The Urstican Wars

[his_light]

Hi all, trying to do something productive with my time off. Any C&C welcome.

 

Prologue - The Urstican System

The Urstican System is located in the South of the Ultima Segmentum, and comprises 9 worlds. It is a prosperous System, compared to the surrounding regions at least, and has been a key part in the maintenance of the Imperium’s grip over the area since it was first colonised in the first century of M32. Despite the persistent nuisance that is the greenskin population in the asteroid belts between Urstica II and IV, as well as in the marshy forests of Urstica III, the system is mostly devoid of any xenos presence; the Ungrox, the native xenos species, were eradicated within two centuries of colonisation.

 

The System, as previously stated, is comprised of 9 worlds. These are as follows:

• Urstica I. This planet is closest to the Urstican star, with an ultra-hot climate and high levels of radiation. Consequentially, it is sparsely populated, overwhelmingly by a moderately sized penal colony that exists to harvest subterranean nutrient-slime. There is also a small Astra Militarium station to the north of the planet, manned by Guardsmen from the Luthean PDF.
• Urstica II. The first mining planet of the Urstican System, it was also the first to be colonised by the Rainard Expedition in M32. Whilst not as harsh as Urstica I, the planet is certainly far less temperate than Urstica III or IV, and it therefore still relies on penal labour to fulfil its production quotas; indeed, without penal labour, the extraction of crucial ores would effectively halt. Urstica II is therefore home to the second largest Adeptus Arbites presence in the System, after Aror.
• Urstica III. This is the second mining planet of the Urstican System, although it also exports rare Urstican wood from its marshland forests. Unlike the preceding planets, it has no need for penal labour, instead being possessed of a large population that, if anything, has an excess of labour that means the majority of the PDF tithe for the three planets falls upon Urstica III. Some of its men, however, instead choose to join the Urstican Scouts, a regiment found only on Urstica III, which operates as a light infantry force.
• Urstica IV. The last mining planet of the Urstican System, Urstica IV is the second largest planet in the Urstican system and is, from a mining perspective, the most productive. Like Urstica III, they have no need for penal labour although, due to the planet’s role in processing asteroid ores, it also does not have a labour excess. Prior to the Second Expedition and the settlement of Aror, Urstica IV was the capital planet of the system and the seat of the Governor.
• Luthea. Luthea is a moderate sized agri-world, where the entire population is concerned with the harvest and the harvest alone. It is not an easy life, although it is far better than that found on the mining planets, and consequentially the Luthean regiments of the Astra Militarium have no problem in securing recruits.
• Thuvera. Thuvera is one huge munitions factory, which exists solely to process the mining produce of Urstica I-IV and to create something useful for the latter planets to create from them. Due to its extremely slow rotation, half the planet is bathed in sunlight for approximately 10 Terran years at a time, meaning that its occupants must spend long periods of time in full hazmat suits, complete with respirators. Their Astra Militarium regiments often wear these when deployed off-planet, furthering their reputation as dour loners.
• Aror is the first of the Urstican systems hive worlds and, whilst by no means the largest, is arguably the most important. It is here that the majority of the munitions created in Thuvera are processed and refined into weapons of war, and consequentially Arorian regiments march to battle far better equipped than many of their counterparts.
• Ouscia is the second of the Urstican hive worlds and is also the largest, although it possesses little more than manpower and promethium fuel. The oligarchic nature of Ouscian society means that there is a minimal Adeptus Arbites presence planetside; order is maintained by hired street gangs and ‘acceptable’ violence. Accidents are also common on the promethium fields, due to the indifference of the oligarchs, pressure on production quotas, and the abundance of labour.
• Walheim is another agri-world and, due to being almost double the size of Luthea, is the most important one. Due to its proximity to Kalheim, it is home to a large Astra Militarium garrison, along with an important naval base.
• Kalheim. Kalheim is a dead world, blasted to smithereens after the Acolyte Wars. It is, however, now utilised by the Astra Militarium for advanced survival techniques, as well as large scale manoeuvres in adverse climates.

 

There are also several areas of interest to be found in the system, notably:

• The Bastion of Faith. This massive, floating shrine is approximately half-way between Walheim and Kalheim, and marks the sacrifice of the Saint of Kalheim, as well all true Imperial citizens, during the Acoltye Wars. It is watched over by a permanent garrison of Sisters of Battle, as well as representatives of the PDFs of every Urstican regiment.
• Imperial Naval Station XVC-7219. This floating Naval Station can be found above Ouscia and is the home of the Imperial Navy in the System. Well supplied by the promethium refineries of the planet below, XVC-7219 has a capacity that far exceeds the Naval contingent of the region, representing its status as an important juncture between several key sectors in the Ultima Segmentum. It is protected by a large Naval Battery, anchored on the surrounding moons, of the same designation and has a permanent garrison of Arorian Naval Infantry.
• Urstican asteroid belt. This is a huge boon to the region, due to the near inexhaustible stream of resources which can be extracted from it, which has contributed greatly to the prosperity of the System. However, this asteroid belt is infested with Orks, whose numbers are constantly replenished by the arrival of new asteroids. This has forced the Astra Militarium to undertake constant pacification operations which, whilst a drain on resources in the System, are a good way of blooding green troops. Several Imperial Navy vessels have disappeared in the belt and, whilst the official report blames human error, unofficially a more nefarious influence is suspected.

 

[calgar101]

Really interesting! I enjoy these Index type of writings, I come up with loads of these myself. I am keen to see where this leads.

[Tarvek Val]

This is a very good start, and I eagerly await further developments. I was particularly intrigued by the differences amongst the worlds of the Urstican system, and would love to learn more about the cohesive culture of the region (if there is one!). 

[Urauloth]

I always like reading things like this, so thanks for sharing it. You seem to have a very promising start. Do write more.

[his_light]

Thanks all for the kind words. There certainly will be a unifying theme for the system, just not one the average Imperial citizen will enjoy. Enjoy the second part of the prologue, and feel free to insert any C&C.

 

Prologue 2- The beginning

 

The pickaxe recoiled sharply as it struck the hard-stone walls of the mine, sending yet another flash of pain up the prisoner’s aching upper body. Dirt and grime clings to his body, no doubt aided by the prodigious amount of sweat pouring from his skin in reaction to the sweltering heat. His back is stooped on account of the low-lying ceiling; there are numerous gashes and cuts along his body from the razor-sharp rock which constitutes his new home. The crack of a whip can be heard further down the tunnel, accompanied by shrill, lifeless screams; one of the new Arbites clearly wanted to let them all know who the boss was. How long was left in his shift? He had no way to know for certain. Nothing was certain other than the monotonous, desensitising suffering.

 

He could still vaguely remember his life before this one. The verdant fields that stretched further than the eye could see. The trees that soared far above into the clear blue sky. A bed that wasn’t precariously perched above hard, cold rock. It all seemed so distant now. But had it really been so idyllic? He may always be hungry now, but he rarely wasn’t then. The workdays were just as long and tedious, and yielded just as little benefit. He had never seen a doctor as a prisoner because he wasn’t entitled to, yet he had never seen a doctor as a free man because he couldn’t afford to. And, regardless of where he encountered them, the Arbites had always been a pack of sadistic scalawags.

 

What had he done to deserve this fate? He could barely remember his ‘offence’. Oh yes, that’s right, it was stealing a loaf of bread. Sentenced to 10 years as an enemy of the people, increased to 15 for ‘disobedience’ to an agent of the Imperium. He was lucky not to have been shot on the spot, he was told. Fate was a sardonic master.

 

The new Arbite was moving along the line now, dishing out ‘punishment’ whenever his mercurial nature felt it deserved. The prisoner wondered where the man came from. Was he one of the masses, like him, bought with the promise of power and free reign? Or was he one of those born with a silver spoon, he believed it to be his ‘duty’ to hold the masses in check for their own good, and the obvious benefit of their betters? Regardless, what the prisoner could not comprehend was the sheer unfounded sadism the Arbite displayed. What had any of these so-called lesser men ever done to him, other than exist?

 

The prisoner could feel the Arbite’s gaze upon him now, probably because he was perceived to not be working fast enough, and indeed the soon felt the crack of the whip upon his back. His muffled groans are hollow, lacking anything more than an acknowledgement of pain. Soon, he can hear the Arbite gloating above him.

 

“You’ll get another one if you don’t start to earn your rations, scum”.

 

Something inside of the prisoner suddenly awoke, as if a fire had been lit in the dead of night. He rose to his feet and turned to face the Arbite, whose face was a mix of bewilderment and barely contained fury. What was he going to do? Give him another 5 years? Or would he not be so lucky this time? The Arbite was screaming in his face now, spitting and turning ever redder, but the prisoner couldn’t make out the words. Maybe it was partly to do with the deafening noise, maybe it was due to the incomprehensibility of the man’s diatribe. But the prisoner was no longer interested in listening to his ‘betters’, to those who had sentenced him to a life of struggle before he was even born.

 

No, he was a free man, and he would live or die as one. His chains, both mental and physical, were heavy, but he refused to be bound by them; they may have worn him to the bone, and caused him indescribable suffering, but he would rid himself of them all the same. The Arbite barely had time to utter a scream in the time it took the prisoner to raise his pickaxe and bring it down upon his oppressor’s unprotected skull. The corpse fell to its knees, the dirty black armour muddied even further by its owner’s blood, to be unceremoniously kicked to the floor by the prisoner. More cries now began to fill the tunnel, and the prisoner closed his eyes, ready to die.

 

Yet death did not come, at least not to him. He opened his eyes several seconds later, as yet more cries echoed between the bleak walls, to an unprecedented sight. All around him, his fellow oppressed had rose up against those who had so unfairly treated them. Yes, many were beaten back down, but many more sprung to take their place. For the first time in years, the prisoner gave out a guttural scream of happiness. It was something he had dreamed of only in those delirious, outlandish dreams that a man would not dare share for fear of humiliation.

 

And yet it had happened. It had begun.

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Good job on the prologue.

[calgar101]

Another interesting chapter.

[his_light]

Hi all, big one this time. Feel free to give any criticism, it is my first time trying to write from a certain perspective so if you have any pointers they would be much appreciated.

 

 

Prologue 3- The Match is Lit

It had been twelve hours since the uprising began, and in that time the ex-prisoners have scrambled to try and make their position somewhat tenable. The armoury had been ransacked, and the approximately 100 las-carbines handed out to those with experience- although it could well be that those who were larger and louder had got them at the expense of others. The entry gates had been barricaded, with four sentries posted there, manning the two heavy stubber guard posts. The rest of the compound- the barracks, communications centre, entry to the mine shaft and the command bunker- were all neatly enclosed by yet another high wall anyway, complete with razor wire trimmings, so needed little more than the posting of sentries.

 

All bar eight of the Adeptus Arbites who manned the work colony had died gory deaths, with their bodies, and those of the prisoners whom had died in the uprising, littering the compound and the tunnels beneath in a macabre diorama. The prisoners had been lucky to catch them unawares, and none of those who had been underground had managed to escape; of the score who had been posted on the surface, two had escaped from one of the guard towers at the entrance to the colony. Even still, despite their good fortune, the freedom fighters had lost something upward of 300 men, if the reports from the group leaders were to be believed. That left some 1200. A group of 12 prisoners, led by Gualba, a very odd fellow known to talk and argue with himself for hours on edge who had only seemed to grow more unstable as the day went on, guarded the 6 unfortunates who are still alive.

 

THUMP THUMP THUMP! Something is happening at the gates, and someone has begun screaming down one of the portable voxes at the sentries posted there, but whether they are actually doing anything or are just screaming at the inert, unresponsive metal is an open question. There are a few cries from that direction, but then nothing. The fighters are rushing to man the walls, whilst a pair of enterprising rogues have found a rocket launcher and lugged it up the stairs, their arms shaking under the strain. Those without weapons are scrambling to find something, anything they could use. Some have shivs, others have rocks, whilst those who can stomach it have picked up their pickaxes once again. Those who can’t let their pride go will be the first to die. A cry of hold your fire goes up and down the wall. Whether or not that will be the case is another matter.

 

The squeal of tank treads fills the air seconds later as Imperial forces close in on the renegade positions. Damnit, the sentries didn’t stand a chance. There looked to be four Chimeras in the front, or at least, that’s what they were called back home, and there were plenty more open topped trucks behind them. Blast it, there must be about fifteen trucks behind that.

 

Somebody has fired, their trigger finger twitching a little too much from the nerves. The lasbolt bounces off the armour of the lead Chimera, accompanied by an almost tangible groan amongst the men on the walls. But the Imperials aren’t firing back, not yet anyway. They must want to make an example of them by taking them prisoner.

 

WHOOSH! A rocket flies past you from your left.

 

BANG! A pile of earth flies up, inside of which a brief flash of fire can be seen. The men beside those with the rocket launcher are already berating them, punching and slapping them as they desperately try to reload with shaking hands.

BANG! A rocket smashes into the ground beside Green 1, showering it in earth and shrapnel.

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Captain Marquet, D Company 1^st Battalion 7^th Luthean PDF regiment, begins screaming down the company wide vox for the turret gunners to take that rocket team out. Sure enough, mere seconds later, Private Roig in Green 2 shouts confirmation of the fact. But now the rebels are shooting back all along the wall with their las-carbines and, although the shots bounce off the armour of the Chimeras, they will surely be finding better luck with the soft skinned trucks behind.

 

“Everybody out! Form a skirmish line and return fire! Chimeras advance 15 meters ahead and provide covering fire! Engineers remain in the rear until further orders! Up and At Them, Grasshoppers!”

 

A flurry of activity now erupted from the Imperial column, as the junior officers and NCOs of D Company barked out the relevant orders to their units, whilst Marquet and his command detail surveyed the position. There wasn’t much cover out here at all, and the khaki fatigues of his men stood out like a sore thumb compared to the bleak greyness of their surroundings. Further complicating the issue, the compound’s walls were upwards of six-foot high, so any fire from his men was likely to be more of a nuisance than anything else. If they were going to act, they would need to act quickly.

 

“Baptista! Tell the Chimeras I want raking fire left to right along that wall! You let those fething rebels know that if they left their fething heads they’ll get blown straight off their fething bodies!”.

 

A quick affirmative was shouted, before the order was relayed down the vox. Not missing a beat, Marquet continued.

 

“Lieutenant Agustin! I want your missile teams to take out those stubber nests! Now, if you please! Cirera! Be ready to give me that breach in two minutes! And I don’t want any fething mistakes this time!”

 

The din of battle was erupting now, with the multi-lasers of the Chimeras blasting away whilst the Luthean troopers quickly put down a prodigious rate of fire from their prone positions. The screams of the wounded, coupled with curses and orders, ringed the air. One of Agustin’s men quickly slammed a missile into the righthand stubber nest, annihilating it in a ball of fire that also engulfed several nearby rebels. The lefthand nest began firing wildly, kicking up dust and debris more than anything else, although it did manage to blow the private next to Marquet’s leg off, leaving him drenched in the man’s arterial blood.

 

“Okay Cirera, anytime today now!”

 

What was that bloody engineer doing? The encouragement must have done something, because he was double timing past Marquet and the skirmish line now, bent over double as he led his four men, who were two to an explosives box, towards the walls. None of those bloody rebels better shoot one of those boxes, the Captain thought to himself, or we’re all fething dead.

 

“Balaguer! Covering fire left side! Agustin! Why isn’t that stubber nest fething dead yet?”

 

One of Cirera’s men crumpled, shot through the chest. The other man dragged the box on himself, lasbolts whipping up the dirt around him, with one even nicking the side of his left arm. Seconds later the lefthand nest erupted into a ball of fire. Marquet smiled. Now it was looking like a fair fight.

 

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One of the Arbites started to laugh as soon as the first explosion could be heard. He kept raving about how they were all going to pay for what they had done, about how they would all go to the deepest and darkest depths of hell, but Gualba wasn’t really listening.

 

He was too busy listening to the voices in his head, arguing with them and telling them how they were wrong. The voices had always been there, he had heard them for as long as he could remember, and at times they had made him violently sick or do things he would never consider doing. They were the whole reason he was in here- to deal with the screaming, he had caused a mass brawl, because the only thing that stopped them was pain and pleasure.

Oh and what pain he could inflict! This place had made him more violent, more unpredictable. He knew that. But he enjoyed it. He enjoyed the power it gave him over others. And now the voices were whispering to him, in a soft, luscious way, telling him all the things he could do to these prisoners, if only he let the voices in.

 

And oh the things the voices suggested! They had thought of things unfathomable to him, but yet sounded so damn cruel to be almost too much pleasure to handle. But could that really exist? They used to tell him that the special spices sold by backstreet vendors were bad, because they were immoral, but all they did was make him feel so goddamn amazing. Maybe what the voices were suggesting would be the same?

 

Plus, when push came to shove, Gualba knew he wasn’t really a fighter. Not deep down at least. Sure, he wasn’t vulnerable, but he didn’t stand a chance against half the prisoners in here. Not healthy, fully capable ones anyway. But when they had been weakened first- usually with the help, or at least acquiesce, of the guards- well, that was a different story.

 

BOOM! A second explosion. Now all of the arbites were laughing, one of them manically. Gualba smashed one of them in the face with his fist. It felt good to get some stress out and have a little fun.

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Engineer Sergeant Cirera and his men were now at the wall and, to Marquet’s satisfaction, working reasonably quickly. Both heavy stubbers had been suppressed and, other than one of the soft skinned trucks rendered useless by a close falling rocket round, the vehicles were intact. He ran down the skirmish line to assess casualties so far. 8 dead, 17 wounded. That left him with about two hundred men to storm this place. Just about enough. He had done more with less.

 

“CLEAR!”

 

Cirera and his team ran back to the safety of the skirmish line, their job done. He even got an approving nod from the Captain. The Lutheans buried their head in the dirt or behind whatever meagre cover they could find as the charges exploded, sending an eight-foot segment of the wall to oblivion, and with it a good number of rebels. The debris crashed down everywhere, peppering the surrounding area but miraculously leaving the Imperials uninjured.

 

A cacophony of cries erupted from behind the breach whilst the din of battle quickly reignited, as a gaggle of rebels attempted to rush the Luthean gunline with overwhelming numbers. A Company’s captain didn’t even need to shout any orders to his men to focus fire on them- they did so out of instinct, scything down scores of their opponents in a matter of seconds. The bastards kept coming, however, pouring out of the breach in their desperate attempt to come to grips with their enemies. All they achieved, however, was the creation of a pile of rent, torn, bleeding, steaming corpses on top of the debris of the compound wall. Marquet chuckled inwardly to himself. Firepower Kills. He switched his las-rifle onto full auto, and loosened his webbing. It was time.

 

“First Platoon, on me! We’re Breaching!”

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BOOM! Another explosion. What the hell was going on up there? Gualba really was getting nervous now. He didn’t want to die, not with all the new ideas he had. No, he had to survive. The only question was how.

 

Let me in, my love

 

There goes the voices again, Gualba thought to himself, although he was sure they could hear that too. How would they help? Its not as if they could somehow make him strong enough to escape here.

 

We can do anything you wish, my love, so long as you do one thing for me. Then you can have everything you’ve ever dreamed of and so, so, much more.

 

The voice was far softer than they normally were, far more… seductive. What could be this thing they needed him to do? There wasn’t really anything he wouldn’t do, to survive this mess and be able to enjoy the fruits of his newfound partnership.

 

You must slit the throats of these 6 in front of you, my love. Let their blood run into the earth beneath them, and then let it mix with your own. Then whisper back to me, and we will be one and the same.

 

Gualba smiled. It was that simple? He drew his knife from its scabbard, and grinned menacingly at his charges.

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The renegade grimaced as the Imperials crashed through the breach. That bloody charge had been so fething pointless and had done nothing but thin their numbers even further. And now they were in the compound, moving from one point to another, fanning out ever further and pushing the fighters into an ever-tighter noose. He himself was stuck with several others on an isolated part of the wall, taking potshots at troopers whenever an opportunity arose.

 

WHOOSH! Desperate screams soon erupt from the command bunker as flames enter from one end and sprout out the other, followed quickly by a dozen or so men who are quickly shot down by yet more Imperials. Grenades are thrown in to finish the job, although they don’t do much more than spread the charred remains over the walls.

 

A group of four troopers runs directly below the positions on the wall. They are quickly, if messily, dispatched by a flurry of shots, although the corpses take something like thirty bolts for no good reason other than to let out some fear and frustration. Yet soon even more Imperials had appeared and, taking advantage of the prodigious amount of cover offered by debris, quickly opened up on the men on the walls. They appeared to be doomed.

 

What was all that screaming coming from the entry to the mines.

 

“Slimak, look!”

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The last Arbite’s body crumpled to the ground, the grovelling of its owner earning him nothing but the contempt of Gualba, although if he was honest he had enjoyed the twang of desperation in the man’s voice. The blood of those filthy Imperials was all mixed together in the dirt now, much to the gratification of their former captors. Now all Gualba had to do was mix his own blood in. He almost climaxed just from the thought of what was to come.

 

Yes, yes, yes my love, that’s it. All I need now is yours and we can be one, and then you can do whatever your heart desires.

 

The voice seemed even more excited, as if it too was on climax’s edge. Gualba turned his bloody blade to his wrist and, in one swift twist, opened it for the world to see. Feth, he thought, I didn’t mean to cut that deep, but it still felt so damn good. The blood, rather than flowing precipitously like he had seen it do so many times before, instead dripped agonisingly slowly into the dirt below, as if it was teasing Gualba.

 

The screaming was getting louder now, and there were more and more voices discernible to Gualba. They were all cackling and screeching in utter rapture, and soon they were all he could hear.

 

Thank you, my love. We will have fun together, I promise.

 

The voice seemed almost conceited now, although that lusciousness was still there. Gualba was screaming in agony now, much to the consternation of those around him, and his eyes were lit an infernal colour. He had began shaking uncontrollably, and the air around them began to stink of something none of the men could quite recognise.

 

Now Gualba was contorting into weird and unnatural shapes. One of his arms grew into a huge landcrab pincer, the other’s nails turned into razor shape, yet ultrathin, talons. The men around him began screaming in terror and attempted to reach the surface, happier to face Imperial bullets than whatever their compatriot was turning into. They didn’t get far, however, before the same changes overtook them.

 

To the surface, my love. Let us go and have some fun.

 

They were racing through the tunnel now, moving with unnatural speed as they raced to the sounds of battle. The smell of cordite, flesh, pain, blood and fire lay heavy in the air, tingling the senses, whilst screams and explosions, punctuated by curses, fly heavy. What an exciting prospect!

 

They are at the surface now, surveying the gorgeous scene in all its glory. There was a small group of guardsmen, maybe 15 men in all, just to their right. This would be so much fun. They would have to savour every moment.

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Captain Marquet watched with grim satisfaction as first squad burned out the command bunker, before finishing the job with a handful of grenades. The rebels have mostly been pushed back to the barracks and communications centre, and are now trapped there awaiting retribution. His company was doing well, and the job would be over soon.

 

A lasbolt slammed into the rock to his right, narrowly missing his neck. Private Rovira, to Marquet’s right, spun around quickly, hitting the rebel with a shot to the stomach seconds later. The man fell from his perch on the wall, to be abruptly bayonetted by a passing guardsman.

 

Above the din of battle, Marquet could hear a high pitched, feminine scream coming from the mine shaft entry. One guardsman began barrelling towards the Captain seconds later, before a huge crab-like claw erupted out of his chest, through his flak armour, and into the open air. The thing behind him, a man with infernal looking eyes and vicious looking fangs for teeth, tore into the private’s neck, causing his arterial blood to explode in a crimson fountain which he seemed to revel in.

 

Marquet froze, rooted to the spot in pure fear as more of those things appeared from the mine. The one which had killed his man looked the Captain straight in the eyes, its mouth twisting in a sort of debauched smile, and then began to slowly walk towards him.

 

“F-focus f-fire on those, those, t-things!”

 

Marquet’s voice began to fail him, just as those Lutheans who promptly snapped to carry out his orders seemed bewildered by what they were meant to shoot at. Still, after a few seconds of praying or trying to work out just what they were, the guardsmen shot at them all the same. Even their Captain began blasting away, hardly bothering to aim, the fear of him and his men tangible to all. Most of the company were shooting at the things now, despite the fact that the rebels were now surging out of the buildings. None of this seemed to make any difference. Those shots that didn’t miss just seemed to bounce off, or otherwise make no difference, with one of the things taking a lasbolt to the shoulder and doing little more than cackling in excitement.

 

Now the things began to run. A squad of guardsmen to the right were torn to shreds by two of them, sidestepping the prodigious number lasbolts and flamer spurts aimed at them to quickly and neatly eviscerate the guardsmen, leaving them helpless to the unspeakable things visited upon them next.

 

The one that had emerged first was rapidly approaching Marquet and Privates Rovira, Latorre, Notario and Centelles. It kept dodging his fething shots. Why couldn’t it just hold fething still. How was it so fething fast. He was screaming now, uttering obscenities and promises and prayers in an intelligible mix that he had never emitted before.

 

Standing to the front left of the group, Rovira was decapitated effortlessly, his head not even touching the ground before the thing’s talons had sliced through Latorre’s armour and guts. They landed on the ground with a wet thud which was drowned out by their owner’s agonised screams, which drowned out the grunt of Notario when the thing’s claw punched through his chest and tore out his heart. Centelles tried to turn and run, only to have his Achilles tendons slashed to the bone by the blood-soaked talons. He had a few seconds to plead and beg before the talons were neatly slid through his eyes.

 

It turned back to Marquet now, oblivious to everything else as it licked its lips at him. He tried to snap off a few shots, but it did nothing more than make the thing laugh. It stood over Latorre, slitting his throat without looking away from the Captain, before rushing at the last remaining guardsman. Marquet brought up his rifle in a vain attempt to parry its strike, but soon felt something cut straight through the bone and muscle of his shoulder. Falling onto his back, he saw his right arm had been neatly severed from his body, and that blood was now spurting out of it. He bit his teeth through the pain, refusing to grant it any satisfaction. It stood over him, looking straight down into his eyes with those dead, infernal ones it possessed. It began to laugh and lick its lips. Captain Marquet could feel his body shiver and shake, his bowels weakening as his soul froze. Then, with a wet thump, it brought down its claw and everything went dark.

Edited April 6, 2020 by his_light