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XIV Dragoon, VII Grand Company, IV Legion (13Jun2015)

Hyaenidae

By Hyaenidae
in + AGE OF DARKNESS +

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Excessus Venerable Brother

Excessus

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Bet he gives the worst High Fives though.

 

Crap. Now I'm going to have to make a guy in his platoon with a bionic hand...

Hahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahaaa!!!!!!!1

 

DO IT! :D

 

I just got a vision, I could see it happen. High on adrenaline after a tough battle, after finally taking the stronghold, the two surviving marines in the breacher squad shouted "**** YEAH!" and did an awesome high five...not thinking of their current equipment...

 

http://www.tickld.com/images/gif/4e04598f0c39816bf952723928bcf956.jpg

The Pyre Novitiate

The Pyre

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Must say this is such an amazing Log just finished reading it all, The individuality of every model is just amazing as is your inspiration and use of LOTS of differnt sourced parts really gives your models such a great feel.

 

When you have them all together it will be such a sight to see. Love the feeling you give to sergeants with a little back story too makes my day, Even if i do play sallies.

 

Only problem i see is when you play a game with them all youll feel every loss of a brother and be reminded of the blood and mental power that goes into each one, Bring tissues.

Hyaenidae Venerable Brother

Hyaenidae

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Sergeant Fitian decided, as he ran through shin deep muck with hard rounds smacking into his iron plate, and shrapnel from pre-ranged artillery shells clattering against his helm, that he was having a bad night. The trench raid had started well; The raiding party, mostly made up of members of 2nd Platoon, had smeared their armour in mud and ash, jammed leather and cloth between moving sections of plate, powered down their suits to minimal output, and had begun crawling through the shattered landscape between the opposing armies under the cover of darkness and the hammering of a torrential downpour. Varel had been able to snip the razor wire without raising alarm, and Hauda was able to slit the throats of the closest Radician soldiers with stealth and swiftness. The rest of the party slipped over the edge, and quietly began raising hell. Timed charges inside boxes of mortar shells, and mines placed under the sodden duckboards. Spare barrels bent in half, and claymores placed to cause maximum damage. Attentive 72nd Radician Grenadiers, watching the dark atop their firesteps, never saw the monsters of iron and crusted mud behind them and had footlong blackened blades hammered into their skulls from behind, then were rolled silently into grenade sumps. Bunkers of sleeping loyalists never even had that chance, as the Legionaries of the Iron IV moved from cot to cot, commiting the mortals to their dreams forever. They had worked through two more firebays in the rain, spilling blood and planting gifts along the way, until Tyndal had the misforture of running straight into three Ashen Sons of Nocturne of the Hellhammer company, XVIII Legion; Drake-knights of Kasr Shiloh. The young Iron Warrior had just enough time to swear over the vox, before he was violently taken apart by boltrounds at point blank range.

 

Everything had pretty much gone to pot after that, very little that Fitian could remember with any acuity. Hammond and Zurik had been vaporized by a melta-lance in the furthest bay they had reached, the wash from the superheated blast backdrafting from the traverse, discolouring Fitian's plate. The roughneck bastard Hauda did the first honourable action in his life, taking a gladius meant for Corporal Kell through the gap between his chest and abdomen plates. Methuen, a member of Fitian's platoon since he had recieved his rank and position, died under a forge hammer, the flame-inscribed tool deforming his helm with a splash of sparks and blood. That had been enough to vox a retreat. Fitian had rolled over the parapet immedietley, and began running as fast as he could through the consuming mud and leg-snagging razorwire; bursts of promethium, grenades, lines of tracer fire, and mortar shells chased him and the other dark shapes stumbling towards the safety of the XIV Dragoon lines. The Radician artillery batteries, their fire already pre-plotted throughout no man's land, came screaming down, the sounds of freight trains punctuated by retina-scalding flashes and chest thumping explosions cutting through the storm. Fitian fell to his knees, the concussive blast of a 180mm shell overcoming even his trans-human strength momentarily. Shortly ahead, Varel fell to the ground as well, vengeful bolt rounds punching through his plate in mists of vaporized blood. On hands and knees, Fitian crawled forward, stumbled back to his feet, and kept pushing for friendly lines. Suddenly, an iron gauntlet gripped his greave; Varel, his helm knocked away, was still alive. Though he was choking on blood, his chest was shattered, and his eyes were pleading, Fitian could see that his injuries were survivable. Then again, if he wasted time dragging his brother back, that would increase Fitian's risk of injury. The choice, as far as he was concerned, was simple. Smirking inside his helm, Fitian shook off his Varel's hand in a spray of muddy water. "Die well if you can, brother". Under the strobing flash of detonating shells, he continued his mad dash to safety, leaving a brother he had known for almost a century to die alone, still staring at his Sergeant's back as the curtain of the storm claimed him. Ten seconds later, Varel ceased to exist, torn apart in a furious detonation, his last thoughts that of betrayal.

 

Fitian practically fell into the Dragoon's trench, a bolt round slamming into his pauldron at the last second. In a clatter of plate, he slammed into the duckboards, and began laughing, amused at his survival. Getting to his feet, he found what was left of his platoon gathered around him, most unhelmed, staring daggers at him in the cold, cold rain.

 

"What?" Fitian said innocently, still bemused that his brains were still in his skull.

 

Corporal Kell was the first to speak. "We saw Varel fall. You could have saved him. You left him to die."

 

Hauda, the artfully crafted gladius still sticking out of his stomach, was next. "That was dishonourable. He was your friend, Sergeant. You murdered him, as surely as the damned Drakes' shells did."

 

Fitian snorted. "Death happens. This is war, you idiots; this is The War. I care about you as much as I care about my knife; should it break, it will be cast aside. I'm not going to waste my time saving a broken Marine. Don't like it? Tough. As long as you knuckle draggers are in my platoon, you'll shut the hell up and do as I say, or I'll leave your sorry arse out there too." Turning on Hauda, Fitian continued. "And you, you primate; I've seen you holding mortals and Salamanders face down in water filled shell-holes until they stopped moving; when did you develop a conscience?"

 

Hauda lifted his scar crossed chin, defiant. "They are the enemy. Varel was one of us. You abandoned him, and he deserved better. The Captain demands better."

 

Fitian could not believe what he was hearing. "Oh, my heart bleeds. The damn Captain is a relic, as is his forbidden faith he keeps whispering as if we don't have ears. All I hear is a hypocrite who..."

 

He noticed Hauda's eyes widen, as the giant brute took a sudden step back. Fitian began turning his head, only to have it smashed back under a devastating strike; his whole world turned to stars and colors, ears ringing. He stumbled, and was struck again from the opposite side, blood filling his mouth. Landing on his back, his helm's lenses crazed and shattered, Fitian's first thoughts were of a Salamander counter-raid, of these idiots distracting him from an enemy just around the traverse. Fast as lightning, Fitian had his bolt pistol in his gauntlet, and just as swiftly, it was hammered from his grip, taking most of his hand with it. Refusing to die without seeing his killer, he akwardly sat up and wrestled his wrecked helm off his head. Lifting his head, Veteran Sergeant Fitian looked up, and his eyes grew wide as Hauda's as he realized who had struck him. Confidence wilted. Something unfamiliar wormed it's way into his heart, a feeling he had not had since he had been mortal, and the words he spoke were shaky and unsure.

 

Carefully maintained artificer plate of dull iron greeted Fitian's gaze, struck through with sable and amber markings and trimmed in battered gold, the red and white symbol of the XIV Dragoons upon one shoulder, the other shoulder marked with the Iron Visage of Olympia. A face creased with age and the collected scars of thousands of battles looked down upon him, short grey hair slicked back from a heavy brow broken by four scars where service studs used to sit, further marred by raw fury. Most terrifying of all, though, was the rich hazel eyes of those born on the Throneworld that seemed to pin Fitian in place, almost zealous in their intensity. The strobe of detonating artillery and lances of tracer fire that tore just over head cast his face in random shadows, adding to his grim features. Dragoon-Captain Phelan Mahdra, the Gray Wolf.

 

"Dragoon-Captain Mahdra..." Fitian's voice was a shaken whisper. Mahdra lifted a plain and unordimented power maul, still smoking as it burned away the rainwater and remains of Fitian's hand. A small adamantium symbol hung from his wrist, linked with wooden beads, caught the light as it swund with the motion of his arm.

 

"Silent."Mahdra's voice was a diaphram rattling bass growl, the sound of a man who breathed in smoke and cinder all his life. "You are a failure; as a Legionary, as a leader, and as an Iron Warrior. Hauda spoke the truth; you murdered a member of your own platoon, because you were too afraid for your own life. I expect the Non-Commisioned Officers under my command to lead by example, and inspire by action. You, though, cowered when faced with death. You abandoned a man who looked up to you, who considered you a friend, to a terrible death when you could have saved his life. You are made to be greater than a man, yet you are less than the lowest criminal. You were raised up to lead, yet instead your only concern is for your own life. For this, you will pay." Mahdra turned to Kell. "Strip this man of his plate. Now." Fitian, confused and his skull still ringing from his battering, was unable to fight back as Hauda grabbed his arms, and the surviving members of his platoon tore away his armour, piece by piece. Swifty, he was only clad in a battered bodyglove, the input ports along his body dribbling blood from the rough removal of the warplate's interfaces. Mahdra moved forward and pressed a chipped gladius into Fitian's hand, then stepped back and drew a ancient revolving weapon from his hip holster, and pointed it at his head.
 

One snarled command, crystal clear over the hammer of falling shells. "Run."

 

Fitian looked from the blade, back to Mahdra. "Sir?" Dread laced his voice.

 

"You have wasted everything entrusted to your care. You squandered your men's lives, and destroyed any faith your platoon may have had in you. The Law of Iron is clear; either you can die forgotten in an enemy trench, or be remembered as a traitor right here and now. Prove to me you are at least worthy of being forgotten. Run." The sound of the hammer ratcheting back sounded louder than any artillery piece to the Transhumans in that fire bay at that moment. Fitian looked to the men he once led, hoping one would speak on his behalf. Hard glares were returned. His breath caught in his throat, Fitian turned to the parapet, and climbed over on his stomach. Another fearful glance to his former captain. Mahdra's voice, somehow, dropped another octave. "I said, Run." Fitian stumbled into the expanse of no man's land, and began doing so. The survivors of 2nd Platoon, and their Captain, watched from the firestep as Fitian got nearly halfway across the mud choked quagmire, before a sharp-eyed Racidian or Salamander saw him and called him out. A dozen different rounds caught him from different angles, brutally tearing Fitian apart. His corpse dropped out of view into a shell hole, claimed by the all consuming mud.


Mahdra and Second Platoon stepped down, the Captain whispering a prayer for the former Sergeant under his breath, and began walking away. "Congratulations on your promotion, Sergeant Kell." He growled over his shoulder. "Honour your men as you lead them into Hell, and they will follow with full hearts. Fail to do so, and you'll be joining Fitian. I suggest you don't piss me off."

 

Sergeant Kell called out,"Sir, if I may?" Mahdra stopped and turned to look over his shoulder, nodding. Kell continued "We don't judge you for your faith, as strange as it is to us. I must ask, though; Why did you pray for Fitian, when you consigned him to death?"

 

Mahdra turned his head away, and continued walking, "Because that piece of crap will need all the help he can get, where he's going..."

Candleshoes Veteran

Candleshoes

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Got through the story:

 

- Loved the pace and flow, first two thirds moved perfectly.

- Excellent imagery and descriptions of your enviroment. You can tell you paid a lot of heed to your real life sources and painted quite the picture.

- The trench fighter's wounds were done very well, the marine making it back to his lines with the knife still in his plate was a striking idea.

- One question - One would think the traditional Iron Warriors demeanor would side with Fitian in leaving Varel. Would that normally be the case and its the Catheric Captain who is the driving force for righting the wrong? Or, is it your take that the Iron Warriors are a lot more practical and grounded, rather than hardlined and steeled? 

Vazzy Veteran

Vazzy

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That moment when you realize that every idea you come up with, someone else beat you to it...

 

 

But seriously, frakking awesome Heathens. I can see exactly why Fitian was made to run, and could see it happening in real life as well. 

Conn Eremon Veteran

Conn Eremon

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That is a good point, the Iron Warriors in general would probably prefer leaving it well alone.

 

That said, Iron Warriors in particular can show deviation, and it doesn't necessarily preclude this idea of Heathen's. Two factors make it possible. As you said, the nature of their Captain, whether derived from his Catheric beliefs or independent of his faith. And the solitude and isolation this group sounds like they are in. You don't stab your brother in the back when there are so few left, and they are the only thing keeping your own back clean. Once he had essentially killed their brother of iron, how could they trust him to not do the same to them?

RolandTHTG Venerable Brother

RolandTHTG

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For those that missed Heathen's post in Capt. Semper's announcement thread, and want a bit more awesome in their day:
 

I do not suffer my Father's delusions of pride falsely taken.

I will not fight for his brother's broken dream of a stolen throne.

I will not honour my cousins for murdering family on plains of black ash.

I refuse false powers you mumble and pay fealty to, knee deep in innocent blood.

 


But, I will fight to kill the warlord who burned my home, and called it unity.

I will bleed to destroy the heretic that put fire to houses of faith, and called it truth.

I will break the tyrant who stole my humanity, and called it glory.

I will rage against the despot who calls my God a lie.

 


In nomine Dei, et ego repellam te.
In nomine familie, ego te sanguinare.
In nomine vindicta, et ego caedam te.



For the liberty of Terra, and the death of her Overlord.

Hyaenidae Venerable Brother

Hyaenidae

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There's much that one cannot place in a single story. I have a larger plan, and further short stories to add to this, that will explain more.

 

In short though, his faith has been a private thing for centuries; a burning core to his broken heart, that has driven him through a lifetime in the trenches. It's only recently, as the war to liberate Terra from her opressor, that he has become more vocal in his faith. It is something he does not push upon his men, but the purity of strength and purpose has filtered down through the years none the less, a focus and sense of loyalty that many others of the Iron IV lack after decades of crashing shells and lost friends.

 

Like any officer, his values, even stripped of his quiet faith, will filter down through the ranks, especially amongst those who have had nothing to believe in for a long time. They may not believe in Mahdra's God, but they believe in him and his concepts of loyalty and courage and family, all bound in Iron and practicalities, and that's enough.

 

EDIT: Fitian, by the way, was a graft; an outsider added to a badly depleted platoon, along with a few others. I'll explain more later in a further story, but know that at least.

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