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Thread: Night-Watch

  1. #1
    Junior Member Iblis's Avatar
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    Jun 2005
    Mukilteo, Washington.
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    The geThe gentle whine managed to just crest over rustling branches; four Jump-Generators discharging their owners in the forest clearing- a wide swathe of natural life burned low from prior incendiary bombardments by the Seer’s Legions. Kaeris’ spinner dislodged with a jolt, pulled free of some warp-entity he’d past nearly-through, a kind smattering of dissolving black ichor-paste falling off its blades and onto the ground beneath.

    Fingers clicked a comm.-relay below his neck, voice an artificial whisper by the non-descript helm.
    ‘Five Mon-Keigh on north-west ridge. Installing las-turrets, Farseer.’
    Find. Assess. Prosecute.. Assess.
    ‘Exarch, remove two. Leave the other three to flee. Follow.’
    His eyes followed the anticlimactic movement, utterly nonchalant with half-amused voices trailing each load gathered, set-down, deployed. A rather resonant click sounded, a shimmering dull-gray blade unlatched from each wristguard, and now-displayed outward as though a barbed extension of his own forearm.

    Falling backwards, body taut, the Exarch disappeared from sight, ghosting through the ground beneath him – Kaeris’ eyes lined with a bemused spark as leaves below bristled; wind the only trace of his former’s passing.

    Gurgle and motion alerted to activity near the emplacements, a strained mutter wavering through open-air. A sound of damp cardboard, ripped open wide with a serrated blade touched the still, ash-touched sky, red indicator lights causing a sudden flare in early-morning reveries.

    Minute more, three men in tall-grey dress broke through the clearing to scan the site. A short fellow, buzzed-cut with dark hair kneeled to the ground, running fingers on a damp control-piece.
    Erik and Rose. Report to the Senior Officer that hostiles are in the region, possibly in camp. Close-combat; infiltrators and the like. Abandon site.
    Two offered a quiet, confused salute and ran off in some disgruntled sprint. A charcoal-lime visor turned, watching two heat-sig's move out of view, into the cool blue-green hue of surrounding greenery. Switching to visible light-- Target locked-- The Jump-Gen hissed, and an Exarch was to be found fourty meters from previous, hunched low.
    Twenty meters.
    Twenty meters.

    Chapter One: Insurgency

    Twilight was half-dead, streaks of pale-orange and soft magenta that ran over clouds and dusted plains; everything tainted with a soft gray after incendiary-burns took hold of the valley. It'd take a couple days worth of wind-current drifting to clear it, until then, men in 17th Company wore gas masks.

    'Kaina, get your lazy Imperial arse out of bed. Demolitions' need us, and hell if I'm going to run half a sect' carrying both our supplies.'
    Mumbling, incoherant. Some mass of sheets was twisted further, and a loose tussle of auburn hair blossomed out of the only visible opening.
    'Get the bloody feck out of my tent.'
    And, unceremoniously, two hands took hold of the loose-wrapped material, pulled harshly, and left a bestraggled, wide-eyed girl clutching the naked ground beneath her.
    The officers'll heat your hand with a lasgun if we don't hurry!'
    A tinge more of domestic curses, as the female grabbed a pair of worn pants, frayed all along the seams and dark green tank-top.
    'I like the colour. Shut it.'
    Spent a blind moment hopping on frozen ground, and placed the gray uniform-top over green garb.
    Boots applied to each foot, once-white socks with a dash of mudding' and gray-coat beneath.
    'What's with this bloody world, Merik? Everything we eat, drink, or put on has to be covered in ashes. It's like we're in Hell. Except this Hell has balmy temperatures and nice sky.'
    'Still with the arse-ugy Daemons though.'
    'Shut up, he's coming.'
    At the edge of their campsite, a parade of five figures broke what little sun was rising to cast long shadows over the men and women assembled.
    'Seventeenth company, fall in! With arms!'
    Click-clack of firearms, lasarms being taken from stands and the dew-touched soil. Amusing himself, the full-dressed even-tempered Merik claimed a stone from beside his gear, took aim, and struck down what little standing belongings his compatriot had up, right in a row. A spout of louder curses affected the wind, and the woman splayed both hands on the ground to feel for whatever felt metallic, heavy, and familiar. The energy-pack wouldn't hurt either.
    'Troopers on the North-West, are you begging me for lashing? Get up front!'
    En-Pack half-slid into chamber, letting loose the sound of jostled, angry steel, the two and their remaining squad made a brisk jog towards the assembly. There stood a rather disturbed man. Disfigured by a scar down each cheek, and one cresting his neck, the fellow could've stood regenerative treatment. Or, to just wear a bag over his head. It'd be nice to not see his eyes gaze over each individual fellow as though they were domesticated animals for a change.
    'I apologize. Early morning, deepbreath and still light-headed from the ascent to surface, sir.'
    Clicking her heels, Kaina-- Tall woman, and what little auburn hair she'd left after shaving-- saluted.
    Leaning forward, morning breath wafting out of a mouth that'd not seen a brush for two weeks, a hushed voice escaped.
    'Look you little twit, if I gave a damn as to why you can't get your ass out of bed on time, a week after planet-fall, I'd have
    'Damn well asked you!'
    'Now! Do anyone of you other mongrels need me to fill in as the company' friendly neighborhood counselor, or can you handle yourselves!'
    Yes Sir!
    Quite voice now, sincere. You'd no need to flinch from his eyes: they bore into everyone. Something was wrong, and he'd to use us all to fix it.
    'Something is wrong.'

    Chapter Two: Addankiamenad

    Ever hear the starswhisper?
    It's beautiful.
    A thousand-million child's voices,
    Hushed, and murmering, and giggling
    As though an ancient story passed between them.

    A lithe figure display' himself before the wraithbone altar; ivory-gray and rune-riddled semi-solid which shifted and formed beneath the precipitation of psycho-emotional force its master betrayed.
    "I am aboard the Shadow."
    Beside him lies some decorative helm, its center-most gem filled with a sanguine flare. The thing'd feel warm on its mundane-metallic base; it was devouring the air. Alive in all ways but organic -- The ebb and tide of Empyream flooded each minute crystal chip linked within. It caught all things foreign to its master, bathing each in circuit-fire.

    The SercamBelach treats us well today, Farseer?
    -Aye', pirate-lord... Though dreams do not.
    Seer-'Sera of the Maeg'laun Craftworld, what tears at your heart?
    -Shadows of the Yngir murder this world, Lord.'
    It is a Silent-Tomb; dampeners active. They exist, as they always will, though sleep still.
    -In times before, we might entertain them to awaken in prison. With a shattered Enmpire, Lord, we now exist for prevention of any future. If only to stave fear and warp-things from my visions, I must watch this place and play my part.

    The creature breathes, resigned. Dark hair runs and cascades down a slight back, corded muscles flexing, and into release as his hands, fingers run against the throne's arm.
    His eyes cast a staining look out into the Space, spying a world which glows with green-blue skies, and a massive continent set between it all. An orb for the eye.

    `Sera... two fighters shall remain at your leisure.
    The .. creatures of yours.. Exarchs, shall receive freedom to this capital's armoury.

    Bow deep. Let our obsidian-white hair bloom against the ground. Keep your eyes down, whisper. Resign ourselves to what good grace has been given, and retreat again to the SercamBelach
    Thank you, Brother.
    Standing now; pale face, framed with a blush of roseate threads.
    They are alone in this silent, dark chamber. This place dead as a million Craftworlds yet gliding the tendrils of Real-Space, devoured by the Her birth.

    Cleanse your dreams, Farseer. Continue your tale of these Yngir.

    Chapter Three: Night Skies

    God I hate the taste of fear.
    It's tasting a coin slip between your teeth, your jaw
    Locks, a metallic taste, residue runs from your tongue, down each ridged piece of your throat.
    And your body convulses as that thing hits your stomach. Trying to remove that abject terror, that.. inhumane feeling from you. Perhaps that what it is,

    after-all. Perhaps terror is anti-thesis to humanity. To a Human Being. The Human Soul.
    Perhaps, that's why, when we watch death come upon us, there is little we can do but cower before it,
    Eyes cast down, and already dying from within.

    Dirt had already encrusted itself on my lower lip.
    The air is being torn
    Jaw was slack, searching for that place to breath.
    Bleeding red tracer-fire.
    Elbows splayed out, hunched over inside a trench, coughing.
    Don't let it touch you. The blood-fire. You'll die.
    It was pathetic.

    'Merik! Did I say your sad hive-world ass could take a break--
    Did I say you could kill every ****ing man behind you --
    Get your ****ing corpse on the move, you bag of slum-****!'

    The necropoli-servitor turned, devoid of humanity. A perfect swivel,
    Waist level, and unleashed three grenades to the dug-out beside me.
    Something tore into my calve. Someone screamed, somewhere.
    It's called tunnel-vision. You lose the inability to think,
    On all but one thing. But for that time, you are Master of that One thing.
    You become a machine. Omni-potent.

    Something terrible splashed over back, and seeped into the already-matted hair,
    Red-klaxons flared and a body was torn out of the barbed-wire mesh
    by mechanical-hands. Spare organs, now. Poor, sick bastard.
    Zip, zip 'shumph!', zip!
    Four miniature rockets, three over-head, one buried warhead-deep into the dirt.
    God, let it be a dud..
    It whistled off, I counted five, and threw myself over steaming steel
    And exhaust-vents, crawling forward-- that missile more real than anything
    My hell-born Marshall would throw at these ranks.

    'C'mon kids! Brighten up, it's raining!'

    Shink. Shank. Shink. Shink. Tear.
    The world was not done dying.
    Until it was, our entire unit stayed fit in chemo-masks, and leather-thick
    Chemiological-suits. The ash ate at everything. It aged anything it touched.
    The fires still burned, somewhere.

    How unfortunate, that our gear wasn't meant to deflect falling shrapnel.
    Metallic rain
    I notched the rim' of the gear into proper placement, and continued forward.
    Staying still would only accomplish a pissed superior, a stub-pistol to the neck,
    And some other poor bastard, more scared than you, having to lead this bunch.
    Gotta' keep going. Run away from the falling flak.
    Las-fire weaved intricate patterns above us. **** terror,
    They were the only things emanating heat.
    I'm sure he didn't mean it, but the Senior Officer was keeping us alive in neg-fourty
    Nights on this desolate rock. With things meant to kill us.
    What cute irony.

    'Are you stoppin' ten feet from the god-damn finish?!'

    Emperor-damn his ****ing s-

    'Die.', says the planet.
    Mid-sentence, the burning began.
    No las-fire had struck, but the drop-site was warming far too fast, this wasn't
    The dual-suns rising.
    No sun-rise was cresting the coast.
    But by now, barbed wire, simple steel, was sloughing off to sizzle of rock below.
    Those few who hadn't had their suits sealed, coolant on, had already begun detonating
    Inside pressure-resistant armour.
    How'd I know?
    The Emperor sent me a smile, and the Senior's bald, un-armoured frame was eviscerated from the inside-out.
    We were being hit by radiation, this was a weapon. Microwave.

    Klaxons blared blue now, and I thrust myself through a neon-orange netting of what used to be wire, for the command-center up-ahead.
    Thank the Imperium for rock-crete.
    **** the others; if they were smart, they followed.
    I threw myself in, hands forward, body straight.
    The roll was nearly' graceful as an Ork in Ballet, but it got me in.
    And I turned, relieved of all reveries, my eyes cast about on the
    Ground that'd been training-fields moments before.
    The rain of shrapnel was a hail or orange-red fire and sparks now, the machine
    Failing as electronics failed in the withering heart and E-M.
    Men had followed, some had tried for cover.
    The latter died, the former, beginning to fill-in now, would have to replace them.

    We turned, and a heavy, thick voice caught us.
    Our eyes were alight to the stage.
    We hadn't a bloody clue what was going on.
    'Men. We are under attack.'

    Chapter Four: Dark Stars

    A cluster of six ships broke a sky ringed with ash; six razors tearing through the tears of a planet, with violet-green spears touching the Earth in instant-fast punctures. Tiny black creatures below scrambled, most staying a moment longer than life permitted, as plasma-blooms erupted in the most-dense concentrations. The wing split in groups of three, one streaking on flat-trajectory outside what view the seemingly-insect-things had below-- the remaining ships offering a farewell bouquet of spiraling, rainbow-shimmering energy-bundles.
    They broke the central bunker.
    The broken rockcrete showed only a bright flare, life extinguished as detonations went off, before smoke crawled out of the gaping wound, flaring for breath with an enormous gout of flame.
    Two ships broke radio silence, covering channels Human and Not with a melodic, shimmering acapella. A flat pitch. A different voice speak-sings back, and radio-silence.

    Radio-silence breaks.

    --'Sir-- Emperor, God.. God-Emperor, they've taken out first-command. Wing two, three, and armoury require gas-filtration masks--'
    --'Medical staff reporting over-flow, Commissars ordered to commit last-rights. Dispose of bodies.'--
    --'Strip the weapons from the dead. Arm Imperial personnel, regardless of rank. Fortify entrances!'--
    --'Get those batteries online, get those god-damn batteries online!'--

    Plasma-wounds blossomed in roiling clouds ground-level, enormous, fluorescent storms, leviathans of energy that washed over machines and man left alive in the care of the open air.


    He took a breath. Eyes sore, watching within steel-glaz plating at the forming, dissapating red ocean of weapons-fire. The red and green kissed the window, leaving small burn marks and residue painting the other-wise ash-covered surfaces. Fallen to the ground, chest and arms thrown over raised knees, the las-pistol hung in a dead-grip within the clutches of the boy's left-palm.
    'Merik, get up. We've officers coming in to pick up the mess.'
    --'Get the hell away.'

    Turning his eyes, he fixed the things on his companion, sanguine-locks and green-gray eyes. A bitter smile, apologetic was offered, and he surrendered an open arm to be aided up onto two feet.
    She laughed, hushed, and took the hand in one of her own.
    'Can't go and let you get fried. Not before your rotation is over.'
    --'Which was just extended, indefinately..'
    'Hey. 'To serve the Emperor'. Or some **** like that.'


    Six flat razors tore the sky, following a hovering, jittery red reticicle that always seemed to point a mile further. The Mon-Keigh were frightened; a precursor to the hunt. A good opening ceremony, a prayer to the Destroyer, and all other Faiths of Khaine.

    The reticicle was running from them, and each.
    In turn, in the silent reveries of their armoured masks,

    Thank you, Mercurious.
    Thank you, Camel.

    Because bringing back dead fan-fiction is awesome. ;]
    I plan to update this as the new Eldar Codex comes out, and my interest is revived.
    Not in the least, thanks to Camel's recent review.

    Last edited by Iblis; October 17th, 2006 at 02:03.
    It's a matter of Pride, when you enter the cage..

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