Collaborative story - Whispers

[Conn Eremon]

Ditto, actually. Wasn't going to admit it before.

[Olis]

Might I ask if you're pitching in on this, Cormac? An extra victim volunteer would be nice. :D

[Conn Eremon]

I'm honestly on the fence.

 

Ehhh, you know what, I'm here if you need me. I won't take up a slot, but I will join if there's space at the end.

[Olis]

Sounds good to me. :tu:

[Olis]

Gentlemen, brothers, fellow B&Cers. Despite the double post, I bring you the First Iteration of the story. Apologies for any sloppiness in the tale, my usual process of repeated editing has been ignored for the purpose of this project. 

 

Before we get any further, to arrange the random order of editing, I will need each of the volunteers to PM me one of any number between 1 and 100. From that I will randomly determine order. The first editor will be PM'd asap after that.

 

-----------------------------------------

 

Whispers

 

 

Fight

Trekking back to friendly lines had never felt so reassuring. Ar’tun, marching alongside his bloodied brethren, paused to take in the sight of the freshly fortified lines of the second wave. Sounds of battle still resonated across the plateau while he admired the handiwork of Perturabo’s sons, rendered dull by distance. On those walls he could see the familiar colours and heraldry of the Word Bearers at their stations, no doubt ready to sally forth and keep the pressure on Horus’ rebels.

 

The Iron Hands were still engaged in heavy fighting while the Raven Guard and the Salamanders fell back for replenishment and respite. No one really knew what was happening with the Tenth Legion but word of mouth had told of Ferrus Manus boldly making a bee-line towards Fulgrim, entirely unsupported by his brother Legions. A grim rumour indeed.

 

There had been no mercy, it was kill or be killed. No mercy, no quarter. Precious few moments in Ar’tun’s life were like what he had felt in facing and killing astartes on the battlefield. Truth be told, he had never felt more alive. The appalling damage to his power armour belied the kind of fighting he had been party to – he needed a new helm and the chest plate was unfit for purpose, riddled with bolt shell craters and displaying the tell-tale marks of melta scorching. It had been residue backwash but it was enough to play havoc with his armour interface jacks. 

 

Ar’tun turned, the war suddenly sounding much closer and much louder, his post-human reflexes catching the sight of the second wave opening up in sheeting hails of death and fire in sharp contrast. For the briefest moment he thought Horus’ rebels had managed to sally through the rest of the Salamanders contingent and this was a defensive fusillade. As his brothers were smashed asunder by the avalanche of ordnance, his mind caught up with the horrible reality of the situation – they had been betrayed. 

 

 “Fall back!” Came the cry, accompanied by calls to find cover and return fire. A battered Mastodon slewed to a halt, it’s drivers compartment a smoking ruin and the left track links scattered by multiple missiles. Ar’tun scrambled as fast as he was able toward the ruined vehicle. In the lee of the tank he met with seven others like him, line warriors. He immediately recognised Bran’tath and Firen, Pyroclasts both, recalling their deeds done earlier in the day but battle damage obscured the remaining five enough so that he had to ask who they were. 

 

Whickering fire spanked off of the framework of the Mastodon, thuds and ricochets felt rather than seen. A brother, no doubt one of the lucky few to survive the first shots, fell within metres of the cover. Ar’tun felt an anger that hadn’t registered until now. It had been masked by shock and self-preservation. A disgust lingered as he looked away from the broken body. They had to move. 

 

Return fire began as a desultory affair, with little more than bolters being shot back at the Word Bearers, but soon heavier weapons were brought to bear. A missile launcher here, a rotary cannon  there – the incoming salvos eventually began to slacken and a roar from a thousand throats went up. Ar’tun risked a glance around the hull. The Word Bearers falsely seemed to have taken no casualties at all, the destruction at the fortifications left little doubt that blood had been spilled. But that wasn’t the real concern. The hundreds of charging astartes were. Pockets of resistance brought down dozens of Lorgar’s legionnaires, perhaps stunting the assault in places. It was never going to be enough though, as the majority swept onwards to take the fight to the Salamanders.

 

 “We need to move.” Ar’tun said to the others, it was clear they’d be overrun within minutes, if not less. 

 

 “What?” Spoke Bran’tath, “Just run away?” Two more of the group nodded.  

 

 “Now is the best time for us to relocate, brother. If we don’t we are as good as dead.” Firen replied.

 

Bran’tath looked as if he was about to argue but stilled his tongue. 

 

 

 

Flight

Many days had been spent digging in with forces centred around Vulkan, fending off or surviving the worst the traitors had thrown at them. Any attempt to make it to the dropships ended in failure and more brothers slain. That was all before Vulkan disappeared. 

 

The closing circle of enemy armour and infantry had winnowed away almost every Salamander left in Isstvan V. Very few had escaped the encirclement alive. Bran’tath was gone, sheared in twain by an incandescent lascannon beam.  Armour and weaponry had to be scavenged by necessity, Firen now sporting so little Salamander equipment that it was difficult to tell which Legion he was from. With barely any more than a bolt pistol and a combat blade, he was bereft of the very weapon that defined him. 

 

Weeks had passed as the orphaned Salamanders trekked their way over the Lurgan Ridge. They had been tailing a suspected Raven Guard contingent for many days now, desperate to link up with any loyalists that lived. Every time they believed they were close enough to use the only vox link between them that still worked, all that came back in reply was static. Ar’tun didn’t know whether it was the vox link that was faulty or it was the Raven Guard that was ignoring them, for whatever reason. 

 

It was evident that skirmishes kept finding these Raven Guard – a few bodies here, a traitor vehicle there – each time anything useful had been stripped from the dead. Now it was past sun-down, only occasional gunfire and explosions indicated where loyalists still held out. One particular battle drew their attention enough to stop and briefly watch. By Firen’s reckoning, it had to be the Raven Guard they were attempting to link up with. 

 

With the sight and sounds of battle distracting them, the pair failed to register their own pursuers. Shadows detached from a nearby mesa, the winds plucking away any terror-cries that may have reached the ears of the Salamanders. Whipping over the landscape on jump packs bedecked with skins and finger bones, the three legionnaires readied their blades for the kill.

 

Struck from behind, Firen tumbled from the escarpment in a tangle of limbs with his attacker. Ar’tun brought his bolter around to bear, unleashing bolts at an oncoming midnight clad streak. The Night Lord crashed into him, both following the Pyroclast over steep cliff. At the bottom Ar’tun quickly regained his composure and leapt upon his foe, keen to drive his blade into the traitor’s skull. With his bolter out of immediate reach, it was the best he could do. An absence of movement or reaction did not deter Ar’tun – the knife crunching through the lens and into the face of the Night Lord, driven downward by the weight of Ar’tun’s body. He left it where it was and turned to his brother.

 

Firen and the second Night Lord scrambled in the dust and scree, clawing and desperately grasping at each other. The Raptor clearly had the advantage with his combat blade embedded to the hilt in the gut of the Pyroclast and a second carving his bare face to ribbons. A bolt to the head resolved the fight. The Night Lord slumped slack bodied over Firen. 

 

Above them, the remaining Night Lord slunk into the blackness. 

 

The Pyroclast pushed the body off and away, gingerly sitting up. He had to be careful not to cause any more damage than had already been done. Ar’tun examined the entry point. There was little he could do except remove the blade – he was no apothecary. He looked Firen in the eye, the wounds on his face already scabbing over. A swift, sharp pull drew out the dagger, it appeared to be little more than a shank now that Ar’tun held it. He threw it away with a sneer. Such poor craftsmanship. He used the last of the armour sealant they had to plug the gap in Firen’s battle plate.

 

Gathering their wits, the two struck out towards the battle that had diminished in fury since they last paid attention to it. Ar’tun checked his reclaimed bolter. It remained undamaged although some scratches marred the markings on the casing.

 

Still the wind wailed and gnashed at them, driving grit at them and reducing the tapering sounds of battle to almost nothing. Cresting a rise only brought fresh adversity as the skies opened, rain slashing down in repeated blankets of tainted water. The dust and sand, once free to whirl about them, was almost immediately damped down, affording Ar’tun and Firen better footing on the wet berms. On more rocky terrain, the going was far more treacherous because of the slick, wind worn surfaces.  

 

As the sun rose above the horizon, the rain diminished to a drizzle and the wind abated. Here, where the previous night’s battle had been fought, lay a corpse strewn field.

 

“Iron Warriors.” Muttered Firen. He spat at the nearest body.

 

“Aye. I still cannot believe this.” Ar’tun shook his head.

 

“Believe it or not, they are now no longer our brothers. It is better they die, than we.” Came the response. Ar’tun simply nodded. 

 

Urging the Ar’tun onward, Firen picked his way through the bodies, mindful not to disturb them lest they be booby-trapped. The Raven Guard weren’t above such tactics, especially now, three months after the slaughter on the Urgall Plateau.    

 

From the crest of the next rise came a sight that stilled the breath in Ar’tun. Thousands upon thousands of World Eaters amassed in the distance, marching in their direction. With them came artillery, armour support and their own Primarch. Angron.

 

Both Salamanders scrambled back into the cover of the rise, unwilling to make a mistake as stupid as revealing themselves after all they had survived. Raising themselves to spy on the horde brought another revelation: The Raven Guard were close. A kilometre to the south-east gathered a host of two, perhaps even three, thousand loyalists. Joy turned to horror as missile trails emerged from the World Eaters – they had unleashed an artillery barrage. No doubt Angron would be following that up with a massed charge, as was his want.

 

Firen rose, ready to make the sprint toward their beleaguered cousins, only to slump forward as bolt rounds took him in the small of the back and the legs. Ar’tun turned to see another Night Lord, undoubtedly responsible for gunning down the Pyroclast, closing the distance between them rapidly. With his archaic heraldry, crusade armour and blood daubed helm, Ar’tun suspected he was a Crimson Son. Little more than a cadre of veterans, this one legionnaire wasn’t unique and would die just like the four others that the Salamander had slain. Firen deserved a better death.

 

Ar’tun attacked with a cry on his lips. Charging back down the dune, black sand spilling and thrown aside by his gait, his bolter kicked hard while he shot from the hip. A glancing shot shattered the bolt pistol and denied any return fire. To his credit, the Night Lord did his best to avoid getting struck but still Ar’tun found his mark. First one, then two bolts punched into the jump pack, bringing down his foe abruptly. Another ten paces and the Salamander was upon him, leaping from his height advantage to bring down the Night Lord, combat blade leading the way now that the bolter was a hindrance in close quarters. In the distance, entirely unnoticed by Ar’tun or the Crimson Son, black thunderhawks descended from the clouds. 

 

The Night Lord deflected the strike, deftly turning aside the knife and hacking at Ar’tun with his own power sword, shearing the blade from the hilt as a block failed to keep the Night Lord at bay. This close to each other worked in Ar’tun’s favour, the power swords reach preventing the traitor from getting in a good swing. As a result, the sword was worked in between them, forcing them apart. Again Ar’tun leapt in to grapple with his opponent, wrestling his sword arm in an attempt to get him to drop it. In return a series of pounding strikes to the helm with the Night Lord’s free hand knocked the head piece loose. Ripping it free with a triumphant cry, the Crimson Son failed to keep hold of his weapon as it was knocked free by Ar’tun. Undeterred by the temporary disarmament, the traitor resumed his assault, smashing the helm he now held in his other hand into the Salamander’s skull. 

 

Fending off the blows with one arm, Ar’tun stretched out his other in search of anything to prevent him from losing his life. Sand was the first resort, however it was useless against a helmed opponent. The second was his broken combat blade, doing little more than shattering a lens of the Night Lord’s helmet in Ar’tun’s wild swinging. A wet crunch told of his cheek bone giving way. Again he threw sand but the Night Lord turned his head, a laugh beginning to emit from his helm’s grill now that he was sure he would win. The laughter died when Ar’tun swung the discarded power sword as hard as he could, his fingers having finally found something of use. The blade, having been deactivated from being dropped, sheared off the arm holding him down. The sword flared into life when the activation stud was found, striking down the Night Lord even while he dropped the helm and lunged for Ar’tun’s sword arm. Any other blade might have lodged in the tough astartes bone that made up the skull of the Crimson Son, but the power sword sailed through and opened up the traitor from brow to sternum. The toppling Night Lord rolled and tumbled down the slope, sliding to a stop at the bottom.  

 

 

 

Despair

Ar’tun knelt in the wet, black sand as the Raven Guard transports took off, drawing distant fire while they ascended into the clouds. His battered features witnessed his best chance to leave this forsaken world depart. Here, next to Firen’s corpse, he stared at his stolen bolter, still inscribed with Colchisian runes. All but a few rounds had been expended getting here. He looked at the power sword in his other hand. It sizzled gently while rain sluiced over the Salamander, trickling into the cracks in his battle plate and wetting the skin where exposed. 

 

Where would he go now? This close to Angron’s horde, alone and with Vulkan missing, he was left directionless. The Night Lord, no doubt a huntmaster or sergeant, lay unmoving. Ar’tun stared at the corpse. One more traitor dead. 

 

[Conn Eremon]

Looks like this survived. I take it the order is still Ludovic, myself, Aquilanus and . . . um. Damn, I forgot who the fourth person was.

[Dosjetka]

Wait, I'm first? Was that in a post before the crash?

[Conn Eremon]

Well, this is Olisredan's gig so I'll let him confirm or deny it, but I remember distinctively thinking "Thank God, Ludovic is first, not me." :p

[Olis]

Indeed. Here's the order again (and here's hoping there is no data crash to wipe this post, too :rolleyes: ):

 

First Edit: Battle-Brother Ludovic

Second Edit: Cormac Airt

Third Edit: Aquilanus

Fourth Edit: witchunter kraine

 

There's one week to complete your edit, the deadline will be 9pm GMT each Friday. While I think of it, Cormac made the suggestion that if anyone wanted to post their edit, it should be after the final iteration has been uploaded by brother kraine or myself. I think that's probably a wise idea, instead of allowing the volunteers to do what they like after they have finished their contribution. After the final iteration has been posted, however, everyone is free to do what they like with their version of the story. 

 

Remember: Only one PM (containing the story itself) is to be sent via each member - this is chinese whispers after all. Speculation and banter can be posted up in this thread. You can PM me with any important query, so long as it's nothing to do with the narrative. I can, however, now answer detail questions about the Massacre since I own the new FW HH book, should a facet of the event need clarification. ;)

 

Preferably, I would like brother kraine to either post the story up himself, or relay it to me so that I can do it, as soon as possible after the final deadline. 

[Dosjetka]

First Edit: Battle-Brother Ludovic

Feth. I knew that I shouldn't have picked 42

Well, I'll do my very best to get the story PM'd by Friday night to Cormac.

[Olis]

First Edit: Battle-Brother Ludovic

Feth. I knew that I shouldn't have picked 42

Well, I'll do my very best to get the story PM'd by Friday night to Cormac.

Well, the funny thing is, both you and Cormac chose that number. The split was decided by a coin toss.

Also - do you have a copy of the PM'ed story? If you don't then just copy/paste the story from the thread. :)

[Conn Eremon]

Feth. I knew that I shouldn't have picked 42

Well, the funny thing is, both you and Cormac chose that number. The split was decided by a coin toss.

Hahaha!

Looking forward to it, Ludovic!

[Dosjetka]

Thanks Cromac, you lucky git :P

[Olis]

Them's the breaks, kid. Someone had to go first. ;)

 

At least, what with being first, you could leave an undeniable, indelible mark on the story - there's so much you could do with those lovely little dangling threads I left for you. :P 

[Dosjetka]

At least, what with being first, you could leave an undeniable, indelible mark on the story - there's so much you could do with those lovely little dangling threads I left for you.

Meh, that's hardly any consolation ;) I'd prefer if you gave me a time-stopping machine or something of the sort. Ironically, it would give me more time to do things :P

[Olis]

I'd prefer if you gave me a time-stopping machine or something of the sort. Ironically, it would give me more time to do things

How about Cuba? I'll give you an entire country stuck in the fifties. There's bound to be a phone box there that'll disappear into the ground, surely. Just bring back someone impressive. Like Mozart. Or Napoleon. ^_^

[Aqui]

I'd prefer if you gave me a time-stopping machine or something of the sort. Ironically, it would give me more time to do things

How about Cuba? I'll give you an entire country stuck in the fifties. There's bound to be a phone box there that'll disappear into the ground, surely. Just bring back someone impressive. Like Mozart. Or Napoleon.

Two words - Blue. Box.

[Olis]

Two words - Blue. Box.

Let's not start that! :lol:

So, Ludovic, how're you doing?

[Dosjetka]

I've started the editing of the text. Mostly subtle changes, but I have re-written or added to a couple of parts. I'm probably about half/two thirds of the way through the text, so I may actually send it to Cormac earlier than planned (though don't count on it)! :D

[Olis]

Brother Ludovic, has the pass been made?

[Conn Eremon]

I don't have it yet.

[Olis]

I don't have it yet.

*Pokes Ludovic with a stick*

Come oonnnnnnnn....

[Conn Eremon]

It's not my Friday night yet. Maybe it's not his yet either.

[Olis]

It's not my Friday night yet. Maybe it's not his yet either.

Perhaps, perhaps. Which was why I specified 9pm GMT. :P

Meh. I'm not really that much of stickler. But I'd like this to stay reasonably on track...

[Grotsmasha]

So this why Ludovic's Tale of Gamers thread is running a little behind :p .....I'm pretty sure it'll be worth it :tu: