Pavement Artist Posted March 10, 2012 Share Posted March 10, 2012 Ahoy all. This is a quick something i wrote last night. Im hoping it turns into a longer piece but at the moment my Alpha legion story requires the attention. I'm a recent convert to the Dark Angels and what drew me to the chapter was the tragic story at the core of the first legion. I had an urge just to get something down story wise and if you folks like it i shall endeavor to expand upon this. The core of the story will be about a recent initiate to the Deathwing and his first encounter with the Fallen. I hope this lil prologue to serve as a taster for you and set the tone for things to come. Comments and criticism welcome as always Prologue He was dying, of that he was sure. In the midst of the chaos unfolding around him, he knew that to be the only constant. He held on to the statement, repeating it like a mantra, spitting it through blood stained teeth; as though by speaking the words he gave weight and form to the declaration. The pain dogged him with every step. Every mark of his progress punctuated by acute lances of white hot pain that darted through his nerves. Such agony was anathema to one such as him- one who had left his humanity behind to be engineered above such mortal concerns. This pain was foreign to him and its very presence- liquid and molten hot throughout his body; confirmed the mortal state of his injuries more acutely than any biometric read out from his armour. Not that he was afforded such luxuries. His Tactical Dreadnought armour- once a symbol of unbreakable might, was now reduced to a wheezing, hulking shadow of itself. The gargantuan plate- adorned in an osseous white; sputtered and hissed arcing gouts of electricity, cables twitching like riled snakes from exposed gouges in the armour. As he walked, he left pieces of his armour behind, shorn off in great chunks, shuddering from him like patinas of ice. He felt bile rise in his throat and quelled it. To see such blessed wargear sundered was more disturbing to him than the failings of his biological self. He though about the one who had laid him so low and he felt the rush of acid return in his gorge. Pain blurred his thoughts momentarily and he stumbled, ruined servos in his armour letting out a whining dirge as it fought to keep him upright. His helmet was damaged- the visual feed reduced to a stuttering wash of static. He wrenched it free, tossing it aside, his senses immediately assaulted by the acrid stench of smoke and cordite. He was surrounded by the ruins of the Thermae. The structure had been gutted by hours of prolonged bombardment from dissident artillery. The structure was now a hollowed remnant of its former self, The sweeping architecture a fire blackened husk, the walls broken and jagged like some gargantuan charred ribcage. He was standing in the deep crater of the Caldarium. His blood and shards of armour lay scattered about him- blood and bone mingling on the ground. He forced his broken hulk of a body to move, stomping through the bath, his passing smashing the brick pilae stacks that clawed from the surface of the pool like twisted fingers. His ceramite boots clawed great furrows into the lip of the bath as he clambered out, his Terminator armour hissing and whining with every step. His blood trailed behind him in a broken ribbon of crimson, his Larraman's cells struggling to seal the wounds which he wrenched open with every step. His mind went to him. The one who had laid him low. The pain fogged his memories, ruining the recall but the hurt was fresh and his enemy was burned into his fore brain. A shadow, armoured in black and garbed in a surplus of bone white- so very much like his sundered armour. He was a myth- a ghost of a legend, an endless refrain of a nightmare; a remnant of an age rendered into something dark and mythical in the ten thousand years that had passed. Worse than all this- he was a cancerous shadow, a mocking echo of his brotherhood's own past. This black armoured warrior was a remnant of a time when his chapter had trodden the line between light and dark. His presence – not only on this world but in this universe, in this age; was abhorrent. He turned over his shoulder to glimpse the shorn pieces of osseous plate laying at the foot of the bath. He reminded himself that he was adorned in his sepulchral and dread aspect for just this reason. He had been entrusted with the most terrible of truths and had armoured his soul against it. He had advanced through the mysteries and now it was entrusted to him to hunt down those who masqueraded as his kin- bedecked in armour of ancient times. These warriors represented an unacceptable moment of laxity in his chapter's history and he was determined to see the last embers of heresy snuffed out. As his mind went to thoughts of ancient transgressions, his lightning claws crackled into life, tiny arcs of lightning dancing over the monomolecular blades, the weapons charging as though fired by some synaptic response. He smiled through blood caked lips- this was good, though his physical form was mortally wounded, his will remained as unbreakable as his duty demanded. He flexed his gauntlets, watching the electrical charge play over the claws. His enemy would think him ended, such were the wounds his foe sword dealt him. The warrior resolved to re-educate his foe upon the matter. Death would wait whilst duty still remained. Though bereft of the auto sense gifted to him by his helm's audio suite- the warrior still heard the approach of his attackers long before they were in position, his biologically enhanced hearing picking out the clumsy scraping of heavy military boots on fallen rockcrete. He elected not to bother with cover and was ready in the open for them as they rushed into the Thermae, taking up firing positions in the rubble of the shattered portico. They were ragtag and filthy, members of the dissident movement that had erupted amongst the workers of the planet. Their uniforms were altered versions of the overalls each had worn when working upon the many hulking gas platforms on the planet. The midnight garments were now torn and adorned with gaudy chains and other trinkets that could be looted during their advance. The warrior had no doubt that his enemy's presence here was in some way responsible for the uprising on the planet. What little information his forces had been able to gather had spoken of a great demagogue that had riled the worker folk of the planet into rising up and throwing off the “Tyrannic yoke of imperial rule.” In the earliest days of the uprising, the dissidents had managed to overwhelm a series of PDF barracks, appropriating large numbers of arms for themselves. Native guard regiments were mustering for a campaign in the nearby Endrago cluster and so the rebels found themselves sitting on a vast stockpile of freshly issued munitorum supplies. These same pilfered armaments, they now aimed at him. Lasguns still fresh from sterile plastek wrappings, their barrels glinting in the faint sunlight. The quiet of the morning air was suddenly shattered as the sharp crack of a dozen lasguns sounded, echoing amongst the broken remnants of the Thermae. Beams of crimson stabbed at him, blistering the paintwork of his wargear, the kinetic impact pitiful even though his armour was rent and broken. He kept his head bowed, walking forward as though a man bearing a sudden rain shower. The air around him seared as the las bolts flew around him in a flurry and yet he still advanced, ceramite crunching into rockcrete. A few found their mark, lancing into his torso between the furrows where his armour had been torn. He quelled the searing pain that bloomed in his brain, stalking implacibly towards the Portico. Some of the dissidents began to panic, seeing what little effect their combined firepower had achieved. A few broke, clambering furiously over the rubble to escape. He let them go. Death would find them out there and he was a patient soul. Others had expended their cells and were now hurriedly trying to replace the clips. Fresh reloads slipped from panicking fingers, clattering to the ground. Those who remained, let out a few desultory shots, their mouths open wide, working in an idiotic fashion as though they recognised their death had come upon them. He elected not to disabuse them of this notion. He vaulted the mound of the scree slope of rubble, his damaged armour servos whining shrilly as he forced the gargantuan bulk into movement. He landed amongst the rebels, the ground shuddering beneath him as his boots left small craters in the rockcrete. The dissidents scattered backwards, shook by the impact, holding their lasrifles in front of their bodies like make shift staffs. He let out a thunderous growl, inhuman and terrible, even without the grinding electronic cadence of his vox grill. He thundered into a pair of the rebels, putting his shoulder down and letting his bulk collide into their torsos like a mattock. He heard the firewood crack of ribs snapping and the two rebels fell back, blood foaming up between their lips from pierced lungs. He turned as more las bolts pattered against his armour. His ceramite boot ground into the torso of one of the rebels beneath him- a gargling cry of pain welling up from below. Flexing his wrists, the claws hissed, arcing energy across the blades as he lunged for the pocket of dissidents. They had underestimated him. They had seen the blood and the broken armour and had taken him for easy prey. They were more carrion than soldiers, finding courage only because their quarry was half dead. They expected him to be weak, to be slow and ponderous- it was a fatal flaw. He saw the flash of fear- hot and urgent, as it flared in their eyes. The magnitude of their mistake was writ large on their face as they attempted to stumble backwards, not realising he was already among them. The warrior snarled an oath, the words rendered unintelligible when drowned out by the screams of his victims. The claws slashed across his body, the blades hissing as they dug grievous furrows into their torsos. Once again, he used his bulk as a weapon, thundering into them, running them through with the claws, tearing them bodily from them and seeing the curious semi circle patterns the blood made as it jetted from them. In seconds it was over. He stood amidst a crater of scattered and ruined bodies. One of the dissidents was still alive, scraping backwards against the slope of rubble; mewling pathetically as he clenched both hands to his gut; thick ropes of intestine slipping through his fingers. He knew to end this man quickly and cleanly would be a mercy. Like the others, he had been mislead by an arch traitor- a being who knew only dissembling and treachery. Was he to blame these mortals for being led astray by such a being? They were so frail and his kind must seem like gods when they walk amongst them. Even as these thoughts came to him, he knew he could pay them no heed. These men were guilty of the same weakness that even now still marred his chapter- that same flaw that he swore to erase. It did not matter who had mislead them. Whether he had cowed them into submission or gained their loyalty through more nefarious means, it mattered not. You always fought, always resisted. These truths had been engrained within his consciousness ever since the angels took him as a child. To submit, willingly or otherwise, to the will of another, was something he would never understand. The staccato crump of heavy artillery drew him out of his reverie. It echoed in the distance like the beating of some gargantuan war drum. The bodies around him were still now and he cast a grim eye over their twisted forms, watching the blood vapour ghost off of his claws. Somewhere amongst the broken ruins of the city, his quarry evaded him. His wounds still flaring in white hot flashes, he forced his feet forward, one after the other. A traitor still lived and so for now, death could wait. He was Deathwing and there was only duty. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
elmo Posted March 10, 2012 Share Posted March 10, 2012 For the sake of the Lion - don't stop now! :P Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Pavement Artist Posted March 10, 2012 Author Share Posted March 10, 2012 Heh thank you Elmo. I will be expanding upon it. This is literally what i had to get out of my system yesterday :( Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
krewl Posted March 10, 2012 Share Posted March 10, 2012 Thats very good indeed, please get more out of your system, as your therapist I'd advise you to write more ;) Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Pavement Artist Posted March 10, 2012 Author Share Posted March 10, 2012 At least your fees aren't extortionate ;) I will sir, thank you for the kind words. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
puck Posted March 11, 2012 Share Posted March 11, 2012 Jeez dude! You gotta finish this. Then turn it into GW and we as the foremost DA community will demand they put it in the next codex. "Death can wait whilst duty still remains" should be one of the new deathwing mantras, its so perfect. Now I have to contrive some way to put that on a Landraider... Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Vazzy Posted March 11, 2012 Share Posted March 11, 2012 Well, your writing just shot my writing then set its corpse on fire. Nice job my friend. :-P Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Pavement Artist Posted March 11, 2012 Author Share Posted March 11, 2012 Hey don't sell yourself short mate, your story was a big impetus to get this piece done. @puck if you managed to get that on a vehicle id be honoured. Glad you liked it, the phrase just seemed to fit. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Brother-Sergeant Bohemond Posted March 11, 2012 Share Posted March 11, 2012 this. this is..., by the Throne, I am speechless with the quality and so very Deathwingness of it. I love it. Awesome. Pure Awesome. Leave the Alphas and turn back the light brother, this needs your full and undivided attention! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Pavement Artist Posted March 11, 2012 Author Share Posted March 11, 2012 Thank Ye sir, im glad you felt the tone was right Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Cactus Posted March 11, 2012 Share Posted March 11, 2012 Yep, you've definitely nailed what it means to be part of the Deathwing. I look forward to part two. A couple of corrections: "armoured in black and garbed in a surplice of bone white" "They were more carrion eaters than soldiers" Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Pavement Artist Posted March 11, 2012 Author Share Posted March 11, 2012 That'll teach me for not reading it through before I go to bed :P cheers cactus, can't believe I mispelled surplice That carrion was supposed to read carrion feeders, I can only assume cypher stole it Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
krewl Posted March 11, 2012 Share Posted March 11, 2012 Did you REALLY not figure this one out... "Death can wait while duty still remains" just screams for a ven dread! it's a perfect fit. Would you mind if I nicked it? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Pavement Artist Posted March 11, 2012 Author Share Posted March 11, 2012 Not only do i not mind, I think its perfect! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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