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...I was a former member of the site named brother blur if that rattles some memories for anyone. I've been absent for some time due to a huge interest shift into D&D Online; But I am buying back into 10th edition with a wave of primaris marines and lots of reading of the new codex. The detachments are a nice upgrade but I do miss the psychic phase. Was always lurking around the fan fiction subforums, reading posts and making a few of my own. Tried some of the Rapid challenges and...never got anything recognized. Tried my hand writing something for BL's annual writing submissions and...never got any call backs. Apparently I'm no Brandon Sanderson. I do think GW missed out on not signing a collaborative deal with Lego; Image the minis they could have made. Looking forward to chatting with you all again and posting stories again.

The siege of Ardent IV, Ultima Segmentum, 992M41... Fires dance with no aim across a beach littered with the dead. Abandoned chimeras and aquatic beaching vessels rest with chassis bare and smoldering. Thousands from the Valhallan 821st Regiment are scattered in makeshift trenches exchanging fire with an enemy hidden in bunkers peppered across the upper sandy embankments. For nine days and nine nights the Valhallans would charge into the breach and for nine times they were denied. Commissar Kurgen Krost thinks he’ll finally lose his voice as he walks the line; shouting over mortar and autocannon fire for nine days & nights to keep reminding the troopers what they were fighting for. Dying for. One white gloved hand clenching his sheathed powersword. The other holding an open Imperial primer with frayed corners and faded print. Krost recites litanies from the pages stained with dried blood as he walks with a limp. Some of the red stains his. Some from his enemies. “‘Despair not, for the pious troopers finds joy in the death squeals of the alien. Cries havoc upon the frightened mutant. And cheers at the sight of the flayed traitor,’” Krost barks at the backs of a Valhallan fire team as they load a fresh clip into their autocannon. He keeps shouting as they begin firing off rounds at the bunkers. “‘We serve at the Emperor’s mercy, and in his mercy do we find eternal rest. Fight until the mercy is granted to you, brave souls of cold Valhalla. Fight and show no mercy to these filthy heretics!’” Krost couldn’t give a reason why they fought here. And he didn’t care to ask for one. With a military career spanning over a dozen regiments across a hundred worlds, Krost had seen great worlds fall to ruin in less time it takes to crack eggs open to make omelets. And this blasted so called civilized world was no different. He came to this ill planet to wipe out this open plague of disbelief that coasted the lives of the planetary governor, his family and most of the central government. One way or another. The problem Krost knew from strategic holo-picts that a bloody cult has dug themselves deep inside an air defense platform stationed on this coast; protected by a series of connected bunkers using underground tunneling with surface choke points. Cells of cultist would spring out of the ground to mow down columns of approaching soldiers while the bunkers would add suppressing heavy weapons fire to the massacre. By the time the lines refiled to engage, another cell would pop to harass them followed with a quick charge to cleave down every last straggler. And so it goes. Since the initial amphibious landing nine days ago, the Valhallans marched to take the bunkers; burn each concrete stronghold from the inside out and then frag it afterwords. But for each bunker taken the heretics would repulse back harder. Krost went with every march, sword drawn out crackling the sea level air, shouting to advance in the morning. Then by day’s end shouting with self loathing to call back the survivors to the beach. Krost starts to feel his left leg become numb again from the constant walking up and down the trenches. Finding a spent ammo box to sit upon, the commissar turned acting field commander inspects the brace that is keeping his tibia inside his leg. Got it on the third day embarked upon this beach when a raving cultist wearing human skin for a mask hacked at Krost’s leg from out of those hidden choke points. He paid the lunatic back with his own sword and a grenade down the hole for good measure before being carried back to the medica. On the fifth day Krost took a bullet to his lower third rib, thanks to his flakk armor he would live to see this day but it hurt whenever he takes a deep breath. Like it did every time he shouted. If they had tanks they could have stormed the platform by now. But the carrier that had brought this regiment here was attacked by a massive tentacled beast that cracked the plasteel haul in half; taking the extra supplies, part of the officer corps and armored divisions with it to the murky depths, leading to Krost having to take over for the entire regiment for the time being. If they could call in an airstrike, then all of the bunkers and tunnels would be bombed back to hell. Yet the air defense platform remains standing; a ten story metal mesh tower that feds power from underground generators to an Icarius lascannon mounted at the apex. Supported by hydra flakk emplacements surrounding the tower no airborne vessel could get close enough before being shot down over the sea. Now all they could do is pound the remaining bunkers with repeat mortar volleys to keep the enemy suppressed. Krost would work up the strength to call the men to arms and lead them into one more charge. He figured this would be the last one; the Valhallans were good but they were still men and running on fumes at this point. After that he’d be dead, shot by heretic gun fire or chopped up by crazies but in no form was he going to end up a prisoner. Krost would see to that using his own bolt pistol hanging off his shoulder holster under his black officer’s jacket. A lieutenant adjutant runs over to call out Krost’s rank. One of the last remaining few from the officer’s corps, the lieutenant address Krost with proper rank and salutes quickly. Eagerly, the youngish man informs his superior about a new signal the vox had just picked up; Its not one that he’s familiar with but identifies as Imperial. Adaptus Astarte in origin. The commissar would not allow his injuries to impede his reinvigorated momentum back to the command post; a loose conjuncture of camoline tents over shadowing a dugout housing scrapped Vox casters. Specialists turn dials, flick switches and listen to wide ban frequencies. Krost grabs the nearest headset without speaking a word to the operator. A mix of High to Low Gothic code is spoken, muddled with a strange tongue Krost had never heard before. But he recognized enough to start barking orders to the men to prepare for another charge. Limping outside, Krost looks out to the horizon beyond the sea, barking for a pair of binoculars. An adjutant brings one with a small crack in the lens but it didn’t affect Krost no mind as he scans across the breath of the sea till growing dots catch his brown eyes. Focusing with a turn of a dial, the fist like appearance of a Storm Raven gunship comes into view; the bulky aerial transport zooming over the temperate waves like a cannonball painted in yellow and black strips. He could see the very air currents being cut in half as the aircraft zooms closer. And it was not alone for two Storm Hawk interceptors fly close to either wingspan bearing the same paint scheme. None of them appeared to be slowing down. Before Krost could give orders to his entourage, the dread hum of powerful generators spinning up to feed crackling electricity to the looming platform overshadowing the beach. Air cracking like wood being viciously chopped as the Icarius lascannon releases a green blinding beam over head of Krost and the remaining staff. Some cover their eyes to protect themselves, but not Krost. He watches as the green hot lance streams like an arrow to the trio of incoming fliers that seem to remain on course despite the devastating approach. By micro-seconds the black and yellow fliers bank apart for the green beam to pass, only the starboard Storm Hawk takes a grazing hit to its left wing tip that melts away the attached gun emplacement. Four missiles fire forth from under the Storm Raven’s wings along with two missiles from each of the Interceptors; rocketing overhead Krost’s position as they explode into large smoke clouds above them. First he thinks they were detonated prematurely. Till he spots a reflective shimmer emitting off the clouds hanging above them. Milliseconds later the heretic Flakk cannons begin their salvo at the approaching Astarte aircraft; blasting into the obscuring smoke with such reckless abandonment that Krost thought the enemy was already lost in full battle lust. Explosions shortly rocketed in the air space above the beach head as shells exploded. Yet not a single shot was even close to the approaching aircraft. Even the Icarius began to shoot wildly off target unlike its first shot. ‘Chaft Glass, bloody hell.’ Krost keeps his head down and mouth covered, trying not to take too many deep breaths as he walks back to the front line. After all he didn't want to cut up his lungs from inhaling too many microscopic reflective shards that now littered the air. Drawing out his power sword in one hand while climbing up to the lip of the trench, seeing ahead that the heretics were beginning to mobilize their ground forces. It was now or never. “Soldiers of the Imperium, we hammered these bastards for nine days now! And I for one would like to finally get over there and stab someone whose been trying to kill me! Would anyone want to come?!” The surrounding Valhallans give a resounding and unanimous cheer for battle as they fix bayonets to their lasguns. With Krost in the lead, the 821st charge out from their trenches, yelling as they run and die by heretic gunfire from the remaining bunkers. Then underground hatches pop open spilling out cells of heretic kill teams that mow into loyalist herd with no remorse. Yet they are overran with the sheer amount of willing to die bodies being thrown at them. Do or Die the Valhallan way. Great roaring engines fly over head as the Storm Raven and its escorts blast past their own smoke screen unleashing cannon fire and remaining missiles into every single bunker at alarming accuracy that could only be done with superhuman senses. Next, the Interceptors pull up for escape velocity having done their part while their gunship counterpart keeps its aim at the anti-aircraft platform; blazing hot atomic fire shoots out from the nose seeming to cut into the supports of the tower as side sponsons bark rapid bolter fire onto unsuspecting ground targets. As the Storm Raven nears its primary target, the forward ramp exposes itself. “<BAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIII!>” Yellow and black striped Astartes jump out in pairs, yelling out a singular roar in some foreign tongue. To an untrained observer it looks as though they were committing suicide. But little would notice the tiny grav-chutes latched onto their power packs slowing their descent. Giving the marines time to snipe with bolters at gunners and operators working the flakks. Others cut off their chutes early so they could land with a mighty stomp onto screaming heretics. Krost slows his pace, not because of his limp but to get a good look at the space marines who were already regrouping to storm the platform. They definitely did not match any pattern held by the first founding chapters that Krost remembered from his schola programa days; the yellow/black striping appears on everything they carried from the bolters in their ceramite gauntlets to the chainswords magnetically hanging off their belts. Their lens held a menacing red shade, like an enraged grox fending off its would be butchers. The icon on their left black pauldrons appears like a winged insect of unknown origin, as yellow & black with menacing red eyes with a backdrop of white wings. These marines push onward, maintaining a tight formation while aggressively gunning down any who cross their path to the platform. Cracking las fire grabs Krost’s attention as another cell peer around the corner of a burning bunker. Four men inValhallan great coats get their chests and limbs seared by hot beams of red light before the rest of the squad retaliates. The commissar joins in the barrage with his own bolt pistol booming over the cracking las fire. “Heretics! Filthy Alien worshiping scum! After stranding us on that beach for nine days you lot deserve this!” But the cell quickly retreats back into the shadows. The Valhallan lines march on, engaging in small skirmishes at every hidden tunnel hole they could find. Bombing them with frag grenades then descending down into the darkness to find more traitors to shoot. Krost hoped they would have much better luck this time spelunking down there; none returned from previous ventures in the days past. Great concussive force is felt by all as a loud boom is heralded from the platform. Its plasteel structure caught ablaze by powerful explosives. Swaying to the left then right as it fought the world’s pull. Finally toppling forward toward the sea, crashing down on smoking ruins of bunkers. Topping off with the Icarius exploding upon impact with the shandy ground. Great cheering erupts among the troopers who are alive to witness this, holding up lasguns and fists triumphant. But Krost’s attention is elsewhere. His eyes scanning for those responsible for this turn of fortune. The Storm Raven humbly descends with quiet precision to where the platform once stood. Standing by a pyre of their own making, the mysterious space marines await in formation to re-board their chariot of the stars. The remaining companies of Valhallans mostly continue their push to take this compound ignorant of their savors. And these space marines seem to not care to wait, for they did their duty and slaughtered much of the foe. They were eager to spill more blood as some would glance at the Valhallans. For it were not the steady hand of their leader, Krost believes they would have. The ramp descends, and the space marines march on board. Their leader stops upon the lip of the ramp, turning his gaze toward Krost’s presence lost in the marching crowds of the Valhallans. For the first time in his long career, Krugen Krost felt a dreadful awe staring at one the angels of death. A being beyond what was human and yet is more human. The leader only nodes, as though acknowledging the commissar’s efforts up to this point, then steps up into the gun ship with heavy foot falls upon the steel ramp. Krost watches as the Storm Raven ascends upward. He commits to memory the sight of the chapter icon stamped upon the side of the gunship. The winged yellow/black insect with the menacing red eyes. Burning the image into hind portions of his primate brain. Krost didn’t know when or if he would see them again; He just knew in a deep part of what little soul he holds onto that he must find out who these Astartes are. *** So after writing my entry for Banner's monthly contest, I felt inspired to write some more about the mysterious YellowJackets while dusting off the rusty parts of my brain pertaining to writing fiction. I hadn't really written anything really since my father passed away in the fall; I felt the need to challenge myself once more. I needed to not only write a story but finish it.