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OK, so I said I'd work a little on the Night Rofugl, but got entirely distracted by the encounter at Nowa Avestia after she drops off Barcza and his spec ops team, seen here: There is a little foreshadowing I have not covered, and that's showing the Valkyrie LV-426, the Eland, resting on a landing pad the day before, so please bear that in mind. Nowa Avestia is the Resistance's headquarters. I know GSC cannot take the Valkyrie, but I think the model's great, so going to bend the rules on this one. This small excerpt is, essentially, two vastly different doctrines coming to blows. I really like the Valkyrie models. I think it's such a shame the current game really nerfs fliers, but you can bet Barcza and his spec ops will make an appearance in my next casual game. As always, thoughts most welcome. ===== The red light bloomed without warning. No lock, just a thin, steady point crawling across the cockpit glass. Anja’s head snapped up. “Laser. Low angle. Ground-based. It's Brutus." Krzysztof felt it in his chest before he thought about it. The quiet pressure of being seen and of no longer belonging entirely to the night. “Range?” he asked. “Transient,” Anja replied. “No firing solution. He’s lost it already.” As if on cue, the red dot slid away and vanished. Somewhere below, Brutus’ turret would already be returning to neutral. Krzysztof exhaled through his nose. “Nope.” He eased the Rovfugl down, bleeding altitude a metre at a time, sliding her sideways into the folded dunes of the desert. Engines stayed tight, the cowlings keeping the heat held in. Discipline over impulse. Anja watched her scope. “We’re not alone out here,” she said. “Single ping. Nine o’clock. Fractional return. Gone before I could classify.” “Aerial?” Krzysztof asked. “Yes.” He nodded. They held the line for two heartbeats, then the desert exploded. LV-426, the Eland, crested a dune ahead of them like a predator announcing itself, engines screaming, multilaser already blazing. Fire stitched the sky where the Rovfugl had been seconds earlier. Rocket pods emptied in a savage arc, detonations rolling across the sand in overlapping waves. Flares bloomed white-hot, saturating the night in violent light. For the first time, Anja’s voice sharpened. “That’s..." She cut herself off. Then, more quietly, "...very aggressive.” The dune ahead rose long and steep, a single clean ridge breaking the desert in half. Krzysztof had already lined up on it without hesitation as Anja snapped herself out of the shock of the Eland bearing down on them. “Flaps fifteen. Airbrake deploying.” Anja swallowed. “I really hate when you do this.” The Rovfugl climbed just enough to clear the crest then dropped to the deck, hard. The nose pitched up sharply as they slid down the far side, speed bleeding away with brutal efficiency. Sand rushed past beneath the canopy, almost close enough to touch. “Terrain,” the computer intoned. “Pull up.” Krzysztof ignored it. “Ground speed oh-four-two,” Anja said, already recalculating. “Angle of attack oh-six-one degrees and holding." The Rovfugl had bled off most of her speed, but she was now close enough to the edge to make the craft's physics nervous. Through the canopy Krzysztof could see only the boundless night sky as the Rovfugl hung in a near vertical position behind the dune. “Five seconds to stall,” Anja continued. “Four.” LV-426 screamed overhead. Multilaser fire tore the air apart above them. Rockets flashed past, detonating blindly. Flares chased nothing, blooming uselessly in the dark. “Three,” Anja said. Calm, controlled, her voice tight. “Two.” The Eland thundered on, committed, confident, already hunting for where the Rovfugl would be. “Punch it, Krys.” “Flaps one. TOGA," Krzysztof drove the thrust levers fully forward to the stops. The engines roared. Stealth shattered instantly as raw thrust launched the Rovfugl skyward. She surged up and over the Eland’s flight path, rolling cleanly as Krzysztof hauled her through the turn. The desert fell away beneath them. For half a second, there was nothing but wind and fire and the scream of engines at full burn. Then the Rovfugl dropped back in behind her prey. Anja’s hands were steady now. “Solution locked. We've got tone.” Krzysztof didn’t answer. The lascannon fired. LV-426 ceased to exist as a single object. The beam cut her cleanly in two, white-hot and absolute. The Eland’s fuselage split apart mid-flight, debris and fire tumbling end over end as what remained fell burning into the desert below. Silence rushed back in to fill the space she left behind. Krzysztof eased the throttles back, guiding the Rovfugl down into shadow once more. Anja leaned back in her seat and let herself breathe. “Eland is down,” she said quietly. There was no satisfaction nor triumph in her tone. Just fact. "Minor damage to engine cowlings, we're no longer running dark." Krzysztof turned them away from the wreckage, already thinking in angles and exits. “Let’s not be here,” he said. The Rovfugl vanished back into the dark, leaving the flaming wreck and questions behind her.

OK, OK, I pledge to get the Night Rovfugl and get some decent pics this weekend. I've been sitting on it for long enough. I apologise, family commitments over the holdays and the joy of being in hospital for a few days (yay?) somewhat threw me off track. Below is a passage about the Night Rovfugl, the Night Bird of Prey. She's a predator. She will only attack if she is sure of a kill. Under other circumstances, she will flee. If cornered, she is like a cat, she'll put on a show all the while she is looking for a way to get the hell out of there. But she does bite, though not often. Lascannons and missiles are not to be messed with. ===== Krzysztof had just settled the Rovfugl into her loiter when the tone changed. Not an alarm, but more a caution tone. Just a subtle shift in the background noise of the displays - the kind you only notice if you’re already listening. Behind him, his navigator stiffened. “Hold,” she said quietly. Krzysztof didn’t move his hands. “Talk to me, Anja.” Anja leaned forward, eyes narrowing at her scope. “I’ve got a coherent return resolving where there shouldn’t be one. Clean line. No sweep.” She paused. Then, softer: “We’re painted.” The words landed without drama. Krzysztof brought the auxiliary display up with a flick of his thumb. A thin red trace crawled across the overlay, steady and deliberate, tracking the Rovfugl’s belly as if it had never lost her. Below them, far beyond visual range, Brutus had woken. Anja’s fingers danced over the panel. “Source is ground-based. Heavy emitter. Not Imperial standard air-defence. This is… older.” “Brutus,” Krzysztof said. “Yes,” Anja replied. No hesitation. The sensor feed updated again. A mass shift. A long, slow arc resolving into a firing solution. Not rushed. Not uncertain. A turret coming around with all the patience in the world. Brutus wasn’t built to hunt aircraft. But he didn’t need to be. One good solution was enough. Krzysztof exhaled through his nose. “Nope.” He didn’t punch the throttle. Didn’t flare. Didn’t brake hard. He bled altitude instead, easing the Rovfugl sideways and down, sliding her into the terrain mask. Heat held tight. Angle shallow. Everything disciplined. Anja watched the red line cling for a heartbeat longer, then begin to drift. “Tracking’s degrading,” she said. “He’s searching.” “Let him,” Krzysztof replied. He armed nothing. Not yet. The Rovfugl slipped lower, engines hissing under restraint, a predator refusing to show its throat. On the ground, Barcza felt it. Not a sound nor a signal. Just the absence of something that had been there moments ago. He slowed, then glanced back over his shoulder, eyes lifting instinctively toward the dark sky. The Rovfugl was gone. Just… no longer there. Barcza raised a fist, the squad freezing around him. He tapped his mic once, low gain. “Krzysztof,” he said. “Status.” Up above, Krzysztof didn’t answer immediately. He waited until Anja nodded. “Paint’s off,” she said. “For now. Adjusting orbit,” Krzysztof replied at last. His voice was calm and even. “Stay sharp. You’re not alone out there.” Barcza didn’t ask who else was. He gave a short nod to no one, turned back to the dark, and signalled the squad forward. Above them, unseen, the red line faded into nothing. Brutus watched the space where the Rovfugl had been. Then, slowly, his turret eased back to neutral. The night settled again, uneasy, alert, and very much awake.

I've never really turned my hand to 'romantic' scenes, but thought I'd think a little ahead in this small scene between Zofia Malmgren, the 280th's medic and Róźa Makówska, Sergeant of the 265th, from Comes the Sandstorm. I've sprinkled little hints in the text that there's an unspoken spark between them, but never made it blatant. I like my readers to fill in the gaps. That said, I've not posted any of this, yet! Haha I believe the question I am asking is, 'does this work for you?' What works, what doesn't? They're both tough women, veterans, and I see this as a pressure valve for them both, just them. They're out of uniform, they're not looking around for enemies. A moment of privacy. All constructive criticism is, as always, most welcome. ===== Zofia stepped back from the table, brushing her hands on her breeches, though the nerves made her fidget more than she wanted. Róźa still hadn’t moved from the doorway, posture relaxed but eyes attentive, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Zofia laughed again, quieter this time, a little breathless. “Well… coffee’s ready,” she said, though the words felt hollow. Róźa’s gaze flicked to the cups, then back to Zofia. She took a step closer, just enough to close the distance without breaking the fragile tension. Her hand lifted slowly, resting lightly on Zofia’s shoulder. The warmth surprised Zofia, and she shivered. She moved forward, her lips brushing Zofia’s cheek. “We both know we’re not here for coffee,” Róźa whispered. Zofia’s breath caught. Her fingers twitched against the edge of the table. She turned her head, leaning into the motion. Their lips met. One careful, gentle touch, then a heartbeat that stretched impossibly long. The world outside the apartment faded. Time folded around them.

So, I thought I'd take another pass at this this evening. Starting a new job tomorrow, so won't likely be on as much. Still, less responsibility, fewer hours, and more pay - who am I to argue with that? I'll paste the text here and the link to the audio passage. I particularly like this one as I have a weakness for my darling nieces and goddaughter and Wójek is what they call me, meaning 'uncle.' I always melt a little inside when I am called that. It is a very meaningful term of endearment one can give to an older relative or close family friend and all I want to do is be their guardian, just as Wójek is in this passage. ===== The nursery hallway was quiet, its padded walls dulling the sounds from within. Wójek sat just left of the entrance, boots planted square, hands resting on his thighs. Fatigues crisp. Plate carrier in place. His rifle was mounted above, secured high on the wall, well out of a child's reach. A woman arrived with a girl in tow. The child spotted him instantly. “Wójek!” She bolted forward and climbed clumsily onto his knee. He caught her with one hand, gently but firmly, steadying her as she wobbled, then rested his palm lightly on her shoulder. The other hand stayed relaxed on his thigh. He smiled. Just for her. A flicker of warmth behind a face built for silence. Her mother returned his nod, quiet and grateful. Another parent joined her, watching the scene. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment. “Have you ever seen him in civvies?” The woman shook her head. “Not once.” Footsteps approached. Another fighter passed down the corridor. Wójek’s expression dulled, the smile gone, replaced by the blank composure of a man back on duty. He gave a short nod to the soldier. The girl hummed something tuneless, kicking her boots against his leg in time. He didn’t move. He just kept watch. https://drive.google.com/file/d/1fSlPYKfE0kg-NaWVfQQVF_Z6dVj-POMI/view?usp=sharing Thoughts and constructive criticism most welcome, as always.

This passage harks back to the assault on Complex 73. I lost the original text (thank you old hard drive). The Narrator and Kaśnyk find themselves unlikely partners as they both hunt for Barcza, the spec ops commander who commands the Night Rovfugl. Barcza was the brutal soldier who the Narrator's wife, Ida, who sought solace in the arms of another man while he toiled away in the mines. Her murder was at his hands. More below. To Kaśnyk, he is far more methodical. He is an asset that has jumped the rails and need reining in. For reference, Kaśnyk is pronounced "cash - NIK" and Barcza is pronouced "bar - CHA". ===== The fighting in the outer ring had thinned to scattered shots and the hiss of settling dust. I moved through the breach in the wall, bolt pistol raised, ribs aching from the fall earlier. Barcza had come this way; blood streaked the steps, dark against the concrete. A shape flickered at the edge of my vision. I swung left. Kaśnyk stepped out from the opposite corridor, pistol already levelled. I froze. So did he. Two barrels aligned across six metres of ruin. Neither of us spoke. The air hummed with distant generators. Sand scraped along the firing slits. My pulse thudded in my teeth. Then I heard it, wet, broken breathing somewhere deeper in the tower. Kasnyk’s eyes flicked toward the sound. Mine did too. Neither of us lowered our weapons first. We just shifted, almost the same second, easing out of each other’s line of fire. We moved without agreement. He took the right side of the corridor; I took the left. His steps were measured and precise. Mine were quicker, angling for the corners before he reached them. Two men hunting the same target for different reasons. The breathing grew louder. We found Barcza slumped near a collapsed embrasure, armour scorched and split. A round had torn through his chest plate. He was still alive, though barely. His eyes tracked me as I stepped closer. He didn’t reach for his weapon. He didn’t speak. He just waited. I raised my pistol. I held it, the iron sights square over his forehead. I breathed out, then lowered it. This wasn’t a battle. This was a man dying in the dirt, and killing him wouldn’t change a damned thing. I backed away, jaw tight, heat building behind my eyes. Kaśnyk watched me without expression. I turned and started for the door Behind me, Kaśnyk's voice followed calmly, measured, carrying the weight of doctrine rather than anger. “He showed you mercy. The Emperor does not forgive.” I didn’t stop. I didn’t look back. A single pistolcrack tore through the tower. The sound hit me like a hammer blow to the spine. I flinched before I could stop myself, hand tightening around the grip of my weapon. Then silence. A long, cold silence. I kept walking.

"She's a warbird, and an old one at that, but don't let that fool you, min ven. She is a predator, a night eagle, a Night Rovfugl, and once she has you in her claws, you will never see the morning." Stenrik looked over to me. I could see in his face that quiet strength I had come to admire in him. But there was something else. Fear, perhaps? I did not ask, I merely kept listening. "She is like a wild bjergløve. By the time you see her, she has already been watching you for thirty minutes and now is her time. Yours is done." I glanced over the horizon to the setting sun, anxiety racing to fill my thoughts before I put it down. "Then we'd better be ready for our guest." WIP of the Valkyrie, the Night Rovfugl which translates as something approximate to Night Bird of Prey. Sure, on the gaming table, she's just a regular Valkyrie, but I wanted her to give a sense of impending doom when she shows up in the story. She is Barcza and his spec ops (read: kasrkin) team's transport. So you know if you spot her, you're in for a world of pain.

Again, mid-story Comes the Sandstorm, we see three of our main characters interacting with the mechanical beasts they have unearthed. This also features one of only two appearances of the Patriarch. Why so few? I prefer to focus on the human interactions between characters rather than the full, cosmic horror. But, it's important to have him there, always watching, always waiting. Anyhow, constructive criticism welcome, as always. ===== The Macharius Vulcan squatted low, its twin cannons draped in canvas shrouds that no one dared remove. Someone had tried hanging a tarp over the sponson flamers. It hadn’t stayed up. The air around it felt different. Heavy and watching. Krystan moved along the left track guard with slow, deliberate steps. One hand held a grease cloth. The other rested lightly against the hull. Sometimes the main power relay was warm when it shouldn’t be. Once, the hull had shifted an several metres overnight. No one admitted it. No one spoke of it. He’d stopped trying to explain. He was tightening a bolt near the forward access port when he heard boots behind him. Jagiełło. The Primus approached. His coat hung open, desert dust still clinging to the hem. He didn’t speak immediately. He just looked. "Is it secure?" he asked. Krystan kept his eyes on the bolt. "Operational, if that’s what you mean. I cleaned the filters. Primed the coolant. She’s fuelled and ready." "That’s not what I asked." Krystan hesitated, then looked up. "No. It’s not secure. It’s not anything. It’s just... watching." Jagiełło stepped closer. Krystan’s breath caught. "I wouldn’t go near it. Not without me." The Primus paused, just within the shadow of the Vulcan. The hull loomed like a waiting animal. Then, with a mechanical whisper, the main turret turned. The was no warning. No servo whine until it was already moving. The cannons angled downward with purpose. A red dot appeared on Jagiełło’s chest. Laser targetter, dead centre. Krystan didn’t move. "I didn’t tell it to do that." Jagiełło didn’t flinch. But his eyes narrowed. "Then who did?" The moment held. The red dot stayed there, unmoving. The turret didn’t twitch. It just waited. Then the light blinked off. The turret rotated back to neutral. The bay was silent again, save for the soft settling creaks of 329's cooling frame. Jagiełło stepped back, eyes still on the hull. "It responds to you," he said. "It tolerates me," Krystan replied. A long pause. "Do you fear it?" "Every time I climb in." Jagiełło gave a short nod, then turned without another word and walked away. Krystan remained, alone in the silence, one hand resting near the hull but never quite touching. Behind him, 329 waited. Mona stood alone on the upper gantry of the repair bay, half-shrouded in shadow, her coat drawn close against the lingering cold of early morning. The lamps cast long, low arcs of yellow light across the floor below, catching on riveted hulls and coiled fuel lines, throwing everything else into gloom. Three silhouettes waited in that gloom. Brutus, the Malcador, rested broad and battered, her weight sunk into the cracked ferrocrete as though she had been there forever. The Iron Duke lay tarped still, his shape concealed, but unmistakable to those who knew. A relic swaddled in dust cloth and reverence. And then there was 329. The Vulcan crouched in the middle of the bay, a slumbering beast. Its plating still bore the soot of battle, scorched streaks trailing from vents and barrel shrouds. Someone had tried to clean it. No one had finished. Mona said nothing for a long time. Her gaze shifted from one war machine to the next, slow and measured. There was no warmth in her face, but no fear either, only thought. Beneath her coat, her fingers moved gently against one another, like feeling the edges of something invisible. A memory, perhaps, of something she held once. "We called them symbols," she said softly, to no one. "We needed strength. Something to anchor belief. And they answered." She let the words hang. From her vantage point, she could just make out Krystan, a lone figure by the Vulcan’s track. He hadn’t moved for some time. She didn’t need to see his face to know what it held. She had seen it in others. After the laying-on of hands, after the whispers, that quiet dread that follows faith too quickly given. Her eyes drifted again, past the tarp of the Iron Duke. It stirred faintly in the motionless air. "Perhaps too soon," she murmured. A tremor passed across her shoulders, a chill. The hairs along her scalp prickled before she heard him. She heard no footsteps, just the sense of presence behind her, as though the shadows themselves had grown heavier. She did not turn. Her hands stilled. The air around her felt too still, too sharp. Even the Vulcan below seemed to hold its breath. "We can wait," rumbled the voice, both aloud and speaking directly to her mind. It was a voice Mona knew. A voice she had heard long before the desert, before the Resistance, before she had words for what moved beneath Prawa V. She closed her eyes. Her body remained still, but inside her chest, something shifted. "We have waited this long," the voice said. "We can wait longer." Silence followed. The air felt charged. Mona did not reply. When she finally moved, it was only to raise one hand to her collarbone, fingers brushing the skin there like she might steady herself. Below, 329 remained where it was. Waiting.

So, following @W.A.Rorie's advice, I am going to start tagging these little vignettes and scenes with the appropriate story they are from. I will be going back and ensuring others are tagged appropriately, so there's some consistency and readers do not mix up one with the other. So, this is from about midway through Comes the Sandstorm, and occurs after the assault on Complex 73. I think this is the first bit I've posted from that particular portion of the story. I've had a little bit of an injury to my hand of late which is why I've not been posting much, neither here nor painted models. But, getting past it! Anyhow, I do hope you enjoy. As always, constructive criticism is most welcome. ===== The armoury was quiet. Paused with the kind of stillness that came after all the shouting and the blood. Laska sat on a low counter near the lockers, one boot on a ration crate, the other swinging lazily. Her flak jacket was unzipped, her undershirt clinging to her ribs, her gear spread around her like the aftermath of a long breath. She was cleaning her rotary launcher with mechanical rhythm, eyes half-lidded. I stepped inside, peeling the dust-caked gloves from my fingers. The door clicked shut behind me. She glanced up but didn’t stop working. “Tough fight today, sarge.” I nodded, unfastening the plates from my chest. “I know.” She pulled a rag through the barrel. The metal sang softly under her hands. “We need to get word to Branka’s family.” “I know.” I let the words hang there. “I’ll do it. She was under my orders.” Silence stretched. Laska set the launcher down gently. Her fingers lingered on the receiver before she looked up again. “We could both be dead tomorrow.” I didn’t answer. I was still staring at the inside of my armour, at the dark scratches and the dried sweat. Eventually, I looked up. She didn’t blink. “Sir…” I crossed the space between us. She didn’t move until I was there, then her knees wrapped around my thighs, arms over my shoulders. True and honest. I pressed my forehead to hers. We held each other like something brittle as though we were already mourning the day we might not get this again. I lifted her. She tightened around me, and we turned, silently, toward my quarters, just breathing in each other's scent.