan Tanoit in full battledress, brandishing his Honour Scabbard and hollering praises to the Imperium, all the while charging ostentatiously towards the nearest alien. Tech adepts, servitors and Guardsman were pitched in various combat all around the command centre, with already a significant amount of corpses strewn on the blood stained floor. Genestealers, Hormagaunts, Ripper Swams, cultists and even mutants were pouring into the breach which they have created on the Adamantium wall and they just kept coming. Roidan didn’t care.
He met his first foe with such great force that even striking the beast on his hard carapace back had caused the alien to lose its balance and falter onto its leg joints. That was all Roidan needed. He inverted his grip on his Scabbard and brought it down onto the Ripper beneath, causing an audible crack from the shell.
A mutant, deformed beyond recognition, stormed its way towards Roidan. Their eyes locked. The mutant was huge, almost as enormous as an Orgryn; bellowing in its loud bellicose manner and heaving a huge and crude cleaver in its heavily muscled hands. It may be big, but Roidan was quick. Roidan skillfully dodged the mutant’s initial thrust, so powerful that even the mutant was thrown off balance for a moment. Before the mutant could react, Roidan was on its back, hacking and slashing away with this Thrice Blessed Scabbard. Blood and gore cascaded from the grievous wounds Roidan inflicted upon it. The mutant howled in pain and vain, dropping its cleaver and trying to claw the mini size human off its back. Roidan obdurately hung on; driving his blade deeper and deeper into the mutant’s heavily muscled back. With a low and pitiful moan, the mutant sank to the ground, lifeless.
Hefting his Scabbard out of the mercilessly crafted wound from the mutant’s thick back, Roidan risked a looked around. It seemed that the fight was at end for the Imperials. Only a few Guardsmen and automated servitors were left offering futile resistance against a relentless onslaught. Twenty metres away, he could see a Guardsman, decapitated at his legs, trying in vain to fend off a brood of Hormagaunts clawing after him with the butt of his lasgun. Not too far from the hapless Guardsman, was a tech adept, virtually weaponless, clubbing a cultist at the head with a hammer, probably picked off from the ground. He was soon taken violently and bloodily down among a flurry of blades, shards and spikes. Off to his right was an inspiring sight of his second in command, Gregdon Optopulus, guillotining a cultist’s head and charging off into an oncoming swarm of Genestealers, gesturing to Roidan to do the same. Roidan followed on.
They fought with great skill and courage, determined not to show any sign of weakness to the enemy. Already, heaps and mounds of alien, mutant and cultist’s corpses were at their feet, thick black ichor spilling freely from huge gashes and cuts on their bodies. However, fatigue soon had its grip on both heroic warriors and their reactions and parries gradually slowed down. Before Gregdon realised it, his head was swiped clean off his neck, the sight of the bloody floor rushing up to meet him.
Roidan could offer no sympathy, as he was soon cut down amidst a sudden renewed violent and vigorous outbreak of claws and blades reaching out to him. His parries were useless, his deflective maneuvers futile.
The last sight he saw was of hundreds of aliens, mutants and cultists’ faces sneering back at him, blood oozed form his nose, bled from his eyes, and vomited from his mouth.
Soon, he fell, dead even before hitting the ground.
To fight such abominations, is to fight your greatest fear.
They offer no mercy; only merciless carnage.
Smite every last of them, as though it is your first.
The wise verses of the wondrous and revered Epistles of the Great Tutelage, written by the great Farlton Exigen himself, late Warmaster of the Segmentus Obscurus drifted its way into Roidan Tanoit’s greiving mind. Farlton Exigen was a great leader who Roidan revered and respected; having served countless crusades against the never ending tides of enemies for the Imperium and eventually elavating to the chivalrous and dignified caste of Warmaster of Segmentus Obscurus. Almighty and adroit a human may be, Farlton was still a mere mortal. He held his last valient stand against an inexorable swarm of Tyranids, of Hive Archigon. On his well defended and equipped capital world, he fought with the true wrath of the Emperor’s fury coursing through him. An hour prior to his eventual fall, he resided in his office, writing the last chapter into his data-diary. The last chapter was what Roidan thought to be the most important chapter. It reflected Farlton Exigen’s fury, anguish and calmness amid the bloodcurdling horrors that stood prowling, in ambuscade and deception at his doorstep. That was where Roidan drew inspiration from.
It had been two hours since his last communication with his dear friend, Commissar Bukom. Bukom’s fate was sealed the moment he had given the order. It could never be otherwise. Roidan now was pacing his command pulpit, clenching and unclenching his right fist, with the pommel of his Honour Scabbard tight within his left hand. He benevolently lowered his Honour Scabbard into his finely crafted sheath hanging at his waistline. The reassuring sound of the blade entering its protection echoed around his pulpit, breaking the silence in exception of white noise emanating from his vox-unit he had left turned on on his desk. He then walked to the full length mirror at the end of his office. From there, he admired himself one last time.
In full battledress, he looked more efficacious and enforcing then before. His Grand Command Headdress was proudly placed on his head; the Royal Aquila proudly displayed in gold encrusted tabloids at the head of the headdress, the sides of the headdress sloping down to the sides of his head. His tan, grim features. A long and deep scar running down from the right side of his forehead to his chin, caused by a fight between him and an Eldar Witch, which he slaughtered, but almost fell foul to the foul Witch’s Death Scythe as it came screaming down to his face in its last stand. His sharp, finely shaped nose which rose above his lean, hollow looking cheeks with high-cheeked bones, and lastly, his piercing, acute hawk eyes which many were afraid to be within its view.
A blast sounded beyond his Adamantium vaulted office doors. The Tyranids had broken in.
Imperial defences were overrun and Guard units were scattered all over the Administratum city, displaying their last desperate belligerence before they were efficiently slaughtered by bio-engineered killing machines. Now, battle has been joined at the Smorjorn System’s Sector Command Centre.
Intoning a litany of peace onto himself, Roidan camly strode to the doors and flung it open.
Whoever had been on the other side of the doors would definitely be cowered by the magnificent sight of Roidan Tanoit in full battledress, brandishing his Honour Scabbard and hollering praises to the Imperium, all the while charging ostentatiously towards the nearest alien. Tech adepts, servitors and Guardsman were pitched in various combat all around the command centre, with already a significant amount of corpses strewn on the blood stained floor. Genestealers, Hormagaunts, Ripper Swams, cultists and even mutants were pouring into the breach which they have created on the Adamantium wall and they just kept coming. Roidan didn’t care.
He met his first foe with such great force that even striking the beast on his hard carapace back had caused the alien to lose its balance and falter onto its leg joints. That was all Roidan needed. He inverted his grip on his Scabbard and brought it down onto the Ripper beneath, causing an audible crack from the shell.
A mutant, deformed beyond recognition, stormed its way towards Roidan. Their eyes locked. The mutant was huge, almost as enormous as an Orgryn; bellowing in its loud bellicose manner and heaving a huge and crude cleaver in its heavily muscled hands. It may be big, but Roidan was quick. Roidan skillfully dodged the mutant’s initial thrust, so powerful that even the mutant was thrown off balance for a moment. Before the mutant could react, Roidan was on its back, hacking and slashing away with this Thrice Blessed Scabbard. Blood and gore cascaded from the grievous wounds Roidan inflicted upon it. The mutant howled in pain and vain, dropping its cleaver and trying to claw the mini size human off its back. Roidan obdurately hung on; driving his blade deeper and deeper into the mutant’s heavily muscled back. With a low and pitiful moan, the mutant sank to the ground, lifeless.
Hefting his Scabbard out of the mercilessly crafted wound from the mutant’s thick back, Roidan risked a looked around. It seemed that the fight was at end for the Imperials. Only a few Guardsmen and automated servitors were left offering futile resistance against a relentless onslaught. Twenty metres away, he could see a Guardsman, decapitated at his legs, trying in vain to fend off a brood of Hormagaunts clawing after him with the butt of his lasgun. Not too far from the hapless Guardsman, was a tech adept, virtually weaponless, clubbing a cultist at the head with a hammer, probably picked off from the ground. He was soon taken violently and bloodily down among a flurry of blades, shards and spikes. Off to his right was an inspiring sight of his second in command, Gregdon Optopulus, guillotining a cultist’s head and charging off into an oncoming swarm of Genestealers, gesturing to Roidan to do the same. Roidan followed on.
They fought with great skill and courage, determined not to show any sign of weakness to the enemy. Already, heaps and mounds of alien, mutant and cultist’s corpses were at their feet, thick black ichor spilling freely from huge gashes and cuts on their bodies. However, fatigue soon had its grip on both heroic warriors and their reactions and parries gradually slowed down. Before Gregdon realised it, his head was swiped clean off his neck, the sight of the bloody floor rushing up to meet him.
Roidan could offer no sympathy, as he was soon cut down amidst a sudden renewed violent and vigorous outbreak of claws and blades reaching out to him. His parries were useless, his deflective maneuvers futile.
The last sight he saw was of hundreds of aliens, mutants and cultists’ faces sneering back at him, blood oozed form his nose, bled from his eyes, and vomited from his mouth.
Soon, he fell, dead even before hitting the ground.
posted by yandaoben at 10:51 PM
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Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Fighting With Faith- Twelfth Entry
“Jobash! Jobash wait up!” Benlian hurried to the distancing figures of Jobash and the other males. His face was flushed and he was puffing hard. The idea of Jobash breaking the Sacred Code of the roles of the Great Families of the Asat System partially angered him. He was also partially excited. The thought of going off-world and fighting for the all mighty Emperor of the Imperium excited Benlian at all ends. It gave him a new way to exercise his faith; a new reason to live.
“Yeah? What?” Jobash answered with a tone of impatience to his voice. He stopped walking and turned around, followed by the other five boys. Benlian immediately reconised them. Brackton, a yot older then himself, stood attentively beside Jobash, with a look of curiosity etched into his fair, stubby nosed jet black hair features. He was of the Holmet family, a minor family, formed by early immigrants from neighbouring systems of the Asat system. He was not held back by the Sacred Code, as were all minor family offsprings. Standing behind Brackton, at least a head taller then everyone else, was the well-known “Lanky-Flanky”, Flank, of the Zoltion Great Family. He also had the same grim face that Jobash wore and further persuasion would be futile. The remaining three males were Stratile of the Noglium minor family, Arthlep of the Teoliup Great Family and Zeralton of the Silkim Great Family.
Benlian stopped dead in his tracks; that look on Jobash’s face…Living with Jobash for the past fifteen yots had not failed Benlain this time. Jobash already wore his impassive, impervious face. In other words: follow me or get out of my face.
Benlian dreaded the dilemma he was about to be confronted with. He garnered his courage and voiced, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Tick tock Ben, tick tock. Where do you think we’re going?” Zeralton answered with a mocking tone to his voice.
Benlian was prepared for such an answer.
“Do you not realise the Sac-”
“Damn it, Ben! Damn it all to the Emperor’s bloody throne and back! We have had enough of living on this rock! Even the notice by Sector Command encourages us all to do so, so why not?!” his voice was blasphemous. His tone was wrong. But he was right. Benlian agreed wholeheartedly with Zeralton’s reasoning and feelings. There was no other calling for it. The calling was strong, powerful like a black hole consuming all matter, including light into its never ending abyss.
“Yes…I….yes indeed you are right.” Benlian stammered in reply. Zeralton’s reply was too great; too truthful. If the defence on the Emperor most blesseth Asat System were to be effected, it is down to these six young males, along with a billion more other strong and healthy youths in the prime of their growth and thinking within the Asat system. Passion burnt deep within them; the desire to rid the universe of all Xenos spawns.
“What are you waiting for people? Registration ends in five minutes time! It isn’t our fault that the notice arrived two days late! Damn freight transports were attacked by marauding pirates.” chirped Stratile irritatingly amongst the quintuple.
They snapped out of their debate as quickly as it was started. The five of them continued their way up the gentle slope towards the Heavily Gothic constructed Administratum building, leaving Benlian dazed and shock. What they were doing is to be unfillial to their families and traditional. It was a sin; and the punishment was death.
Yet on the other hand, it was right to serve the Emperor, to eradicate enemies from within, without and beyond. Nothing more could be achieved other then on the battlefields of the Fourty-first millennium, under the Emperor’s guiding hand, smiting and crushing the foul foes of aliens, traitors, warp spawns and heretics.
With his heart and mind set, Benlian walked on, after his group of friends he had known since young, never turning back to the fading construction of the harvesting fields, communal board and family grounds…
“Jobash! Jobash wait up!” Benlian hurried to the distancing figures of Jobash and the other males. His face was flushed and he was puffing hard. The idea of Jobash breaking the Sacred Code of the roles of the Great Families of the Asat System partially angered him. He was also partially excited. The thought of going off-world and fighting for the all mighty Emperor of the Imperium excited Benlian at all ends. It gave him a new way to exercise his faith; a new reason to live.
“Yeah? What?” Jobash answered with a tone of impatience to his voice. He stopped walking and turned around, followed by the other five boys. Benlian immediately reconised them. Brackton, a yot older then himself, stood attentively beside Jobash, with a look of curiosity etched into his fair, stubby nosed jet black hair features. He was of the Holmet family, a minor family, formed by early immigrants from neighbouring systems of the Asat system. He was not held back by the Sacred Code, as were all minor family offsprings. Standing behind Brackton, at least a head taller then everyone else, was the well-known “Lanky-Flanky”, Flank, of the Zoltion Great Family. He also had the same grim face that Jobash wore and further persuasion would be futile. The remaining three males were Stratile of the Noglium minor family, Arthlep of the Teoliup Great Family and Zeralton of the Silkim Great Family.
Benlian stopped dead in his tracks; that look on Jobash’s face…Living with Jobash for the past fifteen yots had not failed Benlain this time. Jobash already wore his impassive, impervious face. In other words: follow me or get out of my face.
Benlian dreaded the dilemma he was about to be confronted with. He garnered his courage and voiced, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Tick tock Ben, tick tock. Where do you think we’re going?” Zeralton answered with a mocking tone to his voice.
Benlian was prepared for such an answer.
“Do you not realise the Sac-”
“Damn it, Ben! Damn it all to the Emperor’s bloody throne and back! We have had enough of living on this rock! Even the notice by Sector Command encourages us all to do so, so why not?!” his voice was blasphemous. His tone was wrong. But he was right. Benlian agreed wholeheartedly with Zeralton’s reasoning and feelings. There was no other calling for it. The calling was strong, powerful like a black hole consuming all matter, including light into its never ending abyss.
“Yes…I….yes indeed you are right.” Benlian stammered in reply. Zeralton’s reply was too great; too truthful. If the defence on the Emperor most blesseth Asat System were to be effected, it is down to these six young males, along with a billion more other strong and healthy youths in the prime of their growth and thinking within the Asat system. Passion burnt deep within them; the desire to rid the universe of all Xenos spawns.
“What are you waiting for people? Registration ends in five minutes time! It isn’t our fault that the notice arrived two days late! Damn freight transports were attacked by marauding pirates.” chirped Stratile irritatingly amongst the quintuple.
They snapped out of their debate as quickly as it was started. The five of them continued their way up the gentle slope towards the Heavily Gothic constructed Administratum building, leaving Benlian dazed and shock. What they were doing is to be unfillial to their families and traditional. It was a sin; and the punishment was death.
Yet on the other hand, it was right to serve the Emperor, to eradicate enemies from within, without and beyond. Nothing more could be achieved other then on the battlefields of the Fourty-first millennium, under the Emperor’s guiding hand, smiting and crushing the foul foes of aliens, traitors, warp spawns and heretics.
With his heart and mind set, Benlian walked on, after his group of friends he had known since young, never turning back to the fading construction of the harvesting fields, communal board and family grounds…
posted by yandaoben at 10:29 PM
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Saturday, September 18, 2004
Fighting With Faith- Eleventh Entry
The impact hit Leston liked a power sword rammed into his face. The mutants. The Tyranids. Working as one. And all along, the Imperium thought the mutants were just rioting for their Emperor-forsaken habs. All along, the damn mutants had been using that reason as a cover, to further disorientate the already beleaguered and exhausted defence effort the Smorjorn Defence Corps. and the other Imperial Guard regiments posted here, all already stretched thin on the various battlefronts being assaulted. It wasn't surprising the mutants turned against the Imperium. On the surface, the Imperium professes the mutants as humans. However, deep in the mindset of everyone, discrepancies were rife. Both sides resented each other. All along the Imperium was being siege from within. Emperor damn this!
Leston was dressed in his full battle uniform, lasgun slung over his shoulder. He was the sole survivor of the human population left within the commercial spaceport. His squad, his platoon, his regiment, slaughtered. Even the initial sight of the endless waves upon waves of Hormagaunts and Genestealers still ran wild within Leston's mind. His hands quivered, his body shivered. He was covered in blood; mutant, human, and Tyranid.
Crouching behind an ammunition crate tucked away in the mechanician corner of the spaceport, he could hear and see occasionally the group of foul, Emperor-cursed Xenos in the middle of the spaceport. He had overheard everything. The spaceport was brightly lit up by the incandescent overhead light beams. The vile minions of the Xenos have accessed the main control tower.
What to do next, Leston was hesitant. To flee was not an option; there were already Hormagaunts, Genestealers, mutants and Genestealer Cults worshippers converging onto this spaceport, to board onto the various ships to travel to the Asat System. To hide was not an option; the abhorred abominations would inevitably sense his presence, either by highly tuned senses of smell or of sight.
Leston silently mouthed a word of prayer, checked his lasgun one last time and stood up. He held on to the trigger of his lasgun for all he could.
His fire peppered onto the group in the centre of the spaceport. Some figures fled for cover. Some burst into a red mist of blood and gore. He even killed a few human prisoners as queer looking grey slugs crawled slowly into their ears and mouth. Grelion slugs, Leston thought with disgust.
"Emperor damn you all! May his holy wrath-" Leston's berate was cut short by a prowling Hormagaunt as it emerged from the gloom from behind and pounced upon Leston. His lasgun clattered noisily onto the floor, followed by his head, limbs, and his body.
The impact hit Leston liked a power sword rammed into his face. The mutants. The Tyranids. Working as one. And all along, the Imperium thought the mutants were just rioting for their Emperor-forsaken habs. All along, the damn mutants had been using that reason as a cover, to further disorientate the already beleaguered and exhausted defence effort the Smorjorn Defence Corps. and the other Imperial Guard regiments posted here, all already stretched thin on the various battlefronts being assaulted. It wasn't surprising the mutants turned against the Imperium. On the surface, the Imperium professes the mutants as humans. However, deep in the mindset of everyone, discrepancies were rife. Both sides resented each other. All along the Imperium was being siege from within. Emperor damn this!
Leston was dressed in his full battle uniform, lasgun slung over his shoulder. He was the sole survivor of the human population left within the commercial spaceport. His squad, his platoon, his regiment, slaughtered. Even the initial sight of the endless waves upon waves of Hormagaunts and Genestealers still ran wild within Leston's mind. His hands quivered, his body shivered. He was covered in blood; mutant, human, and Tyranid.
Crouching behind an ammunition crate tucked away in the mechanician corner of the spaceport, he could hear and see occasionally the group of foul, Emperor-cursed Xenos in the middle of the spaceport. He had overheard everything. The spaceport was brightly lit up by the incandescent overhead light beams. The vile minions of the Xenos have accessed the main control tower.
What to do next, Leston was hesitant. To flee was not an option; there were already Hormagaunts, Genestealers, mutants and Genestealer Cults worshippers converging onto this spaceport, to board onto the various ships to travel to the Asat System. To hide was not an option; the abhorred abominations would inevitably sense his presence, either by highly tuned senses of smell or of sight.
Leston silently mouthed a word of prayer, checked his lasgun one last time and stood up. He held on to the trigger of his lasgun for all he could.
His fire peppered onto the group in the centre of the spaceport. Some figures fled for cover. Some burst into a red mist of blood and gore. He even killed a few human prisoners as queer looking grey slugs crawled slowly into their ears and mouth. Grelion slugs, Leston thought with disgust.
"Emperor damn you all! May his holy wrath-" Leston's berate was cut short by a prowling Hormagaunt as it emerged from the gloom from behind and pounced upon Leston. His lasgun clattered noisily onto the floor, followed by his head, limbs, and his body.
posted by yandaoben at 8:51 PM
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Fighting With Faith- Tenth Entry
Elshilta paced the room restlessly, his eight exoskeleton formed legs clicking the floor continuously, making a light staccato note onto the plasteel floor, resounding off the caved in ceiling of his crudely constructed hab he was given. He had been waiting for two hours.
Suddenly, a Hormagaunt, in all it’s horried splendor, sped into the room, almost knocking into Elshilta, but was halted by it’s bio-engineered senses as it immediately picked up Elshilta’s scent from it’s finely tuned olfactory senses. It stood in front of the mutant, oblivious to the frightening human/mutant/spider form facing it. It obediently bowed it’s head, lowering it’s blood slicked claws in respect to the entity standing before it.
Deep within the buccal cavity of Elshilta, he mouthed a string of growls and barks that no human can imitate. The Hormagaunt uttered a low growl beneath it’s serrated rows of razor sharp teeth in response and led Elshilta out of the room.
Elshilta was not stirred by the scene of carnage he was met when he strode out of the room. Dismembered corpses of Hormagaunts, humans and mix-blood mutants lay sprawled on the floor. He brutally impaled a dying human with his exoskeleton legs who reached out to him from the ground with two stubs of his arms which were left, blood flowing freely from the wounds. He uttered a pathetic groan and was dead.
Fool. None can stand in the path of the mighty Tyranid swarm.
It was another twenty minutes before the Hormagaunt led Elshilta into the vast, bloodied docking bay of Planet Hangkoi’s main commercial spaceport. A massive battle had taken place here. Freighters, transport vessels, commercial vessels and exploratory vessels lay dormant on either side of the spaceport; their owners either slaughtered in the initial assault on the spaceport or were now held captive in the centre of the spaceport. He continued his pace until he reached a group of huddled figures in the centre of the spaceport, before coming to a standstill.
“You did things…well comrade.” Elshilta said in a low, raspy tone which had been mutated so much by the toxic effluent from the planet’s waste wells. Elshilta was glancing around appraisingly, taking in the sight of human, mutant and Tyranid corpses sprawled onto the plasteel ground in some of the most awkward positions he had seen. Blood was everywhere.
“I do things my way, Elshilta.” Loglrim replied with a note of sarcasm to his voice. He was no better mutated then Elshilta; his left arm had mutated into a throbbing bright red pincer, flexing with powerful muscles at every movement of his arm. He had still two human-like legs, but strangely coloured veins had begun protruding out of his thighs and calfs.
Standing beside Loglrim, was a tall and imposing figure almost up to Elshilta’s massive two and a half metres height. Dressed in black robes with his cowl folded back and holding a staff wet with gore, the ominous yet simple looking design on his shoulder plate showed his vile allegiance: The Genestealer Cult. Genestealer Cults were an ever present threat in the Imperium. They were humans who thought otherwise to the foul, derogatory image that the Imperium projected to the population of the Imperium and seeked the inhuman, biologically enhancement the Swarm would bestow upon them. They would form cults deep within the runks society, holding secret meetings and rituals, planning and preparing, sending physic messages to the hive fleet of their choosing, passing on valuable information about the human military situation stationed on their planet. Above all these, they would “recruit” new apprentices into their ranks, often by subjugating methods, swelling it into a small army, honing their skills in preparation for the inevitable invasion of the hive fleet. When the fleet strikes, they would jump out of cover, revealing their long years of hard work and preparation, striking the Imperium where they were most weak at.
They were the traitors, for turning their back against the Imperium. They were heretics, for worshiping the foul Xenos. They were Enemies, for allying themselves with the enemies of the Imperium.
“We shall now begin inserting the Grelion slugs into our…captives. They will pilot the ships for us to the planet Singphosia of the Asat system, where we will be rejoined with our various cults already present there. We will bolster further our significantly sized army of followers there and prepare for the wondrous assault of our Mother Fleet. Other fellow worshippers have begun their journey to the other planets, to spread the true power of the Tyranids.” The black robed figure said. He had a voice of evil. A voice of deceit. A hated enemy of the Imperium.
The Genestealer cult and Tyranids as a whole were aliens, insidious and treacherous. They had laid waste to the Smorjorn System. The Asat System was next.
Elshilta paced the room restlessly, his eight exoskeleton formed legs clicking the floor continuously, making a light staccato note onto the plasteel floor, resounding off the caved in ceiling of his crudely constructed hab he was given. He had been waiting for two hours.
Suddenly, a Hormagaunt, in all it’s horried splendor, sped into the room, almost knocking into Elshilta, but was halted by it’s bio-engineered senses as it immediately picked up Elshilta’s scent from it’s finely tuned olfactory senses. It stood in front of the mutant, oblivious to the frightening human/mutant/spider form facing it. It obediently bowed it’s head, lowering it’s blood slicked claws in respect to the entity standing before it.
Deep within the buccal cavity of Elshilta, he mouthed a string of growls and barks that no human can imitate. The Hormagaunt uttered a low growl beneath it’s serrated rows of razor sharp teeth in response and led Elshilta out of the room.
Elshilta was not stirred by the scene of carnage he was met when he strode out of the room. Dismembered corpses of Hormagaunts, humans and mix-blood mutants lay sprawled on the floor. He brutally impaled a dying human with his exoskeleton legs who reached out to him from the ground with two stubs of his arms which were left, blood flowing freely from the wounds. He uttered a pathetic groan and was dead.
Fool. None can stand in the path of the mighty Tyranid swarm.
It was another twenty minutes before the Hormagaunt led Elshilta into the vast, bloodied docking bay of Planet Hangkoi’s main commercial spaceport. A massive battle had taken place here. Freighters, transport vessels, commercial vessels and exploratory vessels lay dormant on either side of the spaceport; their owners either slaughtered in the initial assault on the spaceport or were now held captive in the centre of the spaceport. He continued his pace until he reached a group of huddled figures in the centre of the spaceport, before coming to a standstill.
“You did things…well comrade.” Elshilta said in a low, raspy tone which had been mutated so much by the toxic effluent from the planet’s waste wells. Elshilta was glancing around appraisingly, taking in the sight of human, mutant and Tyranid corpses sprawled onto the plasteel ground in some of the most awkward positions he had seen. Blood was everywhere.
“I do things my way, Elshilta.” Loglrim replied with a note of sarcasm to his voice. He was no better mutated then Elshilta; his left arm had mutated into a throbbing bright red pincer, flexing with powerful muscles at every movement of his arm. He had still two human-like legs, but strangely coloured veins had begun protruding out of his thighs and calfs.
Standing beside Loglrim, was a tall and imposing figure almost up to Elshilta’s massive two and a half metres height. Dressed in black robes with his cowl folded back and holding a staff wet with gore, the ominous yet simple looking design on his shoulder plate showed his vile allegiance: The Genestealer Cult. Genestealer Cults were an ever present threat in the Imperium. They were humans who thought otherwise to the foul, derogatory image that the Imperium projected to the population of the Imperium and seeked the inhuman, biologically enhancement the Swarm would bestow upon them. They would form cults deep within the runks society, holding secret meetings and rituals, planning and preparing, sending physic messages to the hive fleet of their choosing, passing on valuable information about the human military situation stationed on their planet. Above all these, they would “recruit” new apprentices into their ranks, often by subjugating methods, swelling it into a small army, honing their skills in preparation for the inevitable invasion of the hive fleet. When the fleet strikes, they would jump out of cover, revealing their long years of hard work and preparation, striking the Imperium where they were most weak at.
They were the traitors, for turning their back against the Imperium. They were heretics, for worshiping the foul Xenos. They were Enemies, for allying themselves with the enemies of the Imperium.
“We shall now begin inserting the Grelion slugs into our…captives. They will pilot the ships for us to the planet Singphosia of the Asat system, where we will be rejoined with our various cults already present there. We will bolster further our significantly sized army of followers there and prepare for the wondrous assault of our Mother Fleet. Other fellow worshippers have begun their journey to the other planets, to spread the true power of the Tyranids.” The black robed figure said. He had a voice of evil. A voice of deceit. A hated enemy of the Imperium.
The Genestealer cult and Tyranids as a whole were aliens, insidious and treacherous. They had laid waste to the Smorjorn System. The Asat System was next.
posted by yandaoben at 12:35 PM
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Friday, September 17, 2004
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Fighting With Faith– Ninth Entry
“Hold your ground! There is no fleeing! Face your fears and the trust in the Emperor!” Bukom’s voice was coarse after all the bellowing of commands and praises of inspirations to the weak. The situation was not bright. Troops’ strength has been reduced to barely half and he could tell that his men were tired. But where is there to run to? He gingerly side-stepped a fallen Hormagaunt’s corpse and brisk walked to his medic in charge, Ladin Helf who was crouching down, tending to a soldier whose face was destroyed beyond recognition, melted raw down to pinkish soft and raw tissue, his eyes a mass of charred black flash. He was trying to say something through his lipless, toothless mouth; all forms of communication rendered impossible through his flesh-swelled filled mouth, only able to make soft, pathetic sounding moans. Ladin was whispering something to the soldier, however could not be heard amidst the heavy fight going on.
Upon reaching closer to Ladin, Bukom realised that the damage done onto the soldier wasn’t all he had seen: the smell; a pungent, burning sulphuric smell, emitting from the soldier’s torso. That was when Bukom wished he hadn’t looked down. Covered in greenish-blue slime, which was still giving off wisps of vapour as the biochemical liquid ate away the soldier’s remaining body, he saw a huge tear across his naval line around his body, bleeding out blood and intestinal organs. Blood was bleeding was like water cascading from a damaged dam. The soldier was going to die. Bukom immediately whipped out his heavily modified laspistol, his well aquatinted ally on the various battlefields he had fought for the past thirty years. After doing a quick check for weapon jam and reloading faults, Bukom executed a swift, clean clear shot to the soldier’s forehead.
“Bloody spawn!” Ladin yelped, looking almost humourous as he jumped out of his skin but his fair complexion and refined features immediately turned back to seriousness as he realised who made the shot.
“Commissar.” Ladin's tone was grave and had a touch of exhaustion to it.
“Ladin, how goes our casualties?” Bukom inquired, with a hint of concern and pre-trepidation to his voice. From Bukom’s face, Ladin could tell that he could guess the answer. From Ladin’s face, Bukom could guess the answer. Both were right.
“Commissar, currently there are over two hundred casualties, mors of them have been moved to the backlines. About half of them are dead. The rest are still fighting for their lives, but most are dying. Medical supplies are running low.” Ladin reported to Commissar Bukom. Silence was between them. Ladin could tell Bukom was conjuring some sort of plan within his creased, battle scarred forehead.
“Tell the backline reserves to pick up any spare weapon they can find and hand it to the remaining half of the casualties. If we are to die, we will die fighting.”
“Yes Commi-” Bukom shoved Ladin aside with immense strength. Ladin rolled into the thick mud underfoot face first. He was dumbfounded. He immediately rolled back into supine position, lifted his head to forcefully spit out mud and dirt. He wiped his dirtied mouth with his hand and looked up. He was shocked motionless. What he saw was the sum of all his fears.
Standing at over three feet tall, was a giant Hive Tyrant. Somehow it had managed to break through the frontline trenches where the main fighting was taking place. Vile smelling black viscous saliva drooled from the monster’s mandible, which was a wild bright red colour. It had slaughtered many. It had six limbs, four of which are considered arms and were armed with an assortment of cruel and sadistic forms of blades and shards. It stood on its hind legs and towered imposingly over the dwarf like form of Commissar Bukom, its five metre long barbed tail flicking the air menacingly. However, forty years of service to the Imperium had not failed Bukom. He did not flinch. Instead, he steadily unsheathed his delicately ornamented Commissar’s Honour Scabbard. It was slick with vile Xenos’ blood. He had slaughtered many too.
“FAITH UNTO THE EMPEROR!” bellowed a raging Commissar Bukom, fuming at the sight of such an abomination, an animalistic rage building up within him. He charged straight onto the alien, scabbard pointed towards his front, held above his head. The alien was wary; it did a quick side step which Bukom had predicted. Bukom was drawing on the traditional Smorjorn art of close combat. Appear unwillingly to the enemy, and the enemy will willingly lose judgment, becoming the enemy unto himself. Bukom was tricking the foul spawn into believing that it was dealing with an amateur, causing the alien to become foolish and eventually executing simple, easy moves to slaughter Bukom.
The Hive Tyrant immediately fell for Bukom’s trick; it turned on its legs and slashed its cruel looking tail at Bukom in a flash. Bukom was quicker: he jumped, missing the tail by a hairsbreadth, and landed again with the scabbard pointing downwards, slicing the tail neatly in two. Foul red-yellowish pus and thick blood cascaded from the Tyrant’s wound. The beast moaned painfully, but quickly regained it’s composure and turned its face back to face Bukom.
Bukom was in his battle stance now. He had revealed to the enemy his true warrior, or what his combat art had called when the fighter had dealt the opening blow after the opponent had fell for his trick. The Tyrant released an immensely loud bestial roar, deep, raw and powerful. Ladin got up and hurried off to carry out his orders, offering a silent prayer for Bukom.
Bukom looked on at the Tyrant, eyes dark and fierce, in a state of mental and physical preparedness. He was suddenly aware of the mauve coloured sky, the sporadic sight of the last few myceptic spores raining down upon his hapless world, signifying the end that is yet to come. It started to drizzle, cold refreshing water droplets splashing off Bukom, making the mud and blood underfoot even more slushy and thick.
The Tyrant glared back, eyes lit orange, as though back lit by the fury and power within the powerful alien. It flexed its claws and snapped its remaining tail. It growled menacingly, flaring it’s nostrils with hot jets of air. It’s quick metabolism had already quickly healed it’s wound and now only the remainder of the tail remained.
Both warriors were ready.
“Hold your ground! There is no fleeing! Face your fears and the trust in the Emperor!” Bukom’s voice was coarse after all the bellowing of commands and praises of inspirations to the weak. The situation was not bright. Troops’ strength has been reduced to barely half and he could tell that his men were tired. But where is there to run to? He gingerly side-stepped a fallen Hormagaunt’s corpse and brisk walked to his medic in charge, Ladin Helf who was crouching down, tending to a soldier whose face was destroyed beyond recognition, melted raw down to pinkish soft and raw tissue, his eyes a mass of charred black flash. He was trying to say something through his lipless, toothless mouth; all forms of communication rendered impossible through his flesh-swelled filled mouth, only able to make soft, pathetic sounding moans. Ladin was whispering something to the soldier, however could not be heard amidst the heavy fight going on.
Upon reaching closer to Ladin, Bukom realised that the damage done onto the soldier wasn’t all he had seen: the smell; a pungent, burning sulphuric smell, emitting from the soldier’s torso. That was when Bukom wished he hadn’t looked down. Covered in greenish-blue slime, which was still giving off wisps of vapour as the biochemical liquid ate away the soldier’s remaining body, he saw a huge tear across his naval line around his body, bleeding out blood and intestinal organs. Blood was bleeding was like water cascading from a damaged dam. The soldier was going to die. Bukom immediately whipped out his heavily modified laspistol, his well aquatinted ally on the various battlefields he had fought for the past thirty years. After doing a quick check for weapon jam and reloading faults, Bukom executed a swift, clean clear shot to the soldier’s forehead.
“Bloody spawn!” Ladin yelped, looking almost humourous as he jumped out of his skin but his fair complexion and refined features immediately turned back to seriousness as he realised who made the shot.
“Commissar.” Ladin's tone was grave and had a touch of exhaustion to it.
“Ladin, how goes our casualties?” Bukom inquired, with a hint of concern and pre-trepidation to his voice. From Bukom’s face, Ladin could tell that he could guess the answer. From Ladin’s face, Bukom could guess the answer. Both were right.
“Commissar, currently there are over two hundred casualties, mors of them have been moved to the backlines. About half of them are dead. The rest are still fighting for their lives, but most are dying. Medical supplies are running low.” Ladin reported to Commissar Bukom. Silence was between them. Ladin could tell Bukom was conjuring some sort of plan within his creased, battle scarred forehead.
“Tell the backline reserves to pick up any spare weapon they can find and hand it to the remaining half of the casualties. If we are to die, we will die fighting.”
“Yes Commi-” Bukom shoved Ladin aside with immense strength. Ladin rolled into the thick mud underfoot face first. He was dumbfounded. He immediately rolled back into supine position, lifted his head to forcefully spit out mud and dirt. He wiped his dirtied mouth with his hand and looked up. He was shocked motionless. What he saw was the sum of all his fears.
Standing at over three feet tall, was a giant Hive Tyrant. Somehow it had managed to break through the frontline trenches where the main fighting was taking place. Vile smelling black viscous saliva drooled from the monster’s mandible, which was a wild bright red colour. It had slaughtered many. It had six limbs, four of which are considered arms and were armed with an assortment of cruel and sadistic forms of blades and shards. It stood on its hind legs and towered imposingly over the dwarf like form of Commissar Bukom, its five metre long barbed tail flicking the air menacingly. However, forty years of service to the Imperium had not failed Bukom. He did not flinch. Instead, he steadily unsheathed his delicately ornamented Commissar’s Honour Scabbard. It was slick with vile Xenos’ blood. He had slaughtered many too.
“FAITH UNTO THE EMPEROR!” bellowed a raging Commissar Bukom, fuming at the sight of such an abomination, an animalistic rage building up within him. He charged straight onto the alien, scabbard pointed towards his front, held above his head. The alien was wary; it did a quick side step which Bukom had predicted. Bukom was drawing on the traditional Smorjorn art of close combat. Appear unwillingly to the enemy, and the enemy will willingly lose judgment, becoming the enemy unto himself. Bukom was tricking the foul spawn into believing that it was dealing with an amateur, causing the alien to become foolish and eventually executing simple, easy moves to slaughter Bukom.
The Hive Tyrant immediately fell for Bukom’s trick; it turned on its legs and slashed its cruel looking tail at Bukom in a flash. Bukom was quicker: he jumped, missing the tail by a hairsbreadth, and landed again with the scabbard pointing downwards, slicing the tail neatly in two. Foul red-yellowish pus and thick blood cascaded from the Tyrant’s wound. The beast moaned painfully, but quickly regained it’s composure and turned its face back to face Bukom.
Bukom was in his battle stance now. He had revealed to the enemy his true warrior, or what his combat art had called when the fighter had dealt the opening blow after the opponent had fell for his trick. The Tyrant released an immensely loud bestial roar, deep, raw and powerful. Ladin got up and hurried off to carry out his orders, offering a silent prayer for Bukom.
Bukom looked on at the Tyrant, eyes dark and fierce, in a state of mental and physical preparedness. He was suddenly aware of the mauve coloured sky, the sporadic sight of the last few myceptic spores raining down upon his hapless world, signifying the end that is yet to come. It started to drizzle, cold refreshing water droplets splashing off Bukom, making the mud and blood underfoot even more slushy and thick.
The Tyrant glared back, eyes lit orange, as though back lit by the fury and power within the powerful alien. It flexed its claws and snapped its remaining tail. It growled menacingly, flaring it’s nostrils with hot jets of air. It’s quick metabolism had already quickly healed it’s wound and now only the remainder of the tail remained.
Both warriors were ready.
posted by yandaoben at 7:11 PM
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Sunday, September 12, 2004
Fighting With Faith- Eighth Entry
The constant booming of Earthshaker cannons and heavy artillery fire resounded off the vaulted ceilings of the underground command centre on the capital planet of Hangkoi. However, all the cacophony of battle was lost to the ears of the various Commissars stationed within the bunker as they had more urgent listening to attend to. The atmosphere was tense and was escalating in intensity as the minutes passed. Reports of firebases, bunkers, outposts were made, all in favour of the enemy. Servitors, tech- adepts and yeomen, many working overtime, were making quick sprints from point to point within the centre, passing valuable information and data to their various authorities, the fact of inevitable defeat all spelt out on their faces. Even the news of the depleted reserves of reinforcements being cut off from has spreaded to them. Twenty metres above the bustling hubbub centre, in a buttressed level of the bunker, resided the overall Commander in charge of the Imperial’s valiant defence against the Xeonos spawn, Sector Commander Roidan Tanoit. Dressed in full battle uniform, his powerful stature was further amplified from the command pulpit he was standing on.
“Sector Command to all units: Fall back to Administratum city. Repeat: Fall back to Administratum city.” The firm, deep voice of Command Roidan Tanoit spoke into the vox-piece that was attached from his ear to the vox console in front of him. Static was all that responded to Roidan as he waited in silent agony for ten seconds. He stared intently onto the vox console, as if waiting for the console to talk back to him. Soon, the various surviving elements of the Imperium’s defence effort within the planet of Hangkoi of the Smorjorn system responded, voicing affirmatives of their hastily called retreat. Roidan sighed, was about to raise his arms to remove the vox-piece from his head but was halted.
“Sector Command, Smorjorn Defence Corps., Plant Haigon Division reporting in. Permission to make request.” Commissar Bukom announced.
“Permission granted, Commissar Bukom.” Roidan replied, an appraising look coming into his face. Given the sheer amount of enemy forces converging onto the Administratum city, surely the troops would want to fall back into the safe and sheltered area of the city and not waste time in question and doubt?
“The Smorjorn Defence Corps., Planet Hangkoi Division wishes to remain in our position until either the Emperor or the Xeno spawns take us away.” replied the admirable, steely voice of Commissar Bukom. Spoken like a true Smorjorian. To defend to the end. The old joke of there is a reason why there is the word end in the word defend spoken among the commanders and commissars now seem so far and distant, no more bringing any humour to Roidan’s impassive, creased face. Fourty-five years in service and he had not met such an enemy force so powerful which even the highly trained and equipped Smorjorn Defence Corps., with the aid of five other Imperial Guard regiments, all seem like eggs thrown among a rock in the current situation.
“Sector Command to Commissar Bukom, are you sure on your request?” Roidan did a desperate plea to his old friend, desperately wanting him to fight with him side by side for the last time. However, even Roidan knew it was a futile attempt. Even if he was in Bukom’s shoes, he would do the same.
“Affirmative.”
I am about to send my friend and his regiment of men to their deaths…why don’t I just decline their request and make them fall back? No. It would do more harm then help. Bukom would hate me if I did so I would hate myself for doing so too. If we have lived in Smorjorn as Smorjornians, fought in Smorjorn as Smorjornians, why can’t we die in Smorjorn as Smorjornians?
“Sector Command to Commissar Bukom, permission granted. Emperor’s blessings be upon you and your men, Sector Command out.”
With that, after sending his friend, sometimes even feeling like a kin to each other, to his uncertain death, Roidon Tanoit slumped into his seat and waited for Smorjorn’s imminent defeat.
The constant booming of Earthshaker cannons and heavy artillery fire resounded off the vaulted ceilings of the underground command centre on the capital planet of Hangkoi. However, all the cacophony of battle was lost to the ears of the various Commissars stationed within the bunker as they had more urgent listening to attend to. The atmosphere was tense and was escalating in intensity as the minutes passed. Reports of firebases, bunkers, outposts were made, all in favour of the enemy. Servitors, tech- adepts and yeomen, many working overtime, were making quick sprints from point to point within the centre, passing valuable information and data to their various authorities, the fact of inevitable defeat all spelt out on their faces. Even the news of the depleted reserves of reinforcements being cut off from has spreaded to them. Twenty metres above the bustling hubbub centre, in a buttressed level of the bunker, resided the overall Commander in charge of the Imperial’s valiant defence against the Xeonos spawn, Sector Commander Roidan Tanoit. Dressed in full battle uniform, his powerful stature was further amplified from the command pulpit he was standing on.
“Sector Command to all units: Fall back to Administratum city. Repeat: Fall back to Administratum city.” The firm, deep voice of Command Roidan Tanoit spoke into the vox-piece that was attached from his ear to the vox console in front of him. Static was all that responded to Roidan as he waited in silent agony for ten seconds. He stared intently onto the vox console, as if waiting for the console to talk back to him. Soon, the various surviving elements of the Imperium’s defence effort within the planet of Hangkoi of the Smorjorn system responded, voicing affirmatives of their hastily called retreat. Roidan sighed, was about to raise his arms to remove the vox-piece from his head but was halted.
“Sector Command, Smorjorn Defence Corps., Plant Haigon Division reporting in. Permission to make request.” Commissar Bukom announced.
“Permission granted, Commissar Bukom.” Roidan replied, an appraising look coming into his face. Given the sheer amount of enemy forces converging onto the Administratum city, surely the troops would want to fall back into the safe and sheltered area of the city and not waste time in question and doubt?
“The Smorjorn Defence Corps., Planet Hangkoi Division wishes to remain in our position until either the Emperor or the Xeno spawns take us away.” replied the admirable, steely voice of Commissar Bukom. Spoken like a true Smorjorian. To defend to the end. The old joke of there is a reason why there is the word end in the word defend spoken among the commanders and commissars now seem so far and distant, no more bringing any humour to Roidan’s impassive, creased face. Fourty-five years in service and he had not met such an enemy force so powerful which even the highly trained and equipped Smorjorn Defence Corps., with the aid of five other Imperial Guard regiments, all seem like eggs thrown among a rock in the current situation.
“Sector Command to Commissar Bukom, are you sure on your request?” Roidan did a desperate plea to his old friend, desperately wanting him to fight with him side by side for the last time. However, even Roidan knew it was a futile attempt. Even if he was in Bukom’s shoes, he would do the same.
“Affirmative.”
I am about to send my friend and his regiment of men to their deaths…why don’t I just decline their request and make them fall back? No. It would do more harm then help. Bukom would hate me if I did so I would hate myself for doing so too. If we have lived in Smorjorn as Smorjornians, fought in Smorjorn as Smorjornians, why can’t we die in Smorjorn as Smorjornians?
“Sector Command to Commissar Bukom, permission granted. Emperor’s blessings be upon you and your men, Sector Command out.”
With that, after sending his friend, sometimes even feeling like a kin to each other, to his uncertain death, Roidon Tanoit slumped into his seat and waited for Smorjorn’s imminent defeat.
posted by yandaoben at 4:42 PM
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Friday, September 10, 2004
Fighting With Faith- Seventh Entry
+Sector Command
Meeting Room 0491
Administratum Block #69-098
192087.41M
Pict Recording Device #453
+Data recording initiated…
>
> Input articulation command:
> Insert… … …
>Verified>>
>A- Alphaues Leetol, Commissar of Asat System
>W- Chandroil Ngot, Sector Commander of Asat System
+Recording intiation
> A: Good day, Sector Commander Chandroil.
>W: Good day to you too, Alphaues Leetol.
>A: Tell me, why.
>W: Ah, you are not the long winded type, I like it.
>A: Indeed. It isn’t my type to be such, for only such types are to be abhorred by the Emperor, and his minions. And such fools only fail in their doings.
>W: Unless such fools are not as foolish as you thought but are actually meticulous and ultimately succeed in the end.
>A: You haven’t answered my question.
>W:Ah, yes, let’s not digress shall we? Tell me, how long have you lived?
>A: Sixty-two standard years.
>W: And do you ensure that you are kept abreast of the happenings within the Asat system, and without?
>A: It is my duty and responsibility to analysis every economic and military happenings within the Imperium.
>W: Obviously. Then tell me, what impression do you get on how the Imperium regards us, Asat System inhabitants?
>A: They favoured us and redeemed us from the Emperor damned Orks and inducted us into the mighty Imperium.
>W: Alphaues! I though you were not the long winded type. My question still stands unanswered. Even if you thought it was, it is wrong, and you know it.
>A: Emperor’s throne! Our system is one of the finest in the Imperium! We provide priceless Frazium for the Emperor’s holy work!
>W: Then I am afraid you are as eluded from the truth as even two yot old children are.
>A: Damn it, Chandroil, I do know.
>W: Well done. In summary, the Imperium has just looked upon us as mindless pawns, fawning at their lap, exercising our faith by harvesting Frazium fragments and handing it over to the outstretched hands of the ever consuming war efforts raging throughout the Imperium. All of us know just how potent Frazium is and the High Lords of Damn Terra knows better!
>A: I assume you are close to answering my question.
>W: The answer is right in front of you my dear Alphaues! Don’t you see? We are taking the initiative to establish ourselves as a prosperous system, devoid of any consolation or protection from any Emperor damn blessed governor and leader! We shall take the banner upon our shoulders ourselves and lead our people before the Imperium! But before that, we have to ready our work…
>A: Even at the expense of the lives of our men and the declination of reinforcements offered?! We have only around five years before the swarm hits us!
>W: YES! Even at the expense of the lives of our men and the declination of reinforcements offered! This is our chance to prove ourselves to the Imperium that we are economically, socially and militarily independently dependable. There is no better chance.
>A: You know how well how easily Hive Fleet Plethro could be baited to other systems militarily stronger and the battle be gone us. We will be crushed. We will perish.
>W: This isn’t a matter of fighting; it is a matter of faith. Be gone.
+Dialogue concluded.
>Saving… … …
>Saved
+Sector Command
Meeting Room 0491
Administratum Block #69-098
192087.41M
Pict Recording Device #453
+Data recording initiated…
>
> Input articulation command:
> Insert… … …
>Verified>>
>A- Alphaues Leetol, Commissar of Asat System
>W- Chandroil Ngot, Sector Commander of Asat System
+Recording intiation
> A: Good day, Sector Commander Chandroil.
>W: Good day to you too, Alphaues Leetol.
>A: Tell me, why.
>W: Ah, you are not the long winded type, I like it.
>A: Indeed. It isn’t my type to be such, for only such types are to be abhorred by the Emperor, and his minions. And such fools only fail in their doings.
>W: Unless such fools are not as foolish as you thought but are actually meticulous and ultimately succeed in the end.
>A: You haven’t answered my question.
>W:Ah, yes, let’s not digress shall we? Tell me, how long have you lived?
>A: Sixty-two standard years.
>W: And do you ensure that you are kept abreast of the happenings within the Asat system, and without?
>A: It is my duty and responsibility to analysis every economic and military happenings within the Imperium.
>W: Obviously. Then tell me, what impression do you get on how the Imperium regards us, Asat System inhabitants?
>A: They favoured us and redeemed us from the Emperor damned Orks and inducted us into the mighty Imperium.
>W: Alphaues! I though you were not the long winded type. My question still stands unanswered. Even if you thought it was, it is wrong, and you know it.
>A: Emperor’s throne! Our system is one of the finest in the Imperium! We provide priceless Frazium for the Emperor’s holy work!
>W: Then I am afraid you are as eluded from the truth as even two yot old children are.
>A: Damn it, Chandroil, I do know.
>W: Well done. In summary, the Imperium has just looked upon us as mindless pawns, fawning at their lap, exercising our faith by harvesting Frazium fragments and handing it over to the outstretched hands of the ever consuming war efforts raging throughout the Imperium. All of us know just how potent Frazium is and the High Lords of Damn Terra knows better!
>A: I assume you are close to answering my question.
>W: The answer is right in front of you my dear Alphaues! Don’t you see? We are taking the initiative to establish ourselves as a prosperous system, devoid of any consolation or protection from any Emperor damn blessed governor and leader! We shall take the banner upon our shoulders ourselves and lead our people before the Imperium! But before that, we have to ready our work…
>A: Even at the expense of the lives of our men and the declination of reinforcements offered?! We have only around five years before the swarm hits us!
>W: YES! Even at the expense of the lives of our men and the declination of reinforcements offered! This is our chance to prove ourselves to the Imperium that we are economically, socially and militarily independently dependable. There is no better chance.
>A: You know how well how easily Hive Fleet Plethro could be baited to other systems militarily stronger and the battle be gone us. We will be crushed. We will perish.
>W: This isn’t a matter of fighting; it is a matter of faith. Be gone.
+Dialogue concluded.
>Saving… … …
>Saved
posted by yandaoben at 9:51 AM
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Thursday, September 09, 2004
Fighting With Faith- Sixth Entry
“Ben, there you are! Come, come, there’s something for you to see.” Jobash, Benlian’s cousin, excitedly called out to Benlian has he approached the imposing, high gothic gates of the harvesting fields with the standard Imperial aquila engraved upon the apex. Both were of the same age and around the same built, however Jobash was blessed with a freckled face in which many girls found it hard to not notice and giggle cheekily. After much “field work”, to Benlian’s surprise, the girls found it cute. Some said alluring.
As they walked at a brisk pace towards the gate, they did a right turn and stopped walking. In front of them was the erected communal board. This was where all events, contests and notices were posted for all to be informed. It was something which Benlian looked upon as his pathway off this planet, on the annual off-world exports and imports of Frazium cargo transports looking for labourers and an occasional wildcatter giving all he had to start some ambiguous business among the other planets and systems. Not that he hated living on this planet, but he was intrigued by the on-goings he heard in Amargeddon and of late, Smorjorn Sector. However, his parents remained impervious and impassive on the command which they forbid any of the Limion offspring to venture off-world.
The Emperor has brought you to this planet for a reason, and for that reason you shall stay.
What do you want to look for off-world? Wealth? Women? Inevitably, all these will not come with you when you die.
“There, top right.” Jobash gently gestured at the Stockum encrusted board, engineered by the techno-magos during the infancy years of the Asat Rebirth Period in a way which the board could withstand the occasional off-course landing of Frazium fragments. Benlian traced the imaginary line from Jobash’s long and slender fingers to the top right corner of the board, craning his neck. There, in standard Imperial letter format,
By His order of the Holiest Emperor,
Due to the recent unrest and uprisings in the Smorjon Sector, Sector Command has found it necessary to ready regiments for the imperative defence of our most blessed system, one from each planet of the Asat System, to be indoctrinated into The Emperor’s most blessed Imperial Guard. Recruits are to be within the ages of 15 to 18 yots, where they will be trained, fed and clothed on the twenty moons of the Emperor's blessed Asat Homeworld. Recruits are to report to any administratum buildings and request for application data slates.
Acceptance amongst the stars is our dependence
Emperor’s blessings,
Sector Command,
Asat System
192083.41M
“So what do you th- ” Benlian’s question was immediately halted as he turned his head to see the retreating figure of Jobash, along with a few others which Benlian recognised as males around his age, walking towards the harvesting field’s administratum building.
“Ben, there you are! Come, come, there’s something for you to see.” Jobash, Benlian’s cousin, excitedly called out to Benlian has he approached the imposing, high gothic gates of the harvesting fields with the standard Imperial aquila engraved upon the apex. Both were of the same age and around the same built, however Jobash was blessed with a freckled face in which many girls found it hard to not notice and giggle cheekily. After much “field work”, to Benlian’s surprise, the girls found it cute. Some said alluring.
As they walked at a brisk pace towards the gate, they did a right turn and stopped walking. In front of them was the erected communal board. This was where all events, contests and notices were posted for all to be informed. It was something which Benlian looked upon as his pathway off this planet, on the annual off-world exports and imports of Frazium cargo transports looking for labourers and an occasional wildcatter giving all he had to start some ambiguous business among the other planets and systems. Not that he hated living on this planet, but he was intrigued by the on-goings he heard in Amargeddon and of late, Smorjorn Sector. However, his parents remained impervious and impassive on the command which they forbid any of the Limion offspring to venture off-world.
The Emperor has brought you to this planet for a reason, and for that reason you shall stay.
What do you want to look for off-world? Wealth? Women? Inevitably, all these will not come with you when you die.
“There, top right.” Jobash gently gestured at the Stockum encrusted board, engineered by the techno-magos during the infancy years of the Asat Rebirth Period in a way which the board could withstand the occasional off-course landing of Frazium fragments. Benlian traced the imaginary line from Jobash’s long and slender fingers to the top right corner of the board, craning his neck. There, in standard Imperial letter format,
By His order of the Holiest Emperor,
Due to the recent unrest and uprisings in the Smorjon Sector, Sector Command has found it necessary to ready regiments for the imperative defence of our most blessed system, one from each planet of the Asat System, to be indoctrinated into The Emperor’s most blessed Imperial Guard. Recruits are to be within the ages of 15 to 18 yots, where they will be trained, fed and clothed on the twenty moons of the Emperor's blessed Asat Homeworld. Recruits are to report to any administratum buildings and request for application data slates.
Acceptance amongst the stars is our dependence
Emperor’s blessings,
Sector Command,
Asat System
192083.41M
“So what do you th- ” Benlian’s question was immediately halted as he turned his head to see the retreating figure of Jobash, along with a few others which Benlian recognised as males around his age, walking towards the harvesting field’s administratum building.
posted by yandaoben at 1:21 PM
0 comments
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Fighting With Faith- Fifth Entry
Billions of kilometres away, on the capital planet of Hangkoi of the SmorJorn system, the embattled and beleaguered forces of the Smorjorn Defence Corps., one of they many Imperial Guard regiments deployed by the Imperium in defence of the Smorjorn system, stood ready at their battlements. They were holding a last ditch desperate stand against the inexorable waves of the Tyranids.
“Stand strong! Faith is your shield!” Commissar Bukom bellowed across the battlements.
“AYE!” replied the soldiers in unison which numbered a meagre one thousand plus, standing at attention at their various positions. From raised platforms to trenches, bunkers to dugouts, the soldiers were determined to hold every last metre of their position until the end. It was obvious that if they were to lose this precious firebase to the Tyranids, the enemy would in turn secure this position and station their vile siege monstrosities and bombard the administratum city buildings relentlessly. Following, there would be the insane waves upon waves of Tyranids: Hormagaunts, Ripper Swarms, and even the berserk Hive Tyrant, all crashing mercilessly upon already dead and dying victims.
“Commisar, the first wave is sighted.” A young lad, no older then the age of eighteen, nervously reported to Bukom. In his heart, Bukom sighed. The boy was no older then his son, yet he was going to die, either by blades, shards or biochemical projectiles, which were all excruciatingly torturous in all ways.
It is better to die for the Emperor then to live for yourself.
Bukom snapped out of his reverie. Yes, it is good to be on this battlefield, be it a losing fight. For even given a chance to live to this day to be in the midst of the defence effort of an Imperial world, defiantly facing the enemy, not allowing it one more metre of His Emperor’s holy work, was something even life-long pilgrims would dream of.
“Brandish your weapons! Faith is your shield! The Emperor shall guide us all!”
The forward elements of the first wave, mainly the flying Raptors, suddenly out of nowhere, ducked among the battlements from above, in all its screeching ardour and ferociousness.
A soldier was impaled by a thin and sharp projectile in the torso, only to be lifted off his feet and thrown off the battlements.
Another was decapitated at his head, blood still splurging from the wound out as his lifeless body fell to the ground.
“Steady…steady…” Was all Commissar Bukom could offer as he set his firm and resolute eyes onto the oncoming wave.
Billions of kilometres away, on the capital planet of Hangkoi of the SmorJorn system, the embattled and beleaguered forces of the Smorjorn Defence Corps., one of they many Imperial Guard regiments deployed by the Imperium in defence of the Smorjorn system, stood ready at their battlements. They were holding a last ditch desperate stand against the inexorable waves of the Tyranids.
“Stand strong! Faith is your shield!” Commissar Bukom bellowed across the battlements.
“AYE!” replied the soldiers in unison which numbered a meagre one thousand plus, standing at attention at their various positions. From raised platforms to trenches, bunkers to dugouts, the soldiers were determined to hold every last metre of their position until the end. It was obvious that if they were to lose this precious firebase to the Tyranids, the enemy would in turn secure this position and station their vile siege monstrosities and bombard the administratum city buildings relentlessly. Following, there would be the insane waves upon waves of Tyranids: Hormagaunts, Ripper Swarms, and even the berserk Hive Tyrant, all crashing mercilessly upon already dead and dying victims.
“Commisar, the first wave is sighted.” A young lad, no older then the age of eighteen, nervously reported to Bukom. In his heart, Bukom sighed. The boy was no older then his son, yet he was going to die, either by blades, shards or biochemical projectiles, which were all excruciatingly torturous in all ways.
It is better to die for the Emperor then to live for yourself.
Bukom snapped out of his reverie. Yes, it is good to be on this battlefield, be it a losing fight. For even given a chance to live to this day to be in the midst of the defence effort of an Imperial world, defiantly facing the enemy, not allowing it one more metre of His Emperor’s holy work, was something even life-long pilgrims would dream of.
“Brandish your weapons! Faith is your shield! The Emperor shall guide us all!”
The forward elements of the first wave, mainly the flying Raptors, suddenly out of nowhere, ducked among the battlements from above, in all its screeching ardour and ferociousness.
A soldier was impaled by a thin and sharp projectile in the torso, only to be lifted off his feet and thrown off the battlements.
Another was decapitated at his head, blood still splurging from the wound out as his lifeless body fell to the ground.
“Steady…steady…” Was all Commissar Bukom could offer as he set his firm and resolute eyes onto the oncoming wave.
posted by yandaoben at 1:27 AM
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Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Fighting With Faith- Fourth Entry
Not knowing why he felt so jovial this morning, Benlian skipped gaily down the worn rockcrete path, the signs and symbols engraved onto the road already faded out after over fifty generations of people using the same road. It was a warm and sunny day, with the twin-suns on one-eighth of its journey to mid-day. He had just had his morning supplements and was heading from his house to the work shed, where he would retrieve his zink-axe, used for harvest the well-renown Frazium found within the Asat system only, and head on down to the harvesting fields.
Frazium, when refined and intoxicated, can be used for a variety of things. Vehicular combustion processes, building construction, some even confess that it has medicinal purposes. It is a hardy and very inert element which all the more makes it easier to harvest and store efficiently. Hence, some people say that the only reason the Imperium decided to stretch its helping hand to the Asat Cluster was not to embrace the system in safety, but to grab the Frazium resources.
The way Frazium is harvested is unlike any other. The Asat system has two suns and fourteen planets. Seven planets revolve around each sun. Hence the system is divided into two parts, namely Asat-prime and Asat-minor. Asat-prime is the seven planet sub-system which has the capital planet, Selfath, the third planet from the Asat-prime sub-system’s sun. Between the two suns, there exists this “vertical sphere”; a flat, circular cylindrical area which measures a mere few hundred kilometers in thickness but millions of kilometers wide. Within it, drifts millions of Frazium fragments, some as huge as some planets, some as small as a pebble. It is in this area that one of the most spectacular acts of natural cosmology occurs. The drifting Frazium fragments will drift at a constantly increasingly velocity, in a circular motion, from zenith to veneer, or otherwise. The fragments beginning their journey at the bottom of the sphere will work their way upwards, only to be met by the downwards traveling fragments. It is here that “space-booms” occur. The fragments will collide at such great speeds that even more fragments will be asunder in all directions in even greater speed. Inevitably, these fragments will be caught within the gravity wells, powered by mighty invert-polar orbital stations positioned around the four planets that receive the raw Frazium fragments being rained down upon them. It is the harvesting fields that where the fragments land.
Not knowing why he felt so jovial this morning, Benlian skipped gaily down the worn rockcrete path, the signs and symbols engraved onto the road already faded out after over fifty generations of people using the same road. It was a warm and sunny day, with the twin-suns on one-eighth of its journey to mid-day. He had just had his morning supplements and was heading from his house to the work shed, where he would retrieve his zink-axe, used for harvest the well-renown Frazium found within the Asat system only, and head on down to the harvesting fields.
Frazium, when refined and intoxicated, can be used for a variety of things. Vehicular combustion processes, building construction, some even confess that it has medicinal purposes. It is a hardy and very inert element which all the more makes it easier to harvest and store efficiently. Hence, some people say that the only reason the Imperium decided to stretch its helping hand to the Asat Cluster was not to embrace the system in safety, but to grab the Frazium resources.
The way Frazium is harvested is unlike any other. The Asat system has two suns and fourteen planets. Seven planets revolve around each sun. Hence the system is divided into two parts, namely Asat-prime and Asat-minor. Asat-prime is the seven planet sub-system which has the capital planet, Selfath, the third planet from the Asat-prime sub-system’s sun. Between the two suns, there exists this “vertical sphere”; a flat, circular cylindrical area which measures a mere few hundred kilometers in thickness but millions of kilometers wide. Within it, drifts millions of Frazium fragments, some as huge as some planets, some as small as a pebble. It is in this area that one of the most spectacular acts of natural cosmology occurs. The drifting Frazium fragments will drift at a constantly increasingly velocity, in a circular motion, from zenith to veneer, or otherwise. The fragments beginning their journey at the bottom of the sphere will work their way upwards, only to be met by the downwards traveling fragments. It is here that “space-booms” occur. The fragments will collide at such great speeds that even more fragments will be asunder in all directions in even greater speed. Inevitably, these fragments will be caught within the gravity wells, powered by mighty invert-polar orbital stations positioned around the four planets that receive the raw Frazium fragments being rained down upon them. It is the harvesting fields that where the fragments land.
posted by yandaoben at 10:24 PM
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Sunday, September 05, 2004
Fighting With Faith- Third Entry
Little did they know, it was a Spacehulk, a behemoth adamantium colossal warship, in existence since Emperor-knows when, some even say before the first Great Crusade of the mighty Emperor. Within in, hundreds of Chaos spawns lay, some already stirring from their multi-millennia long slumber, muttering praises and worship for their dark gods.
It then drifted off at a tangent off the outer ring of planets of the Asat system until a missile from a ship in a minor skirmish nearby which, perhaps missed its targeted ship, flew straight into one of the many portholes of the Spacehulk and exploded.
Psykers went insane.
Navigators vomited and did all sorts of “cleansing rituals” in the extreme upon themselves to ward off the evil force that had befallen upon them all.
Children, men and women, felt the hair on their necks went stiff, a melancholy feeling suddenly overcoming them.
What followed marked the Age of Reunitement.
Within days, dark, lance-shape blots appeared in the skies of the ice-world Bleish, one of the two planets in the outer most ring of the system. As it drew nearer, the horror it presented: Vile, pulsating iconography festooned onto the sides of the evil looking drop pods, rendering even a veteran psyker insane if he stared at the grotesque craft for too long. A desperate plea was made by its governor and all the other governors on the other planets realised that if Bleish was to be overrun, they would be next. For the first time in five hundred years, alliances and agreements were made and new regiments and divisions were mustered. The Asat cluster inhabitants knew they would have to fend for themselves as the foul Chaos spawns had conjured a warp storm around the system which prevented further Imperial reinforcements.
Never did the Asat cluster inhabitants realise the true and awesome power they possessed if banded together. After five yots and two manths of bitter and cruel fighting, the Chaos forces were expunged.
Tired and exhausted, the various fleets reconsolidated and reached the conclusion that they were blinded by mere foolishness and gullible behaviour for the last five hundred years. The Asat System was rebirthed.
Little did they know, it was a Spacehulk, a behemoth adamantium colossal warship, in existence since Emperor-knows when, some even say before the first Great Crusade of the mighty Emperor. Within in, hundreds of Chaos spawns lay, some already stirring from their multi-millennia long slumber, muttering praises and worship for their dark gods.
It then drifted off at a tangent off the outer ring of planets of the Asat system until a missile from a ship in a minor skirmish nearby which, perhaps missed its targeted ship, flew straight into one of the many portholes of the Spacehulk and exploded.
Psykers went insane.
Navigators vomited and did all sorts of “cleansing rituals” in the extreme upon themselves to ward off the evil force that had befallen upon them all.
Children, men and women, felt the hair on their necks went stiff, a melancholy feeling suddenly overcoming them.
What followed marked the Age of Reunitement.
Within days, dark, lance-shape blots appeared in the skies of the ice-world Bleish, one of the two planets in the outer most ring of the system. As it drew nearer, the horror it presented: Vile, pulsating iconography festooned onto the sides of the evil looking drop pods, rendering even a veteran psyker insane if he stared at the grotesque craft for too long. A desperate plea was made by its governor and all the other governors on the other planets realised that if Bleish was to be overrun, they would be next. For the first time in five hundred years, alliances and agreements were made and new regiments and divisions were mustered. The Asat cluster inhabitants knew they would have to fend for themselves as the foul Chaos spawns had conjured a warp storm around the system which prevented further Imperial reinforcements.
Never did the Asat cluster inhabitants realise the true and awesome power they possessed if banded together. After five yots and two manths of bitter and cruel fighting, the Chaos forces were expunged.
Tired and exhausted, the various fleets reconsolidated and reached the conclusion that they were blinded by mere foolishness and gullible behaviour for the last five hundred years. The Asat System was rebirthed.
posted by yandaoben at 11:10 PM
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Saturday, September 04, 2004
Fighting With Faith- Second Entry
All across the Asat system, planets were liberated and Orks vanquished. Imperial decrees and laws were issued on all premises and the people prospered. Soon, the heroes of the Asat worlds were called upon for various missions across the span of mankind’s grip in the universe and they left a retinue of Imperial scholars and governors to lead and guide the newcomers into the Imperium. Then came the period of the Warring Planets.
With all the frantic rebuilding and planning of buildings and blocks, little has been communicated among the various planets of the Asat system; and much has been despised. With the launch of the first fleet of spaceships and exploratory vessels, first contact with the other planets’ exploratory fleets occurred. Of planet Haigon, currently a resioforgio world in the 41st millennium, a grave mistake it made, however historians and archivists would prefer to refer it to a trigger of grave atrocities.
It took the Asat fleet as marauding pirates, and fired upon them, rendering them to oblivion. With this, the frantic and fanatical struggle for power began within the Asat system. The Imperial governors knew not much could be done on their part as all fourteen planets of the Asat system were in a free-for-all, kill fest. No way would they be able to reach the various planets to negotiate peace for no chance was given for them to even dock in their orbital stations.
The Period of the Warring Planets lasted for over five hundred years, with each planet churning out ships and troops for incursions and invasions. Even the Imperium was at a lost at how to resolve such a battle of such magnitude for the High Lords of Terra voiced their concern for the precious Frazium reserves in the system. However, no planet faltered and fell, until a massive chunk of rock; some say the size of all fourteen worlds of the Asat System put together and larger, drifted into the system.
All heads stopped and turned to see this new ominous looking rock which they felt so venerable and helpless against. Even the common folks experienced sporadic nightmares which left some insane and some turned into drooling gibberish human beings. Psykers and navigators articulated of a huge blazing eye in the sky glaring down into the souls of the humans inhabiting the planets, as if contemplating the feast it is going to have soon.
All across the Asat system, planets were liberated and Orks vanquished. Imperial decrees and laws were issued on all premises and the people prospered. Soon, the heroes of the Asat worlds were called upon for various missions across the span of mankind’s grip in the universe and they left a retinue of Imperial scholars and governors to lead and guide the newcomers into the Imperium. Then came the period of the Warring Planets.
With all the frantic rebuilding and planning of buildings and blocks, little has been communicated among the various planets of the Asat system; and much has been despised. With the launch of the first fleet of spaceships and exploratory vessels, first contact with the other planets’ exploratory fleets occurred. Of planet Haigon, currently a resioforgio world in the 41st millennium, a grave mistake it made, however historians and archivists would prefer to refer it to a trigger of grave atrocities.
It took the Asat fleet as marauding pirates, and fired upon them, rendering them to oblivion. With this, the frantic and fanatical struggle for power began within the Asat system. The Imperial governors knew not much could be done on their part as all fourteen planets of the Asat system were in a free-for-all, kill fest. No way would they be able to reach the various planets to negotiate peace for no chance was given for them to even dock in their orbital stations.
The Period of the Warring Planets lasted for over five hundred years, with each planet churning out ships and troops for incursions and invasions. Even the Imperium was at a lost at how to resolve such a battle of such magnitude for the High Lords of Terra voiced their concern for the precious Frazium reserves in the system. However, no planet faltered and fell, until a massive chunk of rock; some say the size of all fourteen worlds of the Asat System put together and larger, drifted into the system.
All heads stopped and turned to see this new ominous looking rock which they felt so venerable and helpless against. Even the common folks experienced sporadic nightmares which left some insane and some turned into drooling gibberish human beings. Psykers and navigators articulated of a huge blazing eye in the sky glaring down into the souls of the humans inhabiting the planets, as if contemplating the feast it is going to have soon.
posted by yandaoben at 10:06 PM
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Friday, September 03, 2004
Fighting With Faith-First Entry
“And that concludes our brief report on Hive Fleet Phlethro’s advace in the Smorjorn Sector. I am Lek Onze. Good frazing, good night.” Chen Booln then scooped up the remote and tapped a button to switch the televrision off. It buzzed a Tranqueisnet light music tone as a shut down sequence and as quietly as it was turned on, switched off.
“Things ain’t looking too sweet in Smorjorn, eh?” he inquired with a side glance at his son. He was in his usual spot in the hab's living area, slouched into his favourite Mountain Dragoon's skin stretched armchair. Mountain Dragoon's were found only in the planets of the outer rings, roaming the high spines of the merciless mountains. Hence their skin was soft and tender, as they were not exposed to the harsh and scorching glare of the twin suns, which all the more made it comfortable to snuggle into.
“Yeah, especially with the Smorjorn Defence Corps. there all tied up with the mutant population rioting the soil out of their planets on the Emperor-forsaken habs they’re given.” Benlian replied with a look of disdain on his face, as though looking at a mutant in front of him.
“They’re already lucky to still be breathing the same air as the human population.” Chen Booln added smugly.
“Hah, yeah, night dad.” Fifteen yot old Benlian muttered sleepily as he got up and stretched a little before walking to his private room. He was of the Limion Great Family of planet Singphosia. A yot was measure when a planet in the Asat System does a double revolution around the twin suns of the system. He was in his overalls, dirtied after a day of harvesting and work. Standing at 1.75m tall and growing, he was one of the three chilren in his family, consisting of his mother, father, two sisters and himself. However, as tradition pursists, female offsprings of the various great faimlies of the Asat System had to be sent offworld to the Asat Homeworld itself and learn the Rites of Feminity, which would last until the females reach the adult age of twenty-one, when they can then reunite with their families as trained, obedient daughters and begin their search for their spouse. That was the way for females in Asat tradition.
His family had been lucky to be given a four livable and breathable room hab with air purifiers and conditioners and all. Living on a resivovice world of the Asat double-sun cluster, even getting a half yot stay in a hab house would have been considered privileged. Be it fortuitous luck or sheer hard work, the Limion family were lucky to be given habs right form the period of the Great placement where the various families of the Homeworld Asat congregated and sorted out their various duties and rights with the Asat liberation Force before being posted to their various workworlds.
The Asat Liberation Force were given such a name mainly because of the deeds they did upon the hapless inhabitants of the Asat worlds, by freeing them from the tyrannical and oppressive rule of the Okrs, two millennia ago. It has been passed down form generation to generation, of the Period of Liberation and the Period of the Warring Planets. It is said on homeworld Asat itself, drop pods of the mighty Legion Astartes of various chapters and gargantuan drop ships of hundreds of Imperial Guard regiments fell from the sky as if the two great twin suns of Asat had collided and shattered into such numerous fragments. The current human populations of that time were rather oblivious to al the fighting but scant reports and rumours from human run-aways and resistance groups articulated of massive battles taking place at various Ork strongholds. Vast seas of Imperial Guards and greenskin Orks collided with flesh and steel, with the victor immerging with gristle and mangled corpses in heaps and mounds dead at their feet. Mythical warriors of the striking blue Ultramarines fought valiantly against overwhelming and sometimes impossible odds and still emerged as victorious.
Soon, the constant booming of distant artillery batteries and the frequent clatter of small-arms came to silence. The day of liberation was at hand. Emissaries were dispatched to the various human workcamps and spreaded the good news. Soon the whole planet was basking in victory. However, the euphoric celebrations were soon to be ended as rebuilding and regrouping was to begin.
“And that concludes our brief report on Hive Fleet Phlethro’s advace in the Smorjorn Sector. I am Lek Onze. Good frazing, good night.” Chen Booln then scooped up the remote and tapped a button to switch the televrision off. It buzzed a Tranqueisnet light music tone as a shut down sequence and as quietly as it was turned on, switched off.
“Things ain’t looking too sweet in Smorjorn, eh?” he inquired with a side glance at his son. He was in his usual spot in the hab's living area, slouched into his favourite Mountain Dragoon's skin stretched armchair. Mountain Dragoon's were found only in the planets of the outer rings, roaming the high spines of the merciless mountains. Hence their skin was soft and tender, as they were not exposed to the harsh and scorching glare of the twin suns, which all the more made it comfortable to snuggle into.
“Yeah, especially with the Smorjorn Defence Corps. there all tied up with the mutant population rioting the soil out of their planets on the Emperor-forsaken habs they’re given.” Benlian replied with a look of disdain on his face, as though looking at a mutant in front of him.
“They’re already lucky to still be breathing the same air as the human population.” Chen Booln added smugly.
“Hah, yeah, night dad.” Fifteen yot old Benlian muttered sleepily as he got up and stretched a little before walking to his private room. He was of the Limion Great Family of planet Singphosia. A yot was measure when a planet in the Asat System does a double revolution around the twin suns of the system. He was in his overalls, dirtied after a day of harvesting and work. Standing at 1.75m tall and growing, he was one of the three chilren in his family, consisting of his mother, father, two sisters and himself. However, as tradition pursists, female offsprings of the various great faimlies of the Asat System had to be sent offworld to the Asat Homeworld itself and learn the Rites of Feminity, which would last until the females reach the adult age of twenty-one, when they can then reunite with their families as trained, obedient daughters and begin their search for their spouse. That was the way for females in Asat tradition.
His family had been lucky to be given a four livable and breathable room hab with air purifiers and conditioners and all. Living on a resivovice world of the Asat double-sun cluster, even getting a half yot stay in a hab house would have been considered privileged. Be it fortuitous luck or sheer hard work, the Limion family were lucky to be given habs right form the period of the Great placement where the various families of the Homeworld Asat congregated and sorted out their various duties and rights with the Asat liberation Force before being posted to their various workworlds.
The Asat Liberation Force were given such a name mainly because of the deeds they did upon the hapless inhabitants of the Asat worlds, by freeing them from the tyrannical and oppressive rule of the Okrs, two millennia ago. It has been passed down form generation to generation, of the Period of Liberation and the Period of the Warring Planets. It is said on homeworld Asat itself, drop pods of the mighty Legion Astartes of various chapters and gargantuan drop ships of hundreds of Imperial Guard regiments fell from the sky as if the two great twin suns of Asat had collided and shattered into such numerous fragments. The current human populations of that time were rather oblivious to al the fighting but scant reports and rumours from human run-aways and resistance groups articulated of massive battles taking place at various Ork strongholds. Vast seas of Imperial Guards and greenskin Orks collided with flesh and steel, with the victor immerging with gristle and mangled corpses in heaps and mounds dead at their feet. Mythical warriors of the striking blue Ultramarines fought valiantly against overwhelming and sometimes impossible odds and still emerged as victorious.
Soon, the constant booming of distant artillery batteries and the frequent clatter of small-arms came to silence. The day of liberation was at hand. Emissaries were dispatched to the various human workcamps and spreaded the good news. Soon the whole planet was basking in victory. However, the euphoric celebrations were soon to be ended as rebuilding and regrouping was to begin.
posted by yandaoben at 9:19 PM
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