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So, I wrote the original text and pasted it here (link below), but, on re-reading it, found it entirely too shallow. The win was way too easy for the Night Rovfugl. The idea was that the fight between she and the Eland would showcase two entirely different doctrines: the Night Rovfugl relying on stealth, with her modified airframe, to get in, stand on station, and get out without been detected. The Eland is its doctrinal opposite, blazing lights, massed rocket and laser firepower, she and her crew live to flush out their opponents with overwhelming force. As it turned out in that first passage, the Eland was more a wounded goose, waiting to be shot down and taken home for dinner. This time, she bites and she bites hard. The Rovfugl takes a hammering and it's a battle of wits between her skill crew and the Eland's. And it's not just Krzysztof and Anja's lives in the balance. It's Barcza and his Kasrkin, too, as they're their taxi out of there. Now, I am quite aware the Valkyries are not the most meta model and as for them being stealth and pulling psuedo-Cobra manoeveures, the less said the better, but I hope you enjoy this yarn. Thoughts most welcome. ===== Krzysztof had just settled the Rovfugl into her loiter when the tone changed. Neither an alarm nor a warning. Just a subtle shift in the background noise of the displays, the kind you only notice if you are already listening for it. Behind him, his navigator stiffened. “Hold,” she said quietly. Krzysztof did not move his hands. He did not reach for the throttle or the weapons panel. He kept the aircraft where she was, level and clean, letting the desert slide beneath them in slow, indifferent silence. “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 lowered her voice half a register. “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, steadily and deliberately, tracking the Rovfugl’s belly as if it had never lost her. Below them, far beyond visual range, Brutus had woken. Already, he knew, the crew were hunting for a fit to their sensor return, instruments alive, doing exactly what they had been trained to do when something did not fit. Anja’s fingers moved across her panel. “Ground-based. Heavy emitter. Not standard air-defence. This is older." “Brutus,” Krzysztof said. “Yes,” Anja replied. The sensor feed updated again. A mass shift. A slow, patient arc resolving into a firing solution. A turret coming around with all the time in the world. Brutus was not built to hunt aircraft, but he did not need to be. One clean solution would be enough. Krzysztof exhaled through his nose. “Nope.” He didn’t punch the throttle or drop flares. No moves that would indicate fear, he just bled altitude instead, easing the Rovfugl sideways and down, sliding her into the folded dunes. Heat held tightly, keeping his angle shallow. Everything disciplined. Anja watched the red trace cling for a moment longer, then it began to drift. “Tracking’s degrading,” she said. “He’s searching.” “Let him,” Krzysztof replied. He kept the safeties on, for now. Static rasped through the cockpit, fragmented and distorted. “…unknown transient to the south…” Anja didn’t look up. “That wasn’t for us.” Krzysztof didn’t ask who it was for. He nudged the Night Rovfugl deeper into the terrain mask, keeping her belly buried in geometry and sand. The trace thinned and broke. Anja’s voice remained even. “Paint’s off.” Krzysztof answered with motion, adjusting their orbit a fraction lower, a fraction wider. 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, eyes lifting instinctively toward the dark sky. Nothing. The Rovfugl was gone. He raised a fist. The squad froze around him, weapons tight, bodies disciplined into stillness. Only Barcza’s face was bare. He tapped his mic once. “Krzysztof. Status.” Up above, Krzysztof waited for Anja’s confirmation. “Paint’s off,” she said again. “Adjusting orbit,” Krzysztof replied. “Stay sharp. You’re not alone.” Barcza didn’t ask who else was. He signalled forward. Brutus’ turret eased back to neutral and the night settled. It lasted long enough to be believable. Then the desert screamed. Anja’s head snapped up. “Airborne contact.” The horizon erupted as LV-426, the Eland, crested a dune ahead of them, engines howling, lights blazing, multilaser already stitching the sky. She wasn’t hunting quietly. She was drowning the desert in violence and forcing anything alive to react inside it. The first rake hit before Krzysztof fully saw it. The Rovfugl shuddered from the impact. A sudden wrongness through the controls wrenched his hand to the left. Drag wrestled the Rovfugl out of position. Krzysztof reacted instantly, banking and dropping, forcing the Rovfugl starboard, low and tight against the dunes. Anja’s voice followed a second later. “No. To port. We’re bleeding heat. Right engine nacelle.” Krzysztof abandoned the turn he’d started and hauled her the other way, "Buckle up." Strobe lights swept over the dunes, ripping the night into hard, flashing segments. Rockets slammed into sand behind them, detonations rolling in overlapping waves, forcing movement rather than kills. For the first time, Anja’s control cracked, just enough to show the pressure. “That’s...” She cut herself off. Then, more measuredly this time, “...very aggressive.” The Eland wasn’t guessing. She was compressing space. Krzysztof hugged the hard deck, keeping terrain between them and the hunter, buying seconds with angles and restraint. A dune rose ahead, above, only stars, below, darkness. “Coming up on a crest,” Anja said. Krzysztof nodded once and let the Rovfugl climb just enough to round it. As the Eland surged up behind the dune line, Krzysztof snapped the Rovfugl around the crest, rolling hard into the Eland’s blind side. Anja didn’t need to prompt him. “Tone. Now.” Krzysztof fired the Hellfire missile immediately. The Eland reacted with skill. She broke hard, dumping speed and flares in a violent, disciplined manoeuvre, tearing herself out of the firing line. The Hellfire drove straight into the flare cloud and detonated in a white-hot bloom that lit the desert like false dawn. The missile didn’t kill her, but it put her out of position, and that was enough. Krzysztof dumped altitude and vanished back into the dunes, using the moment to re-mask and reposition. "He's good." Anja focused on her scopes and looked up and out of the canopy as she tried to place Eland. The Eland came back in tighter. No casual cresting now. No easy angles. She had learned. “She won’t overshoot again,” Anja said flatly. “I know,” Krzysztof replied. The dunes ahead rose steeper, harsher. Fewer clean lines. Fewer options. “Anja,” Krzysztof said. “Where’s my solution?” “Not now, Krys. I’m working on it.” The Eland’s light swept closer. Multilaser fire stitched across ridgelines they’d used moments before. Anja’s fingers moved faster. “We’re out of clean masks.” “Then give me an ugly one.” A long ridge loomed ahead. Krzysztof lined them up. “Flaps fifteen,” he said. “Airbrake deployed.” “I really hate when you do this,” Anja said, swallowing. The Rovfugl cleared the crest and dropped behind it, bleeding speed brutally. The aircraft protested. She shuddered as physics closed in and Krzysztof pitched her up. “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." For the briefest moment, Krzysztof gazed up at the stars in the pitch black night. “Five seconds to stall,” Anja said. “Four.” The Eland committed, confident now that the Rovfugl had nowhere left to go. “Three.” The sky above the ridge tore apart under fire as the Eland roared above and past them. “Two. Now,” Anja snapped. “Punch it, Krys." “Flaps one. TOGA.” Krzysztof drove the throttles forward to their stops. The Rovfugl surged upward, rolling hard from behind the ridge, flipping the geometry inside out. For half a second there was nothing but night, fire, and screaming engines. Then they dropped in behind the Eland. “Solution locked,” Anja said. “We’ve got tone.” Krzysztof didn’t answer. He squeezed the trigger. The lascannon fired once. LV-426 ceased to exist as a single aircraft. The beam cut her cleanly in two, debris and fire tumbling into the desert below. Silence rushed back in. Krzysztof eased the Rovfugl down into shadow, damaged, visible, alive. Anja leaned back, breathing at last. “Eland is down. We’re not running dark. Stealth manifold to starboard engine severely compromised.” “Then let’s not be here,” Krzysztof said. Below, Barcza saw fire on the horizon and didn’t slow. The night remained uneasy. And the Rovfugl disappeared into what darkness still offered, carrying the cost of survival with her.

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.

So, I've been enjoying writing my little vignettes for the follow-up story to my story of Prawa V. For those following, you already know 329. I hope you enjoy its redicsovery. I do have a weakness for 329. It, ultimately, dies, buying time for Freja. But, in the meantime, I am happy to let it terrorise people! Also, I do know this board censors naughty words, which is cool, but I have written Łaska to be, say....expressive! She's the only character who swears in my stories, but, if she swears, you know something is going on. In this instance, she is not exclaiming about a duck. ===== We’d walked deeper than I would have liked. The air had that dry, metallic weight to it. Maintained and monitored. The kind of place that hadn’t been abandoned so much as sealed. Freja led us through most of it. She didn’t speak much. Eyes fixed forward, dataslate tight in her grip. Łaska kept glancing at her, then back at me. She didn’t like how quiet Freja was. Neither did I. We reached the vault door. It was bulkhead-class, reinforced, built to outlast a war. The panel still blinked faintly. Standby power. I moved beside her. “This is it?” I asked. Freja nodded. Her hand hovered over the control, then pulled back. “Wait,” she said. “Why?” She hesitated. “If I’m right… this isn’t just a server room.” She didn’t explain. She keyed the override anyway. The door unlocked with a sound like pressure releasing from some cold storage. Metal groaned. Then silence. Inside, the dark was absolute. I found the manual switch. I hesitated for a moment. The lights snapped on in slow sequence, each one humming into life, pushing the dark back a metre at a time. Then it came into view. 329. Dead centre. Facing us. No effort to conceal it. The paint had blistered from heat at some point, I could still see the war scars along the front plating. Dust settled over it like ash. The cannons didn’t move. The treads didn’t twitch. It looked like a tombstone with a spine. Łaska exhaled. “Oh, no.” She held her breath. Her hand lingered over the trigger of her grenade launcher. My eyes tracked the chassis. No heat shimmer. No charge hum. Then it came A thin red beam touched my chest, high on the sternum, just left of centre. A laser targetter. Perfectly still and locked over my heart. I didn’t move. Neither did it. “Back out,” I said, my hand gesturing, “Now. Slowly” Freja looked at me. Then at the beam. She didn’t speak. Just stepped backward, one deliberate pace at a time. Łaska was already moving. Her hands weren’t on her weapon. She knew better than to appear armed around that thing. The dot held steady on me until I crossed the threshold. Then it clicked off. I killed the lights. The dark swallowed it whole again. We didn’t speak until we were two corridors clear. And even then, barely. We three knew what it was.

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.

Hi all, Firstly, my apologies for not updating much of late. Both the travelling for the holiday season and being a little unwell has rather knocked the stuffing out of me. Secondly, a little feedback on my style and where I can improve would be most gratefully received. I've shown my writing to both yourselves and to some friends I have here. One of the comments was that it is a "little stiff." I can see how this comes about as I tend not convey inner monologues nor say things directly; rather I prefer the "show, don't tell" way of doing things. I like to think I trust my reader to work it out for themselves, but perhaps I am wrong. I will admit, I am reluctant to loosen the emotional reins, and perhaps this is something I should be looking to do in a few instances. Thoughts most welcome. I get back to work tomorrow so, I hope this will give me sufficient energy to crack on with my models.

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.