Battle For Murano: Part Two - Warhammer 40K Fantasy
 

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  1. #1
    Venerable Old One Phobos's Avatar
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    I actually did this a while ago, I just forgot about posting it here. Sorry everyone.

    Lt Lirate, 3rd Praetorian Fusiliers, 1018 hours.

    Lirate leaned cautiously around the dry stone wall, and saw that the Tau Pathfinders were being well occupied by his other two squads. Whilst he and the remaining men had snuck around to the Pathfinder's rear, the others had put up a great amount of fire, using the platoon's three heavy bolters and an autocannon to great effect. The Pathfinders, he had been informed, had been forced out of the houses behind a low wall on the opposite side of a playing field that Lirate and his detachment were coming up on. Even now, from several hundred yards away, Lirate could hear the autocannon's staccato rumble each second as it let loose a devastating two inch shell.

    The Pathfinders were a mere seventy yards away, well in range of the Praetorian?s lasguns, and well distracted by the heavy weapons detachment's fire. Lirate turned toward Sergeant Hook, who was crouched behind him.

    "Sergeant Hook, form them up for creeping advance."

    Hook snapped off a quick salute, and made various hand signals to the troops that were huddling behind fallen steel girders and piles of rubble. They leapt to their feet and formed two lines, one in front of the other, lasguns at the ready.

    "Company, advancing volley fire at seven-zero yards, commence!" shouted Hook. His voice echoed across the distance between the guardsmen and Pathfinders almost as quickly as the bark of lasgun fire, and certainly as not as fast as the actual shots which rent the air between the guardsmen and the Pathfinders.

    As soon as the first rank bent down to reload, having expended all of a power cell in one burst, the second stood in front of them and fired as one. Five of the fifteen pathfinders had been mown down before they replied with equally accurate fire. Four guardsmen in the second rank, now bending down to reload, were shot, their blood not noticeable as it soaked through the same colour of their uniforms.

    "Company, fire at will!" bellowed Hook, and now the organised shots fell apart as the guardsmen fired at their own discretion. Round after round of lasgun fire poured into the pathfinders, who in their dying moments returned with a blistering fusillade of fire, cutting down another three guardsmen in vengeance for their deaths. When all of the Pathfinders had fallen, the guardsmen's fire fell away to nothing as they slowly approached the still warm bodies, fingers on triggers. Suspiciously circling the bodies, a quick kick in the ribs drawing any alien groan was quickly silence with four lasguns at point blank range.

    Lirate and Hook strode slowly over to where the fallen Tau lay. Taking in a quick disgusted look at them, Lirate waved to the sergeant he had left in charge of the other group of heavy weapons, Kyles. Turning about, the platoon began to march onward to fulfil their part in the plan for retaking the town.

    Lt Rivers, 5th Mortant Armoured Corps, 1025 hours.

    Rivers cursed fitfully as he rammed a shell and charge into the breach of the Vanquisher, his gunner already feverishly rotating the turret with the hydraulic pedals at his feet. Ahead of them, crossing from left to right, was a hammerhead. Already the lascannon gunner had destroyed its deadly railgun, but the rest of the chassis still remained. Already, the fore missile pods were slowly rotating around to face the Vanquisher.

    Through the dense turret armour, Rivers heard the beginnings of a repeating thunder, and watched as a long row of shell holes appeared in the side of the hammerhead from the support 'Russ Exterminator, leading from the mid to the forward hull, where the concentration of fire tore the front of the hammerhead apart, the very nose of the hammerhead dropped lamentably to the ground.

    "Cannon on!" shouted the gunner, Trent.

    "Fire!" roared Rivers.

    Trent depressed his gunners pedal; loosing off a shell toward the stricken Hammerhead. The shell pierced the flank of the Hammer' with ease, detonating deep within its hull. Viewing this result through one of the narrow vision-slits in the turret, Rivers shoved the hatch above his head back, and stood up, his rear perched on the turret rim, but the majority of his weight on the still hot breach of the gun, which Rivers could hear was attempting to melt the vulcanised rubber sole of his boots. He grabbed hold of the stormbolter on the turret rim, pointing off toward his right, and swung it round to bear on the hatchways of the Hammerhead, the ammunition belts clinking together as he did so.

    As the hatch opened, and disgorged its occupants, Rivers tightened his fingers on the triggers of the stormbolter, which leapt and roared in his hands. The shells were way off their mark, such was River?s nervousness caused by the sudden appearance of the hammerhead, that he had to 'walk' the shells to their targets, tearing up the cobblestones of the street in a discordant symphony. The projectiles tore through the scant armour of the fire warriors as if it were paper, and their maimed bodies now flew through the air as the repeated force of impacting bolt rounds took their toll, smashing the torn ragdolls onto the now burning hulk that was their transport, before dropping forlornly to the floor as their flesh was slowly cooked from their bones.

    Lt Fleming, 19th Cadian Rifles, 1028 hours.

    Fleming pressed himself against the old wooden floor of the building, ignoring the splinters that were now burrowing into his flesh. Behind him in the shadows of the room, his trusted sergeant, Fidler, adjusted his bolter, having dispensed with the usual magazine for the less common belt feed form of ammunition for the weapon, to which he had added a bipod he had taken off its larger brother. To Fidlers left stood Private Slade, his dark eyes searching the street for the best target for his grenade launcher. In his stone-like cheek, a muscle twitched as a result of mixed anger and impatience. Finally, next to Fleming was corporal Lucas, who cradled in his arms another heavy flamer, like Fleming.

    The four were silently waiting for a squad of Firewarriors who were advancing steadily up the street. Fleming kept track of their progress using their reflection in the shop window across the road as a guide. Fleming could now hear their footsteps faintly echoing off the smooth walls of the street, and he slowly raised a hand to prepare the other three, who immediately tensed up, remembering their parts in the battle plan.

    Fleming lowered his hand, and the plan swung into action. Slade stepped forward and fired a salvo of four frag grenades through the broken glass of the window, which landed amongst the firewarriors, flinging four of them into the air with ease as they detonated. From his position, Fidler had scampered behind a bush, whose bolter now rapidly spat shells at the now bewildered firewarriors. A stitch of shells sought contact with flesh, and three of the Tau were now sprawled on the cobbles, their hearts beating their last. Fidler picked up his bolter and ran. The final phase swung into action, with Fleming and Lucas raising from their hiding place and engulfing the remaining Tau, who were just starting for Fidler's previous position, in a wall of promethium flame. Even before the corpses had fallen to the ground, then the trio were walking slowly toward their form opponents, wary for any that feigned death.

    Confident there were none the three started out for the next ambush, Fleming leading the column as they moved off. Then Fidler fell, blood gushing from a major wound in his back. All looked around, startled at Fidler's anguished cry. A kroot warrior, the first of twenty odd, was now standing over his body.

    Fleming and the others immediately turned and fired their weapons, advancing slowly against the horde of warriors. Slade with the grenade launcher was sought out by kroot rifle fire, falling almost immediately with a fountain of blood from his head.A kroot warrior ran out of the wall of flame toward Fleming, who immediately turned his heavy flamer toward it. The kroot was faster, and knocked the weapon from his hands and sweeping Fleming's feet from under him. The last Fleming saw was a flash of white as a blade caught the dreary sunlight, and then a faint whisper on the wind, carried before his dying shriek.

    "It fits like clothes made out of wasps!"

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  3. #2
    Normal member Fox D: Toastee's Avatar
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    Nice work indeed ^_^
    I think I prefered this chapter over the first, but still, its all good stuff which is an enjoying read.
    When can we expect to see part three hitting the boards?

    Toastee
    Want to chat? You can normally find me in the LO CHAT!
    LO CHAT! JOIN US NOW AND BECOME A GOD OF BACON.

  4. #3
    Venerable Old One Phobos's Avatar
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    Not for a while, but I have another story in the pipe that should soon come to fruition.
    "It fits like clothes made out of wasps!"

  5. #4
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    The story was really missing its effects: the atmosphere of the battle, the morality status of troops - the emotions, they were conveyed quite unlively, and offers no connection with the audience.
    Simply said, the story was rushed. Grammar errors were plenty, not to the point of ill-discreet, but to the point that it cut the flow.
    Setting descriptions were really lacking, the situation a nodescript image save for the few bitter soldiers under stress against enemy fire and, so it seemed, fallible Tau troops that didn't offer staunch resistance whatsoever. I was of the understanding that the Tau were highly-developed in tactical manuevers.

    Part Two read more like a polished battle report with added story elements. Otherwise, it was an interesting read, as always, Inquisitor.

  6. #5
    Venerable Old One Phobos's Avatar
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    Now Scarface, if I got that sort of critique on IL, I wouldn't be here.
    "It fits like clothes made out of wasps!"

  7. #6
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    What are you implying? :rolleyes:

  8. #7
    Venerable Old One Phobos's Avatar
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    Implying that Imp Lit is shite for helpful comments on stories.
    "It fits like clothes made out of wasps!"

  9. #8
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    Not Imperial Literature itself, but some of the members that are part of it. You actually do get comments, believe it or not. Then again the quality of it varies from member to member, that much is apparent.
    Though you can't blame the entire society for the sins of one member, that would be wrong, and place you in the position of an antagonist in lieu of what you truly deserve.
    The new influx of members are, without a doubt, something new... A different element thrown in amongst the real literatureans. They take great pains to integrate themselves into our close-knitted society, but this endeavour is usually beaten down and tanned before the light of acceptance is seen.

    What if it was that people actually did read your story, but that they choose to remain anonymous about it, what would you make out of that? Think about it.

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