Fighting With Faith- Thirty-second Entry

It was six standard hours in the morning as the sound of scraping boots, low murmurings and clattering equipment began to fill the mess hall as soldiers of the Asat Guard Division began to pour into the vast rockrete hall through broad alloyed doors that were open in one end. Glow globes were arranged in uniform spaces between each other throughout the hall; illuminating the high vaulted ceiling a hundred metres above the ground.

The hall smelled of sweet incense, with scribbled prayer paper pasted on the walls. Robed, shady figures lurked in the dark recesses of the hall, several in huddled groups. Such measures were recently introduced by arbites and psykers to root out the unseen evil. The soldiers entering threw wary glances around them, taking in the new sight of the mess hall and its ornamentation.

At the other end of the hall was a raised podium. Several steel chairs and tables were arranged neatly on it in a row, with several vox-phones placed on it. Several commissars and Warmaster Chandoil himself were already seated. Some of them seem to be deep in discussion, occasionally gesturing to several data slates and maps spreaded out on the table in front of them. A very elaborate lectern was placed at the right end of the podium, with the Imperial double-eagle delicately carved onto its wooden material.

Among the throng, Benlian, along with Bel Company, trooped into the hall. They looked fearsome in their full battle gear; lasguns slung over their shoulders, frag and krak grenades smartly placed in their straps and an assortment of other packs and equipment skillfully hung, slung and strapped onto their bodies, backs, and legs.

Benlian didn’t feel nervous or scared; he just didn’t feel like talking. His mind was blank, almost identical to a marching soldier bot he used to play when he was a mere young boy back home. He was soon snapped out of his blank state by a nudging in the ribs from Marcum beside him. Benlian glanced over, instinctively checking visually his comrade’s equipment for any faults. He cocked an eyebrow questioningly.

“How you think we’re gonna take’em down?” Marcum asked in his exceptional way of questioning things. It seemed everything to him was like a game: getting into a fight, training with a frag grenade, attacking an enemy’s fortified base...

“Fly in there, kiss them on the forehead, then watch them drop their weapons to free their hands to bang their heads onto the wall until they die.” Benlian replied, in his usual way of answering a question which he didn’t know of the answer.

Marcum chuckled, “bloody chab-”

“Shut up, you had nothing on your mind anyway.”

Benlian smiled, suddenly feeling elated at sharing a warm moment with Marcum. It was good to be marching to battle under the banner of a unified Asat Guard army, with his mates watching his flanks and him watching his mates’ flanks. They had trained long and hard for this.

Within fifteen minutes, the mass ranks of the Asat Guard Division were mustered before Warmaster Chandroil. Warmaster Chanrdoil’s warm features took in the imposing sight, hoping that the soldiers were as good at fighting as how impressive they looked.

“It is like how a gun must be loaded to be fired upon the enemy.” Chandroil droned into the vox-phone. His voice was soon amplified via vox-boxes placed around the hall.

“Ah...he and his weird ways of talking.” Lent moaned further down the line, causing a chorus of light laughter to ripple along the men.

“It’s called being enigmatic; he’s old and wise, dumb bog.” Stratile hissed into Lent’s ear from behind.

“You are all like guns; a personified form of such in your hands. But, what use of it, other then clubbing and jabbing, if no bullets were loaded into it?” Chandroil continued. He paused for a moment, letting the question sink into everyone.

“Hence the Emperor has seen fit to us to make me and your superiors to be the ones loading bullets into you. The skills, tactics, wisdom and experience that we have imparted into you all are such bullets. Now, today, you are to execute such bullets onto the enemy. Use what you have gained to cause the enemy to lose. That is the key.”

The hall was pin-drop silence as everyone watched the Warmaster withdrew from the lectern and took his place beside his personal tactican, Tactican Walt, while Walt stood up to walk towards the lectern. As all tacticians were, his body was heavily modified and augmented to cater to his duty. His left eye was several scopes thick, capable of reading minute fine prints and extensive readouts of battle reports. His fingers were slim, suited to picking up thin and delicate official reviews and records.

It was Walt’s first time speaking personally to the whole audience of the Asat Guard and he was not used to it. He glanced cautiously about the hall before clearing his throat, “Good morning gentlemen. Now that Warmaster Chandroil has spoken, I shall keep the ball rolling: Tyranid cultists, mutants and Tyranid abominations are heavily garrisoned within the walls of the abandoned warehouse. No exact figure can be given but an estimation of at least several thousand are believed to be holding the building. Against our twelve thousand and seven hundred well train and equipped soldiers, I am certain of a clear victory. However, true victory comes with true skills , tactics, and minimal losses.” Walt’s mechanical voice grated over the vox-boxes.

Everyone was listening intently. Not knowing why, Benlian felt his heart rate beginning to rise. He began to recite several calming litanies, at the same time casting nervous glances around. Everyone’s attention seemed focused onto Walt. The humorlessness was unnerving.

“You will now be given time with your field commissars, who will further brief you your respective company’s role in the upcoming mission. That is all, gentlemen, Emperor protects.” Walt concluded his speech, turning his narrow frame to the soldiers and began ambling his way back to his seat.

Noise soon returned to the hall as everyone recovered from their tense attention position and began to chat and some even sat down to rest as they waited to be called by their Field commissars to be briefed.

Suddenly, a laspitol was triggered somewhere at the back of the hall. A man could be heard screaming in agony as several more laspistols began discharging bullets. More screaming and shouts could be heard.

Instinctively, everyone sought cover, behind pillars, overturned tables and along walls. Those that didn’t find cover in time intelligently laid down their backpacks and lay prone behind it, remaining as small a target as possible.

“CULTISTS! THEY ARE AMONG US!” An Arbites officer suddenly yelled down the hall.

Fighting With Faith- Thirty-First Entry

His staggering footsteps and gasping breath echoed around him, off the mountain slopes. His clothes were tattered and torn, resembling none of the spick and span uniform of the Asat Imperial Guard attire he once adorn smartly. It way long past midnight and it was near pitch black, save for the luminescent moons hung high above. He had managed to slip past the sentry guards unnoticed, and now he had been half sprinting, half staggering along a rough and unkempt part of the mountain slope for the past two hours. He was heading to the vast warehouse now a mere five hundred metres away from him.

He is Starut.

A Genestealer warrior suddenly sprang up from a shrub of bushes ahead of Starut, flaring its nostrils and cocking its head inquisitively to its side. Starut, recognising the creature before him, continued his pace, all the time keeping his gaze set firmly into the Genestealer’s glaring stare.

There was no where to run to, with heavy growth of alien flora and fauna at both sides of the path. The path itself was being overgrown with certain tough shrubs and plants. It seemed the mountain itself wanted to cover up this hidden passage.

Starut, now mere two steps away from the creature, raised his hands and uttered something in a guttural tone, never conceivable in human verbal communication.

The Genestealer immediately sprang back into the bushes, and gestured with its head for Starut to proceed down the path. It was not an enemy.

Starut managed to flash a smile at it before proceeding past it. A door could be seen from where he was now, further down the path. Starut soon reached it and tapped lightly on the wooden door, obviously not part of the huge Adamantium building itself.

His tapping was answered by the wooden door opening by itself, to reveal a dimly lit rectangular room. It looked like a tactician room with maps, data slates and stolen vox casters laid about. Robed cultists could be seen walking around purposefully, some with data slates or laspistols grasped firmly in their hands. There were tables placed around the room, with groups of cultists huddled around it.

“You’re late.” A voice said, coming from the gloom of the room. A figure then appeared from the dim backdrop and walked towards Starut.

“Greetings fellow Alken. I bring important news. No use of lamenting whether I’m late or not; I’m here.” Starut retorted, flashing Alken, a long sought friend, a smile. However lately, since Starut had been picked to infiltrate the Asat Guard division, Alken seemed jealous and somewhat envious, using any chance to nit pick Starut. The chance to do something life threatening for the Mother Fleet was something very rare and often nigh possible. However the rewards for it were worth it.

“Follow me.” Alken seemed to sneer as he turn his back on Starut and the closing wooden doors which seemed much more powerful and heavier then it seemed to begin walking deeper into the room.

Starut was led to a wooden table which seemed to be the biggest in the room, situated in the back of the room with another set of wooden doors near it The wooden table beneath his hands also didn’t feel like wood; it felt like a metal but overcoated with wood. . Around the table, Starut could recognise some familiar faces but couldn’t take his eyes off some of the mutants that were present too.

They look horrid.

Alken cleared his throat. He seemed to have noticed Starut’s weird glare at the huddled mutants and sought to bring his attention back.

“Fellow Starut, what news you bring?” Alken asked, a sinister smile spreading across his thin, gaunt face, revealing an ominous set of sharp, serrated teeth no human should have.

People how's my painting man. Yeah it's from Warhammer 40k. Space Marines. How's it? :D 

Cool pauldrons. Whats a pauldron? Go check the dictionary you twit.