Sons of Somerled Book 1- Brothers in Arms

[his_light]

So, after the flop that was the Utriscan wars (which I may yet return to) I've decided to begin some very long winded background to my homebrew chapter, the Sons of Somerled. Now that i've got much more time on my hands, I'll hopefully be able to make something good out of this. So, without further ado, here is the first part of Chapter 1.

 

Dramatis Personnae

• Eidard MacBarra. Chapter Master of the Sons of Berengar, he is a grizzled veteran of over 6 centuries of service.
• Cailen Ailenach. Honour Captain of the 1^st Company. Another noted veteran of the Chapter, he has a known dislike for Imperial authority.
• Silis McAlpine. Captain of the 3^rd Company, he is a rising star in the Chapter with a century of service, although some of his brothers deride him as too idealistic.
• Frang Catach. Confessor of the 3^rd Company.
• Uileam McAlpine. Battle-brother of the 3^rd Company, he is a blood-relation to its Captain so enjoys a close relationship with him.
• Ruisiart Luisach. A respected sergeant in the 3^rd Company of the chapter.
• Frangean Muach. 3^rd Company’s apothecary.
• Guidre MacGheart. 3^rd Company’s blademaster.
• Iagen MacNill. 3^rd Company’s standard-bearer.
• Lukas Holmquist. Lord Commander of the 187^th Battlegroup, tasked with reclaiming the Tobhta system for the Imperium.
• Lennert Winters. Ordo Hereticus Inquisitor.

 

Important Supporting Characters

• Eachann Loganach. Chief Confessor of the Sons of Berengar, he was inducted at the same time as Chapter Master MacBarra. They are noted for their closeness, and the number of blood-oaths binding them. 

• Tasgall McCrossan. Chief Librarian of the Sons of Berengar. He makes few appearances, but his counsel carries considerable weight.
• Dubh MacSporain. Captain of the 5^th Company. He is the hard, grizzled realist- a line officer who wants only the best for his Chapter.
• Joep Adkin. The ruthless Fleet Commander of the 187^th Battlegroup.

 

Chapter 1- A call to Arms

 

The Land Raider gave a throaty, promethium fuelled roar as it surged over the hill, carrying Captain Silas McAlpine of the Third Company of the Sons of Somerled towards his foe. Behind him came his entire command, riding to war upon their chariots of ceramite armour in one gigantic spearhead formation. The Captain’s steed formed the tip of the spear, two Vindicators protecting its flanks, whilst Rhinos carrying the men of the Third brought up the rest of the formation. Confessor Catach’s Razorback was in the centre of the formation, despite the officer’s desire to be at the head of his charges, in deference to tradition. If he could not witness the deeds of the men he served, how could he record them?

 

Behind this formation came the men of the 1802^nd Reclamation Expedition, comprised of 37 regiments of the Emperor’s Imperial Guard, who diligently slogged their way towards the city over the rolling hills and plains surrounding it in one huge skirmish line. In truth, they weren’t needed- the forces of the Astartes were more than enough to destroy the last vestiges of resistance in the Terodan Cluster thrice over. But the Guardsmen had proven themselves, especially the 75^th Polantine Heavy Infantry. They had earned the opportunity of the honour to be attained in this battle. As they crossed the hills leading to the field of battle, they witnessed the Astartes racing at breakneck speed towards the smoking, 300m wide breach in the alabaster white walls of the towering city, created by the unrelenting, week-long bombardment.

 

The sky was a mix of deep blues and greys, a melancholic reflection of the events that had occurred over the past four months. It was overcast, the sky covered with pure white clouds, as if the sun could not bear watch the slaughter about to unfold beneath it. The city’s defenders opened fire as the Sons came within 2 kilometres of their position. To their credit, the fire was not desperate or undisciplined, a detail that Confessor Catach would diligently record. In fact, it was the opposite, and against a lesser foe it may well have served its purpose. But the Emperor’s Astartes were not a lesser foe. The drivers simply increased their speed even further, outpacing the initial volley of artillery fire. A lascannon beam hit the Land Raider on its front, burning the eyes out of anyone watching it without augmentation or protection. It dissipated a second later, leaving little more than a scorch mark upon its dark grey armour.

 

One kilometre. The rebel fire intensified as portable heavy weapons opened fire on the spearhead. The few shots from this hailstorm that found their target ricocheted off the thick armour of the Astartes’ vehicles harmlessly, causing little more than a dull thud or a scrape in the paintwork. A missile miraculously found its target at 827 metres out, slamming into the drivers compartment of the left rearmost Rhino. The men bailed out, dragging the driver behind them with an ease that belied his huge physique. His severed arm gushed blood onto the dark brown soil of the planet, even as his altered physique clotted the wound at a rate unimaginable to the ordinary man. Some of the portable heavy weapons mounted on the city walls opened fire on the group, only to find themselves violently silenced when Brother MacLaird turned his attention to them with his heavy bolter.

 

500 metres. The Astartes, previously sat in private silent deliberation, slowly began to chant as one, reciting the words in perfect unison. Confessor Catach led them, his voice barely perceptible the rest, like a minister reciting to his flock.

 

300 metres. The breach is being frantically fortified as the Astartes, barely seconds away, begin to chant louder, the tenor of their verse increasing in intensity and urgency. The men on the walls finally lose their discipline and begin firing frantically, throwing away all sense of order in their desire to survive. Confessor Catach took notice of this. His account would be lacking without it.

 

100 meters. The guns of the Land Raider sweep the breach, its sponsoon mounted hurricane bolters firing in a deadly rhythm that left little its victims little more than red paste on the smouldering, stained rubble. The vehicles shuddered and shook as they closed up on the wall, shrugging off several grenade blasts and the treacherous conditions beneath with ease that belied their age. Still, the men within were still thrown around with a violence that betrayed the sturdiness of their steed.

 

The breach. The Land Raider’s assault ramp crashed down onto the corpses of several of the traitors, grinding what little was left of their bodies into the debris. Captain McAlpine charged out of his chariot milliseconds later with a speed that should not have been physically possible for a man of his stature, his Lomdan broadsword held high above his head, with his Chapter’s war cry upon his lips. Immediately behind him came Uileam, Ruisiart, Frangean and Guidre, scanning the breach with the cold, detached analytic precision of an automaton. Ruisiart blew the back out a rebel’s skull out with his bolter almost nonchalantly as Iagen emerged from the vehicle, unfurling the company standard as he descended to the battlefield. The men of the Third around him gave out a hearty, terrifying roar of approval as it blew in full glory.  

 

Silas looked around him, watching as his men cleared the breach with ease. Enemy fire bounced off their armour, making a pitter-patter noise as if it were raining. But there was no rain, at least not yet. Silas glanced up at the dour sky, exactly 13 minutes since he had mounted his Land Raider. 15 flaming balls of fire descended from the heavens onto the upper reaches of the city’s inner palace compound. The rain had begun. The time for glory and honour was upon them. With a shout, he led the Astartes of the Sons of Somerled to war once more.

Edited December 6, 2020 by his_light

[Bjorn Firewalker]

You're off to a good start.

 

Nitpicking:

His decapitated arm

"Decapitate" means behead. I think "disembodied" or "severed" should replace that word in this sentence.