Shadows Like Statues

[Ferrata]

Chapter One - Let the Flames Begin

Chapter Two - Calm Before the Storm

Chapter Three – What’s It Feel Like to be a Ghost?

Chapter Four – Take Off Your Colours

Chapter Five – Empty House

Chapter Six – The Kill

Chapter Seven - Failure By Design

Chapter Eight - Man Overboard

[Ferrata]

Chapter One – Let the Flames Begin

 

The burnt ground scratched his robes, sheering through the rough material in places. The broken glass and small stones lay as a small deterrent to his mission, but although his slow crawl was a painful one, not even an army would have stopped him. He had been on his stomach for almost two hours now, creeping towards the power station almost invisible to the naked eye. The humans had been clever; taking flames to two acres of cropland had almost caused riots in the city, but it had forced his clan to rethink its strategy, what would have been a quick assault by a numerous force was now a stealth operation with minimal numbers. The sentries seemed to patrol at random, and the traps had been intuitive, nothing about this was ever going to be easy. Against any other foe they might had won, but against the Eshia, death would be upon them before they knew.

 

Four other of his kind were also slipping across this man-made wasteland, each carrying a satchel of tube bombs. Only one would need to succeed for the blooding to begin, the city will be on its hands and knees pleading for mercy. Ska almost released a cry of pleasure thinking about the destruction to come. Flame and thunder would awaken this peaceful culture from its slumber, and war would come.

 

He snapped himself back in the real world, his nasal hairs twitching him back to his senses. As a figure loomed over him, he urged himself to merge with the shadows, forcing his body closer to the earth. He sniffed the air; the stench of alcohol overwhelmed all else, for all their hard work the humans had been undone by one man’s thirst. Sliding his fingers over the hilt of the rusty blade between his teeth, he pressed his feet against the ground and prepared to pounce. As the guard looked directly at him, Ska released all the might from his hind legs. The knife plunged deep into the flesh of the neck, slicing through the windpipe and destroying the jugular. The man attempted to release a cry, either of pain or warning, but little more than a gurgle came free as he dropped to the ground.

 

Moving more swiftly now, urgency coming to his purpose, he approached the wire fence that denoted the perimeter of the station. His sharp claws aided his blade to cut through the links of the fence. Making sure his intrusion had gone unnoticed, he squatted in the shadow of a building, an out-house judging by the smell. Removing a rough map from his pouch, he quickly located himself, indeed outside of the stations wash house. Vital locations had been crudely marked, five targets for five Eshia. Continuing with caution, Ska closed on the nearest target.

The noise emitted from the throbbing generator masked the little noise his feet made against the hard dirt ground. Without the aid of his nose, Ska would have been as lost as the humans in the dark, but he could smell much better than he could see. A single guard stood by the door, the small twitching flame of one of their smoking devices hanging inches from his mouth. Sliding alongside the building, his form flowed into the darkness; Eshia were the masters of stealth.

 

Taking two discs from his belt, Ska checked the edge on each of them. As the droplet of blood emerged on his long digit, he nodded in satisfaction; the forges back in camp were keeping up with the high quality he demanded. Only his blade would he allow to remain dirty, a stark reminded of his times in the rougher ends of the clan. A quick flick of his wrist sent both projectiles towards their target. Like the knife before them, they embedded into the neck muscles, coming to a halt as they collided with bone. As the man begun to fall, Ska was already on him, scooping up his keys and gently allowing the body to touch the ground. Satisfied he had not caught the attention of anyone else, he slipped through the door.

 

A simple metal husk housed a brute of engine, a machine capable of producing enough power to keep half the city lit. The sheer heat produced by the continuous motion made Ska uncomfortable in his robes. Forcing his tube bombs into delicate positions, he checked each one numerous times. The fuses had been preset; if any of his kin had failed to reach their target by then, the clan would never have to accept their failure. Ska finally allowed himself the small pleasure of a low giggle, his eyes glinting with the thrill of flames and murder to come.

Back on his front in the burnt out fields, he forced himself onwards. For each metre he crawled, the safer he was from the explosion. As he whispered ‘kaboom’ to his shadow, the world behind him erupted in balls of fire.

 

++

 

It had been six months since the loss of the power station, and the Eshia’s assault had been brutal. Already most of the city was lost, and here stood the last few squads of the city volunteer force, acting as the rearguard to allow as many citizens to escape. In their mist stood the gigantic figure of Inquisitor Bernaeur, his gleaming armour an inspiration to all those around him. He knew he was about to die, he knew that his death would be painful. But, on the God-Emperor’s Holy Throne, he would take as many as the rat-man bastards with him. He looked at those gathered around him, most of their faces unable to mask the dread of the coming battle. Only his three companions reflected his stone cold expression. Nial, strong, faithful and a hell of a card player. Kul’ith, dark, grim, brooding but Bernaeur would have no other at his side in a fight. And finally Jaiia, young, beautiful, gifted. She would not die here, dammit; he swore when she joined him on this mission that she would not die here.

 

“Jaiia, get back to the Capital. Call for aid, call the Deathwatch.”

 

[Reyner]

Nice work, roll on the Deathwatch! Nice to hear about some of the more ellusive Xenos too :D

[Ferrata]

Chapter Two – Calm Before the Storm

 

The nine giants stood shoulder guard to shoulder guard, each of their faces locked in a grim expression. Uniformed in black and silver, they were brothers in purpose but not of blood. Seconded to the Deathwatch by their parent chapters, they formed the elite fighting force for the war against the Xenos. Though each had dedicated their lives to battle, a slight tension twanged the air between them. They might have known each other by name but they had never fought side-by-side.

 

In front of them stood a tenth man, a veteran by the white helmet clasped under his arm. Even if he hadn’t held such a symbol of command, his presence alone would have said it all. His entire right side wheezed as bionics took over the role of natural limbs and organs. His eyes passed from one marine to the next, silent judging them.

 

“Brothers,” he begun, his voice edged with the bitter wisdom of battle and centuries of blood.

 

“I am your sergeant, Sarge or Sir is what you will address me as. You have been selected for this mission; apparently you all have an aptitude for stealth, even the brute here.”

 

His headed nodding towards with massive hulk of Tug, whose frame made his brothers look small. Brawn from the ranks of the Basilisks of the Crypt, he was the longest serving member of the Deathwatch in the room, bar maybe the Sergeant. His head was shaven clean, in stark contrast to the shadow of stubble which clung to his cheeks and neck. Uncaring for the world which saw him as stupid or slow, he didn’t respond to the Sergeant’s quip.

 

“Seventy-three hours ago we received a vermillion code aid request from the world of Davion. It is besieged by an alien race known as the Eshia; you’ll be getting plenty of information on them soon. Just over six months ago they erupted from nowhere, hitting the place where it hurt; trade routes, power stations, bridges. Inquisitor Bernaeur put up one hell of fight with an under-strength force.”

 

Behind the sergeant, a screen had been following his words. First showing the system of Davious, then zooming into Davion itself. Its lush green fields seemingly mocking the pale waters which made its oceans. A more militaristic map appeared with skulls identifying locations of were battles had been fought, and mostly lost.

 

“He made his last stand here, Behamial, the second largest city which nicely distracted the foe from the capital. The boys there are digging in, but they need more time to make sure they can hold off the foe. We are going to deliver them that time.

 

The third army of the Allocex campaign fleet is being rerouted, but that’s nine weeks away. The Eshia will be populating the capital before then with their rat-babies. Some bureaucratic crap blocks us all dropping in, so we are forming a twenty-man strike force.”

 

Almost on command, a figure stepped from the shadows. Bar his right knee, his armour was a mirage of greys, allowing his form to flow with the darkness, breaking the sharp edges of his Astartes armour. Removing his helmet, he revealed a face almost deprived of bare skin. Though entirely without hair, it was covered in intricate black swirls, forming a mosaic of images without meaning. Bowing his head in a gentle nod, he released a whisper of a voice.

 

“Brothers, I am Sergeant Maniaches of the Black Guard. My squad will be supporting you on this mission.”

 

“Supporting? As many of you will know from our own Brother Justinian, the Guard here know their stealth. Whilst we will be blundering around the streets of Behamial, Maniaches will be leading his squad deeper into enemy territory hoping to find the head of the snake and remove it.

 

As you can all see, this is going to be a heel of a mission. You have nearly three hours to gather your equipment and pray to the Emperor...”

 

“God-Emperor, Sir!” snapped a marine, his hands rigid across his chest in the sign of the Aquila. His eyes stared at a point ten metres behind the sergeant, unable to meet the gaze of his commanding officer he had interrupted. His armour was adorned with silver scripture, verses from the holy book of Saint Ascalon. From head to toe, save the shoulder bearing the sword, he read like a text of faith.

 

The Sergeant shook his head; he knew Brother Francis would be trouble, all the Imperial Castellans he had met had been. All a little too zealous, too full of fervour for his liking, damn preachers. He let his fighting be his worship to the Emperor, not words and text. He quickly made the Aquila behind his back. To the pits of Chaos with them, the Emperor was beyond comparison, but he was not god.

 

“...three hours to kit up.” He continued, “I want you all gathered at zero-four-hundred hours. A full mission briefing, along with numerous articles on the Eshia are on your data uplinks. Oh, and full service records for all of you.” The last line delivered with a slight mischievous grin on his face.

 

Brother Xeria’s fists clenched at the news. Formerly of the now exiled Blood Swords, he had hoped no-one would know the fate of his brothers. The mental scars from, what could only be described as torture, still plagued him. The physical bruises had healed, as had the broken bones, but the damage caused by Brother-Librarian Zanthos brutal assault on his mind still unnerved him, and he could sweat he could hear voices now. ‘Traitor’ they whispered, ‘failure’, ‘weakling’ they called him. He forced the thoughts out of his mind. He would not fall, he was not his brothers. He was not.

 

As he began to exit, the Sergeant paused, turning slowly towards the line of marines.

 

“Get to know each other, in a few hours your life is going to depend on the brother standing next to you. The future is full of war, and it is about to get very close and very personal.”

[Reyner]

Keep it up Ferrata! I have a feeling there will be some conflict between Francis and Xeria... Can't wait! :lol:

[Ferrata]

Chapter Three – What’s It Feel Like to be a Ghost?

 

He watched the other Deathwatch marines, taking in their characters, their charms and their flaws. He wondered how each would react to being isolated behind enemy lines, reinforcements months away and nothing to fall back on besides one another. He didn’t know why he had been chosen for this mission; hell, he didn’t really understand why he had been seconded to the Deathwatch. Maybe they saw weakness in Kevos and sent him to learn or to die; either would be welcomed by his chapter. He was terrified about the coming mission; not of the enemy, nor even of death, but of failure, his failure. He was out his depth here, lost without a cause. He grunted to himself, a Space Marine with self-confidence issues, he would never live it down.

 

The last nine days had been hectic, almost in constant contact with his new squad mates and the Black Guard; some becoming friends he would be honoured to fight alongside, others barely giving him eye contact. Like most people, he had found himself drawn to the charisma of Drako whose quick wit and infectious laughter could lighten the mood in any situation. His voice flowed like the mighty rivers of his home world he would constantly tell stories of, each word merging into the next. The merest lapse in concentration and it would have to work hard to regain yourself; it almost forced you to give yourself totally over to him. His ginger curls fell over his face, covering the deep brown eyes that could entrance you in. A pale-blue pattern danced around his eye, echoing the body art each of the Black Guard marines were covered in. Though smaller than the others, Drako filled every room he entered. Many had underestimated him in the duelling cages, taking him as simple joker, but he was cunning with the twin axes fixed to his belt. He said he fought like all the Blazing Dragons, his chapter, with a heart full of fire and a handful of dirty tricks.

 

As the lights dimmed in the shuttle, signalling planet fall was close, each marine went through their own little personal rituals. Some, like Francis, would bow their heads and pray to the God-Emperor, blessing their weapons and armour. Others would check their equipment one last time, even though they had done it a hundred times already on the trip. Kevos was almost in awe, each one so dedicated to their own personal ceremony. He briefly saw what looked like a small furred foot disappear back into a pouch belonging to Drako after it had been pressed against his lips. It amused Kevos that no matter how different their parent chapter, or how well they held themselves, even the sturdiest of warriors, like the type Brother Jag’ar embodied, closed their eyes and shut out everything around them. He wondered if they, like him, were just holding onto the last little bit of peace and tranquillity before, as his training officer had put it, ‘the bullets start flying and all hell breaks loose.’

 

The landing was smooth, as all the briefings had suggested it would be. The Eshia would have little knowledge about the coming of Space Marines, maybe even of their existence. Even if they did, it was doubted if they had any anti-air capabilities. These first few hours would be the most nerve-racking, had the Imperium’s arrival gone unnoticed or were watching eyes hidden in the shadows? The landing ramp slowly descended, each brother locked their helmets into place, hiding themselves behind masks of death. In the countless battlefields the Astartes had marched upon, fear had been struck into the hearts of the enemy by the appearance of these faceless soldiers.

 

The Black Guard were the first out, fanning out in pairs to cover the landing zone. As one brother swept his bolter across the horizon, the other knelt down and begun covering their armour in dirt. A few of the Deathwatch marines imitated the action without question; long accepting the chapters expertise in stealth warfare. Others followed sheepishly, only fully convinced by the strange practice when the Sergeant himself bent down and begun rubbing earth into metal. Only two remained upright, Francis and Sebastian, the first slowly crouching to the ground, having already been forced to remove the scripture in favour of camouflage, he wasn’t in the mood for to argue, taking his faith inwards. Kevos looked up at the towering form of Sebastian, imagining the short crop hair, broad cheek bones and square jaw that the helmet concealed. He was indeed the perfect image of a Space Marine; at least according to the popular belief of the Imperium. He was a knight, a saviour, a paladin. He believed in the right cause, the honourable fight and the faithful soldier. Hiding from the enemy was the cowards’ way, and covering oneself in dirt was the hobby of dogs. Kevos knew he was meant to embody the same as Sebastian, but it didn’t feel right in his stomach. He was human; a human granted power beyond the normal scope of nature granted; but, at heart, he was still the farmer’s boy who had taken up the weapon to defend his homeland and family.

Only for him, he had become the weapon and his home had become the entire Imperium, his family all of humanity.

 

If the Eshia had noticed the coming of the craft, they would had witness the parting of two groups, one comfortable covered in mud, unified and slowly merging with the undergrowth that surrounded the landing zone. Their counterparts were a mismatch of characters, some customising quickly to their new environment, their new style of war, others obviously uncomfortable without the shining armour and fluttering banners they usually marched with. Kevos nodded to the Black Guard sergeant whose squad was already disappearing into the vegetation, almost invisible to even his enhanced eyes. Falling into line in front of Drako, the Dragon’s voice filled into his helmet;

 

‘Our weapons will sing and hearts will be blessed. For we are Space Marines, and war, in all its forms, is our glorious work. And today, little brother, it is business as usual.’

[Ferrata]

Chapter Four – Take Off Your Colours

White, the colour of exhaustion.

 

He slumped against the cold stone wall, his heavy breathing forcing his lungs against his reinforced ribcage. His muscles ached, still burning his oxygen reserves from the long run. The last twelve days had been identical; as the golden sun reached high into the sky, the squad remained hidden from view. Soon as it sunk below the horizon they would move out, their pace altering to suit the terrain but always towards Behemial. Tug surveyed his companions; he shrugged at the word, it not quite feeling right for some of them, they didn’t deserve the title or the honour of being befriended by a veteran like himself.

 

The Sergeant was ordering the first watch to their positions, allowing the others to rest. Though marines could survive weeks, if not months, without needing to sleep; pushing themselves hard now would only cost them dearly when they reached war. Staring at Brother Xeria, he almost spat inside his helmet. Tug had suffered enough at the hands of betrayers, weaklings who had turned against the Imperium for their own selfish desires. He remembered the days spent training, Xeria’s ebony eyes, recessed deep into his head, almost as dark in pitch as the short spikes of hair which adorned the top of his scarred face. Sparring with the foul traitor was unnerving, his actions seemed devilishly quick, his strength almost knowing no bounds. Tug was thankfully that, for at least for now, he didn't have to trust the evil soul to guard his back.

 

Black, the colour of sin.

 

Resting his head, Tug shut his own eyes. He hoped he wouldn't be disturbed again. Brother Cyrus, a loyal warrior of the Dark Sons, had awoken the squad during the first rest, accidently turning on his vox and broadcasting his night murmurs to all. His limbs lashed out as his body rolled from side to side; all had learnt to respect Cyrus’ space when it came to choosing places to sleep. His uncontrolled rage was joined by screams of terror, almost like he was reliving some terrible memory every night, some age old battle. The cries of pain echoed in each of their helmets, tales of defeat rolled from the troubled marines tongue, telling of despair and woe. At dusk, each had awoken after little sleep, their moods sombre and morale ebbing away. Thankfully, he had become more accustomed to his new surroundings, his new guards, these last few nights, his disturbing yelps almost ceasing.

 

Purple, the colour of dreams.

 

Slowly he fell into a restless sleep; he fought foes long dead in battles long ago. He remembered the war against the Geresh, their small fire arms doing little damage against the advancing wall of adamantium. The terrible bloodshed of Hygon Four, the true meaning of a meat grinder his chapter so often found themselves forced to partake in. The terrible blow to the Basilisks struck by Arch Traitor Phuant, whose daemonic rituals had begun to rip the very heart out of the world they fought for. So vivid, so real. He fought hand-to-hand, blade against blade, with a corrupt marine whose flesh melded to the will of its owner, matching the bulk of Tug almost pound for pound. The crash of armoured gauntlet against helmet; the deafening blow as a freshly-formed daemon hammer struck against his chest, his lungs almost collapsing under the pressure. The horrible face of his opponent bore down upon him, the two bodies falling without grace to the ground, hands around throats, combat knives stabbing without aim. The smell of rotting flesh which clung to the traitors teeth filled his nostrils, the stench of death overwhelming all else. The daemon whispered his name, ‘Tug’, the very word twisted and full of hate. Again came his name but this time the world shook with him, the ground rumbling for the lust of blood that soaked its surface. ‘Tug’ the teeth snarled; the earth shaking more volatile now. ‘Tug’, it filled his head. His senses gone; the reek of the dead, the vibrations of a world gone mad, his name was all that was left that was his.

He blacked out; death had finally come.

 

His world filled with light once more, resurrection or the afterlife had found him. Facing him was not a brother of his honoured chapter, nor was it The Emperor Himself; instead it was darkened eyes of Xeria which welcomed him back to life. Launching himself from his crumpled form, thinking himself still on the fields against Phaunt and his men, Tug’s weight crashed down on the smaller marine, carrying them both to the ground. Balling his hands into fists, he saw nothing but red the colour of rage. Two massive blows rained down, each connecting with the exposed face of the Blood Sword marine. The others were slow to react, some pausing, happy to see the traitor take his punishment; others eventually grabbing the behemoth, dragging him upwards and restraining his arms.

 

The first Astartes blood had been shed for Behemial.

 

++

 

A spasm carried down his arm, his hand uncontrolled for a brief second whilst it shook violently. Quickly masking the movement as a stretch, he nervously glanced around to make sure if his weak illusion had gone unnoticed. Letting a slow sigh escape from his mouth, he realised the gloom of the situation, any marine worth his Imperial Eagle should had question this small lapse but each had turned inwards since Tugs outburst. Cyrus knew about bad dreams, haunting visions, imaginary becoming reality; still he held no sympathy for the brute. Though the Sergeant had not punished the bloodlust of the Basilisk marine, all knew it would come when the mission was over, maybe it would be better for Tug to die. Some had forgiven the small fight, a task made easier as it was Xeria’s blood which now littered the floor of that house. Whilst others were apathetic to the situation, either truly uncaring or too professional to let it be a factor in the mission, only two glanced at the towering behemoth disapprovingly. Cyrus smiled a little; he wasn’t one of them. His mind was full of his own problems, his own troubles, to bother with the squad at large.

 

He knew that eyes watched his every move, calculating and cold in their constant vigilance. For the past three days they had not rest, offering him no respite from the pressures of their scrutiny. He knew they plotted his death, his gruesome exit from this plane of existence, but he cared little; he had seen his death. It would not be by sharp eyes in the darkness, nor would it be the claws of the Eshia, instead his visions filled with the smoking barrel of the holy weapon of the Astartes; the bolter. He offered a fleeting look to each of the guns on his comrades, some tightly locked in hands, fingers pressing so gently on the triggers, whilst others hung loosely from shoulder straps, swinging in time with the beat of steps. If he was going to die on this planet, it would be one of theirs doings.

 

Freezing in his path, Cyrus dropped to the ground, his knees rocketing towards his face his crouched in the wet grass. He scanned the horizon only to be confronted by nothing; nothing and the cold eyes of his watcher. Happy that his section was clear he turned to the Sergeant and gulped; a raised fist, stalwart in the air. He reached for his weapons as the Sergeant whispered the word they all had longed to hear; “Contact.”

[Reyner]

Hope you're enjoying writing this as much as I am reading it Ferrata B) Nice work so far!

[Ferrata]

Hope you're enjoying writing this as much as I am reading it Ferrata msn-wink.gif Nice work so far!

Hey, I'm enjoying writing it at the moment, sometimes it is a bit of a struggle to get my ideas down without it coming across too misplaced. I'm glad your liking the read, which will be rewarded this week with some actual action. I think these marines have spent too much time thinking and not enough time killing...:D

[Reyner]

Nice one Ferrata :(

[Ferrata]

Chapter Five - Empty House

 

The blades, dulled for this reason, went unseen as they slithered from their sheath. Holding the weapons inversely to one another, Brother Ja’gar twirled one around his wrist, analysing the balance and the weight of the cold steel. Both had renamed nameless, such a foolish superstition would have had him laughed at by his brothers of the Night Saracens. Unfortunately they had been dubbed by his new squad mates, well, by Drako, who had christened them Mother and Daughter, referring to the difference in the length between the twins. Mother hung loosely in his hand, shadowing the outline of his forward thigh, whilst Daughter lay angrily at his waist, poised to strike like a venomous snake once the prey had wandered too close.

 

The Eshia had an advantage over humans, bar their natural agility, razor-sharp biting teeth and filth-infested claws, their sense of smell. If the marines had not been enclosed in their power armour, the stench of sweat would have been their downfall long before now, of that Ja’gar was certain. Fortunately for the squad their armour was capable of fighting in a vacuum, sealing their bodies away from the outside; it also worked in reverse. With only the sacred oils which lubricated the joints, each brother was odourless. The dirt and earth each had continuously applied outweighed the few which did manage to leave a trail. With their noses worthless, and with the Eshia’s night vision being little better than humans, they were targets for the marines. Ja’gar’s Occulobe organ had long ago paved the way for much improved eye-sight, along with the optical devices aiding him even further. The slightest wave of fabric in an almost stationary draft, the twitch of an ear as it attempted to hear the intruders, even the prickling of hairs as they sensed the danger that was about them. His prey had no idea he was seconds away from death, his focus entirely on where he believed an enemy lay.

 

Ja’gar’s lungs eased their rate, his breathing becoming shallow and elongated, his feet falling with like a feather as the silent powered units nullified the extreme mass of his armour. Shifting his weight to his front foot, he hardened his grip on the Daughter and then released it slightly; everything had to be perfect. She was unleashed, the Daughter eating up this distance between her and her meal. With her trapped released, the knife buried herself in the gruesome act of the death. In the air she rose, the point obsessed with the fragile neck of the Eshia, unmoving in its dedication. Down she went, through flesh and cartilage. Blood rushed out the wound or down the trachea, filling the lungs with the elixir of life. The escaping air gurgled as it made its way through the thick red liquid, the music to the first kill. Signalling the end of the grand opening, the main act of slaughter could begin.

 

It started with a shriek, a shrill noise of warning. Its reply was the shattering of wood, the cracking of old hinges and an explosion of shards, the valiant form of Sebastian emerging from the debris. His hammer and shield in cohorts with his courage and valour made the battle code of Vulkan. Subtly, tact and stealth had been lost, abandoned, for the honour of one man.

 

Eloquence and brutality walked hand-in-hand during the short battle to come. Lycaon erupted like a daemon from his prone position infused with the scent of blood in his nostrils. The purr of his chainsword sang in tune with his own roar; the true meaning of the word fury being brought forward and subjected on the Eshia. The fighting style of the Death Hound was non-existent; heart had long overpowered the mind. Slashing, thrusting, grabbing, it all consumed the world around him, each blurring into the next. He was a whirlwind of destruction and Ja’gar nodded a private thank you to no-one as Lycaon disappeared upstairs. Sebastian was more courteous to his fellow warriors, if not predictable and dull. His shield reflecting both small arms fire and the blades of those foolish enough to close on him. The energy field sizzling each time a new attack harmless dissipated itself, not even allowing the artwork to become scratched. His hammer held high above his head, a symbol a truth and justice for all to see. It would glide from its perch, bludgeoning redemption through pain to all those who dare stand against him. A satisfying crush echoed the supremacy of Sebastian and that of the Imperium itself.

 

A soldier he was, a warrior, a priest of battle, a dancer to the tune of battle, a poet whose words killed. Ja’gar was all of these, it was all he was. To fight was to live, with all else palling in comparison. The shadow was his lover, allowing him to walk unnoticed from murder to bloody murder; an anchor of eloquent butchery in the chaos that surrounded him. Mother and Daughter guided each other to heart of others, helping each other in the kill, shedding blood with one another. As flesh was taken from bone, and blood left to paint the floor, the family of three found their peace.

 

An empty silence fell on the house, last breathes struggled from punctured lungs, hearts pumping their final beat. The calm after the destruction was more beautiful that the tranquillest of peace.

 

++

 

Cyrus guarded their retreat; lost in the darkness as he awaited the call to regroup. His staring was returned by the eyes of his watchers, more numerous that before. They seemed to dance towards him, rocking gently from side to side. His mind had clouded over, a strange composure settling over him as he complicated his isolation from his brothers. He believed this planet was not worth the bloodshed and the lives that it would cost to reclaim it; he wasn’t sure if mankind deserved to retake it as their own. Maybe even the stars should not be the playground to the human race, for what had we brought bar death and more death. He was sure his life would be as meaningless as all others, a mere fleeting moment in a greater picture that would not bare his image.

 

Whilst his brain treaded the paths of despair and discovery, his body refused to be forgotten and left to rot in an early grave. His arm rose swiftly in the air, his finger tight around the trigger of his bolter. If the eyes were coming for him, then they would have to come through a shower of bullets. The fire mechanism broke the silence, the grunt of metal sending a hail of doom towards the watchers. As the fowl ratmen emerged from the night, a shadow passed over Cyrus.

[Tutteman]

... :lol: I LOVE IT. To be honest I was a bit worried by the language of the sergeant in the second chapter. Seemed a bit, non-40Kish. :ermm:

 

But the rest is just brilliant. Love it and keep it coming.

[Reyner]

Very good, a couple of typos in places but nothing to worry about. The combat was short but sweet :P

[Ferrata]

Chapter Six - The Kill

 

The ground shook as he landed, mud raining down after being disrupted from its slumber. His body crouching close to the ground, his mind assessed his surroundings with inhuman speed. A deep growl turned into a roar as he thumbed the activation rune of his chainsword. Preparing for the combat that was to come, he shifted the weight on his feet, only to have the cracking of bones under pressure echo the movement back. The fragile form of an Eshia lay crumpled underneath Lycaon’s foot, their light bones allowing them to be so agile proving to be their downfall. His weapon lowered to his waist, he awaited the screams of his enemy. They came; they came in numbers. Their shriek was matched by his own battle cry.

 

A lower note filled the air as his chainsword tore through the muscle of the first rat-creature to tear down upon him. A high-pitch howl being released from the furred lips of the Eshia, the music which marked the arrival of death, his fanfare singing in praise of the blood spilled. The teeth of the blade fed on the guts of the poor beast, wrenching muscle from bone, spitting blood in all directions as it enjoyed the taste of war. Removing the blade, if such a weapon could bear such a fine name, Lycaon brought it up in a wide arc, catching another two foes with the tip as he did. This blow came with much greater force, gravity and Astartes working in synergy to deliver a destructive strike. One Eshia was detached from his legs, offering protecting to his clan-mates as the weapon ground through his bones.

 

All manner of small arms fire and knives struck the fine armour of Lycaon, their blows doing little damage bar chipping away at the thin layer of paint. Though weak, the constant hammering would eventually find a weak point, some Achilles’ heel. A quick jab with the chainsword impaled another beast, its small body shaking violently as Lycaon lifted the weapon slightly allowing the weight of his foe to slowly lower the rat-man to the hungry teeth. A sharp flick of his knee collapsed the lungs of another, the ribcage splintering backwards, perforating the vital organs. Beauty, style, control, were not words Lycaon equated with battle; he was a barbarian, a butcher, a hero of The Emperor. His blooded chest eagle ended a life as the great palm of the Astartes made the skull of an Eshia collide against it.

 

Fists obliterated ribcages, his helmet shattered skulls. Elbows, knees, the hilt of his sword, all weapons of devastating effect. Every movement ended the life of a rat-beast, every fleeting use of energy. He did not understand the shrieks which surrounded him, if he had known he would have smiled. “Monster” they shrilled, “Behemoth” “Death” they christened him. A murder in the midst doing the work of his Lord, a true Angel of Death.

 

The searing teeth ground to a halt, the power unit chocking as it attempted to clear the blade from the rocky earth it had been impaled in, the broken frame of an Eshia warrior twitched lifelessly at the base. Without his sword he was by no means defenceless but the Eshia sensed vulnerability, an opening. With their hind legs braced, they pounced from all sides, clinging onto him with claws. Their crude guns abandoned, it was all about the knife jabbing mindlessly in attempt to break the armour of Lycaon. Finally they succeeded, their attack taking him off-balance. Those unfortunate enough to be on his back were soon crushed as the Astartes toppled.

 

They swarmed him; knives digging into joints, teeth nibbling at his armour, claws scratching at his helmet. He shot out his foot, sending a number of foes flying with the brute force of the blow. Another was sent crashing as his arm broke free. Now able to defend his face, the attack only intensified, the Eshia focussing their efforts on the face of their foe. He shoved them back with all his strength, but he was given no respite as they quickly gathered again. The magnetic locks holding his helmet in place finally failed, his skin exposed to the cold air of the atmosphere for the first time. The scent of flesh, as of yet withheld from them, broke the concentration of the Eshia; it was all Lycaon needed. Allowing his Betcher’s Gland to excrete acid into his mouth, he thanked The Emperor for this hidden weapon. He spat out at his enemy, the snarling eyes which starred so intently at him. Hair, skin, muscle, it all corroded under the chemical attack. He felt the bubbling on his own face as the few drops of excess acid fell from the now bare skulls, Rolling, he released the corpses that lay upon him, only to find them quickly replaced with the living.

 

His strategic movement had brought him close to his beloved chainsword, the engine still coughing as the blade stood upright in the ground, only a metre above his head. Smiling, he locked a poor Eshia in his super-human grip, only to release him towards the static weapon. The weight of the rat-man was enough to free it though; the motor howling in relief as it was freed, eating into the body of the Xenos. A surprised expression stretched across the snout of the Eshia as its guts were excavated by an unmanned blade.

 

Jumping to his feet, Lycaon regained his momentum, quickly dispatching three enemies with thunderous blows of his fists. A scant second of peace allowed him to remove his combat dagger from its sheath, locking it tightly in the special housing on the back of his gauntlet. An over-stretched punch allowed the knife to penetrate an eye, the viscous liquid acting as a lubricant for the next foe. The tip acted as a pioneer for the destruction to follow, quickly coating his knuckles in a fleshy gore as it clung between individual plates. With his hand buried deep within the skull of an Eshia, Lycaon jolted backwards towards the chainsword which lay behind him.

 

Retrieving his favoured weapon, he slid his hand carefully along the teeth, removing a corpse along with much of the mud. Reactivating the mechanism, he delved into the playground of death once more, becoming a juggernaut once more. His long dark hair fell from its loose holdings, freed from the tight environment of his helmet. It whipped with every strike, every blow. Quickly becoming mattered in blood, even it became a weapon under the control of Lycaon.

 

The combat ceased a few more seconds later, the final Eshia drawing its last breath as the toothed-blade was drawn back from its throat. The last drop of blood fell to the ground, the last shriek of pain echoed against the night sky. Lycaon crouched, his own lungs working hard to oxygenate his muscles. He watched as eight figures emerged from the darkness, most obsessed with the bloodshed he had caused. Grinning, he welcomed them;

 

“You’re late!”

 

He wasn’t sure who answered, but their finger extended towards the prone form of an Astartes;

 

“Maybe too late.” Came the reply.

[Reyner]

That was ace :) So violent, nice work! But who has died? ;)

 

I would have replied sooner get Uni deadlines are taking their toll, I'll be free by Monday though woo!

[Ferrata]

Chapter Seven - Failure By Design

 

“Dog...” He mumbled to himself.

 

“What right does such a beast have to fight in the name of The Emperor? Why does one so low deserve to inherit perfection? Why does one so feral, so foul, wear the Aquila? My brothers-in-arms should be paladins not heathens, saviours not savages.”

 

Sebastian looked down at the grinning face of Lycaon, the Hound crouched and panting like the creature he was. His hair knotted with blood and dirt, his face a mess of scratches and scars. He acted like a pillager, a torment of humanity, a mutt in the clothing of a hero. No warrior of The Emperor should fight with so little grace, with no honour or courage. They should fuel their fire with belief in the righteousness of their cause, not on bloodlust and war hungering. He would see this dog pay for his insolence to The Emperor, to him, to the Imperium.

Lost in the whirlpool of hatred, all else became dulled to the fire sting of revulsion. His eyes burnt with anger, his muscles tightened ready to fight. Only the screaming orders of the Sergeant broke the trance that had absorbed him.

 

Drako was the first to react dashing to the fallen form of a Space Marine, the black armour a deep stain against the sun-torched grass. His hands quickly pressing against every square-inch, each joint, desperately searching for the slightest of impairments, any sign of a wound, an injury. The Sergeant dropped beside him, joining the frantic hunt as he flicked through the runes inside his helmet, neuronal impulses firing as he activated each option. Cyrus’ image filled his right eye, the screen filling with data about the marine under his command. Nothing had been triggered, his Larraman cell count was normal suggesting that his skin had not been broken; his Preomnor was stable and showed no signs of action. The only abnormality was a slightly increased heart beat over the past twelve hours and his waste output was higher than would be expected.

 

Around the lifeless body of Cyrus, the world did not stand still. The rest of the squad moved as a fluid form, a single entity. They symbolised the true veteran nature of the Deathwatch, the controlled actions in the direst of circumstances, clear thought under crippling burdens. An arc formed around their fallen comrade, Brothers Ja’gar, Francis and Xeria scanning the horizon with their bolters whilst the towering form of Tug lumbered behind them, even his heavy bolter was dwarfed in comparison to him. As their weapons gently fanned for enemies, their aims never dropped, their minds never hesitating, never looking back. Sebastian and Lycaon prepared for a closer fight, flanking either side of the trio. It was Kevos who responded slowest, his fresh eyes taking in the scene without the decades of warfare the others had witnessed. He had seen brothers fall before, obliterated by a rocket or cooked gradually within their armour as they were engulfed by flames, but never had one gone so silent, so cleanly.

 

Their search had proved fruitless, the armour which encased him was free from any form of damage, and Cyrus himself was functioning normally. With great care his helmet was unlocked and removed, the slow gentle hiss of air as the pressures balanced became elongated as time was taken not to further the unknown wound. What greeted them was nothing short of daemonic, pale washed out skin hanging loosely from the Dark Sons’ bone structure, the only colour brought to the goose-pimpled flesh was the darkness of the bags which fell heavily from his retreated eyes.

 

This time Kevos was quick, crouching down as his hands gently graced the pasty skin of Cyrus.

 

“Trail Zero...” his voice still feeble without confidence although he was a master of this subject. Realising he was alone in his knowledge, he continued.

 

“I was, I mean, my chapter recruits from the street gangs of the sub-hives, orphans and runaways lost in the depths of hell. Before the Seekers find us, even though we are so young, the life has absorbed us. The violence, the loyalty, and the addiction. Thios, or The Emperor’s Dream, Bear-shots, or the other hundred names for it, the entire war below the rich people is fuelled by Thios. When the Seekers take you, when you become part of the chapter but before the initiation rituals being you must overcome this dependence, this want. It kills many, the unlucky ones who have been hooked too long to do without. The insomnia, the shakes, sickness of both ends and pale, pimpled skin, he has them all. Cyrus is going through Trail Zero.”

 

Whilst Drako began to argue, the Sergeant smiled inside his helmet, Trail Zero, the gangs, Thios.

 

“His Preomnor shows no sign of poison, be it of his own back or the en...”

 

Bolter fire interrupted him, their guardian circle erupting into life as guns barked as they spat their bullets towards the enemy. The deep chattering noise of Tug’s heavy bolter rolled across the empty skies like thunder without lightning, but still his enemies were struck. At first the only retort to the explosive rounds of the Holy Bolters was screams of pain and agony, but soon came the fire of the Eshia. Their black-powder guns, though that was being nice to the rudimentary projectile weapons, pinging solid bullets from the armour of The Emperor’s Chosen. For what they lacked in power, accuracy and penetration they made up for in numbers and soon the music of Death once again filled the ears of the Deathwatch.

 

‘I could stand here all day long and not a single scratch would be taken on this Emperor-awful camouflage.”

 

As if The Emperor was listening Himself, angered by His name being taken in vain, a sheering ball of liquid light scorched the ground at Sebastian’s feet. As more of this newly acquainted projectile streaked towards them, the vulnerability of their position became increasingly obvious. Only armour and faith protected them from the onslaught, the Eshia advancing to encircle them under the covering fire of their crude plasma-like weapons. Before the Sergeant had even bellowed his order, the squad had already acted, still his voice hung heavy in the air;

 

“Retreat!”

[blood_raven_240]

Don't have time to read it right now, but be guarenteed, this'll be my night-time reading tonight ;)

 

From what I've read, very nice. :lol:

[Ferrata]

Chapter Eight - Man Overboard

 

His body felt heavy though it was effortless to move. His feet buried deep in the soil forming waves in their wake, dragged behind him like an anchor released to halt the beaching of a ship. His head swam and smashed under great tides of nausea as his stomach mutinied against him. Light flooded into his mind, bleaching the darkness of his own hidden depths, his suppressed misery and the blackest of pains which controlled him. Each lunging movement rang across his body, sharp whiplash that ached and strained against his muscles. The only reply the dull echo of agony which had always been a part of him. He was losing command of everything, his sanity, his living-corpse, his heart.

 

Only the shouts of the Betrayers, as he had become to know his comrades inside his troubled brain, saved him from plunging from breast of life, their voices the last ropes of hope which he clung to ferociously. The constant hum of bullets was an orchestra of reality which he savoured every moment like the words of a lover. Like a jigsaw, each piece fitted together to make the picture his eyes were still yet to see. A frantic retreat, a rolling fire-fight, an organised rabble fleeing to save their own skins; this was war. An overwhelming enemy, numbers, terrain, seemingly courage all stood allied with the Eshia, cursed ratmen of this world. The Sergeant attempting to hold the squad together, the two groups of three flowing pass one another in a seamless dance, taking their turn in the heat of conflict on the centre stage.

 

Through the darkening skies of his mind, the clouds parted to allow a ray of thought, though Cyrus believed he may have been better to remain in a perpetual night. This battle was a metaphor for the Imperium, a war without the hope of victory or even survival. Enemies within, ever hungry to execute the human race for their own power, their own vision of the future. And enemies without, whose hatred of mankind ranged from the insane to the most basic feral lusts, whose numbers seemed limitless and faith unquestionable. Faith, he laughed to himself, a word he had felt little of since he became a walking daemon of destruction. Belief in The God-Emperor, a corpse sitting on a throne of souls as vultures scavenged His Empire for the meat of tyranny and wealth. His Angels of Death nothing more than weapons of an age forgot, relics of a great time long past, artefacts burning themselves to ashes in His name, He who has long since departed.

 

Cyrus’ derailed mind would have continued its forlorn journey to the darkest of pits if reality had not brought him crashing onto the rocks. His body thrown against a wall as those entrusted to carry him turned to add their own firepower to the war which had engulfed them. He felt an explosion but from within him, his throat unable to safeguard against the rioting within his stomach. He folded onto his side like all creatures of nature in times of discomfort. His coughing was a welcomed sign to the Betrayers, his sickness bringing them pleasure. As he lay there, wrecked and alone, his vision slowly returned to him, the light no longer blinding and the darkness no longer a friend.

 

“Look who didn’t like the company of The Emperor?”

 

Draco, the smug bastard, always with something to say, some clever comment. Cyrus knew it would not be him to pull the trigger; the coward could barely shoot the enemy never mind one of his own. He imagined chocking the last breathe from the Dragon’s body. He wondered if the joker would laugh then; find the funny side of his demise? A thin smile flickered across his lips, which the dim-witted fool believed was appreciation of his humour.

 

As more foul bile escaped from his mouth, he pushed himself away from the stench which had begun to assail his exposed nostrils, though the task seemed easier than it was. His muscles felt weak, his arms shaking under the pressure of his weight. Slowly he eased himself upright against the wall which had been so kind to support him, moving away from the grinning Draco.

 

He took stock of his surroundings, the stale light seeping through the windows around the broad shoulders of the Deathwatch marines whose bolters tracked and spat at the approaching Eshia. The dust swept from the ground by the sudden circus which had disturbed its restful slumber, its majestic flight highlighted by the pale sun. A small set of stairs littered the nearest wall, every third step showing signs of abuse from the pounding of an Astartes’ boot. Some fortress they had retreated to, some bastion of strength.

 

Believing his stomach to have ceased its rebellious activities and that strength had returned to his limbs, he planted his palms firmly against the floor. Gritting his teeth he forced himself upward, his feet taking punishment as his knees began to fail. Only the innate strength of his armour saved him from returning to his prone position, his joints locking to halt any failure, some hidden thought triggering the action. Standing. His head slowly broke into clearer waters, although the consistent whine of his doom still rumbled in the background, threatening, always threatening.

 

He collected his bolter from the floor where one of the Betrayers had hastily abandoned the most holy of weapons. The sudden movement made his brain rush forward, vertigo and dizziness practicing their craft for the briefest of moments. Upright. He was ready for battle, for the taste of blood in his mouth of the bitterness of vomit, for the rush of adrenaline not pain, for death not life. Taking a deep breath in, fresh oxygen filled his veins and brought renewed vigour to once defeated muscles. The world around him seemed to slow, the burst of gunfire easing to single roars, sights went unwatched, and the shrill noises of the Eshia faded into the background.

 

The Betrayers moved quicker now filling out of the house which had proved to be worthy of their presence. Cyrus fell into line out of deep-rooted training over intent. Once again they were fleeing though the enemy had been defeated for each knew they would return, in greater number and greater knowledge. They would be hunted like pests, like rodents.