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Postby the_heritor » Thu Jul 10, 2014 5:36 pm

Began writing up a bit about my force ahead of the upcoming campaign and stuff. I plan to back date for the last few years (where I've been using a Dark Eldar/Chaos blend) - so that'll be pretty different... Here's a little something by way of introduction.

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Re: Fiction!

Postby the_heritor » Thu Jul 10, 2014 5:41 pm

OK - was going to put a PDF on of it, but the fascists in charge won't allow it :lol:

An Alliance Is Formed (Over A Pint Or Three)

“Sir? There’s a Chaplain here to speak with you...”

Captain Murahan eyed his Sergeant curiously. It was unlike Tissone to show confusion.

“It’s not Sroka?” he replied.

“No sir… I can’t find him anywhere,” the Sergeant answered hesitantly.

“And that troubles you… See him in then.” Murahan had risen to his station largely by sheer weight of personality. This was firmly rooted in knowing his men, and knowing everything about them. He read their expressions and discerned their feelings perfectly. He knew that this had alarmed Tissone at first, but it didn’t take long for the Sergeant to adapt after Murahan’s promotion from the Seventh. Of course, personality alone would never have been enough, and Murahan had conquered on hundreds of battlefields in his time. No Space Marine would follow a lesser man, or allow one to lead one of their Battle Companies. The Sergeant returned moments later.

“Hakan Stormwolf, sir…”

Behind Tissone entered a figure clad in ornate black power armour, runic symbols carved expertly into his greaves. Several animal pelts and tails hung from its extremities, and a large fur cloak sat comfortably on his shoulders.

“What can I do for you, Chaplain?” Murahan asked sternly.

The visitor said nothing for a few seconds, his steely eyes appraising the Captain.

“In our Chapter, we prefer the title Wolf Priest,” he eventually said.

“So be it… I would have expected you to approach us through my Company Chaplain,” Murahan added.

“I watched him for a while; at his prayers… There seems little of The Warrior about him; I’d prefer to speak directly with you.”

“I assure you… Wolf Priest… Chaplain Sroka is as skilled a combatant as you’ll find on this rock. He simply has other duties while we are not engaging the enemy.”

Hakan Stormwolf nodded gruffly in reply, before grinning and howling with laughter. “They warned me you were a diplomat, but I sense there’s more about you. Where do you get a drink in this place?”

“Who warned you? What did they say!?” Tissone demanded. Murahan waved him off.

“Never mind all that son,” Hakan continued. “We suspected this place might be dry; we bought ale with us. Captain, come and drink – bring your Sergeant too; we have things to discuss.”

* * *

“And so you’ve just arrived?” Murahan concluded.

“That’s right – our Cruiser’s in orbit. The Wolf Lord dropped somewhere on the other side of the world to engage immediately. He can be a bit like that, you see: he heard something about Orks and had to dive straight in. Sometimes I wonder if he ain’t an Ork himself… Gave me a few squads to deploy here, said I should find other Astartes and catch up.”

“Well, like I said…” Murahan paused as Hakan refilled their tankards. It was nigh-on impossible for an Astartes to become inebriated, but the Wolf Preist seemed determined to try. “The enemy are out there… We know they’re there, they know we’re here, but no one’s moving.”

“Why not? I’m sure I didn’t mistake you boys for whelps…” Tissone bristled at the sleight, but his Captain shot him a glance and he quickly calmed.

“It’s the chain of command here,” Murahan continued, “it’s… confusing.”

“You’re an Astartes Captain… Don’t you outrank ‘em all?” Hakan asked.

“Would that it were that simple… I’m not the only Captain. There are Guard; a couple of squabbling Lord Millitants desperately trying to out-do each other and impress any Astartes they see in that way that they do,” Hakan grinned and rolled his eyes in agreement. “And there’s Inquisition.”

“Bastards…” Hakan Stormwolf spat.

“No one’s really sure what’s happening, and it’s lead to a deadlock,” Tissone added.

“So you’re all just sitting on your arses?” Hakan offered.

“Well…” Murahan leaned in and lowered his voice. “I’ve had Scouts out patrolling the past few nights with my Officers; I’ve been a couple of times myself. They’ve had a few run-ins with some Heretics: mostly one-sided ambushes… massacres really. We’ve not lost a man yet.”

“So, the old enemy are here too, are they?” Hakan looked almost delighted with the news.

“Not just them… There’s Orks, as you already heard. Necrons too. And Eldar, but who knows what they’re thinking. And…” Murahan paused, realising he was in danger of re-living his worst nightmares.

“Go on…” Hakan urged.


“Ah…” the Wolf Priest shook his head. “That is an ill omen for this world.”

"Indeed,” Murahan replied before draining his tankard.

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Re: Fiction!

Postby Alan » Thu Jul 10, 2014 6:09 pm

As a Tyranid player I liked the end part :twisted:

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Re: Fiction!

Postby the_heritor » Wed Jul 16, 2014 9:50 pm

Second attempt at uploading another part. There is quite a bit more than this written (which will be available as one piece when it's finished); I'm just posting excerpts as I go.

A bit of action in this one...

+++ At the Shrine of the Aquilla +++

He’d always hated the smell of incense.

Veteran Sergeant Massone couldn’t help but link the stench with the death of his father. Silently, he cursed Sroka for feeling the need to use it, before shutting of his scent glands.

“Welcome brothers,” the Chaplain began. “We are gathered to give thanks to The Emperor and his son, Dorn. We beseech them for their protection as we carry out their noble and holy undertaking. The Emperor protects.”

“The Emperor protects,” the occupants of the Shrine intoned as one.

As Sroka continued, Massone’s mind began to wander, recapping the events of the previous night when he had joined Sergeant Leonidis and four of his Scouts on a recon patrol.

This current batch of recruits was very promising, and they had made several of the Officers and Chapter’s veterans take notice. Massone had earmarked three to watch out for after fighting alongside them that previous night. As a Veteran Sergeant of one of the Second Company’s Assault squads, Massone looked for swordsmanship, ferocity and courage above other skills when he recruited for his unit. The Scouts that Leonidis had bought along last night had all three in spades.

* * *

“There are twelve that I could see, possibly another three inside a pavilion to the rear,” Dannius reported to his Sergeant. The Scout had stolen forwards to pinpoint the enemy camp, and report back on its occupants.

“What do you think Massone?” Leonidis asked.

“This is your patrol Leo; I’m just here to help,” he answered. Whilst Massone technically outranked his old friend, Leonidis had a better grasp of reconnaissance strategy.

‘We take them out,” he declared. “Cloaks down. Dannius, help the Sergeant, he’s not used to camo gear. Mass, I want you to hang back until we’re in, I’ll signal on the bead.” Massone nodded in agreement; he knew that both his armour and his skills were not suited to this.

“Maccabe,” Leonidis continued, “take Dannius, and Rubio around the south edge of their camp. Stick to the undergrowth and do not let them see you. Wait for my signal. Go.” The three Scouts threw salutes to their Sergeant and turned away. Only seconds later, Massone could see no sign of them amongst the trees.

“Follus, Gregio, you’re with me. We’ll give Maccabe two minutes, and we move directly in. Mass, keep behind us, and keep low.” All three nodded their ascent.

Two minutes later - to the second - they moved out. Leonidis and his Scouts gliding silently through the forest, Massone crashing through the trees. He cursed as the Scouts eyed him with frustration.

“This is no good Leo,” he said to the Scout Sergeant. “I’m going to wait here until you’ve engaged: they’ll hear me before you can get close.”

“Sergeant?” Gregio interrupted. “How about the Nimmeus Gambit?”

“Has one of you been listening in Tactica Lessons?” Leonidis asked. “I would never have believed it…”

“Nimmeus… as in the Vanguard Sergeant?” Massone asked.

“That’s right. You’re going to love this Leo.”

And that’s how it was that Massone found himself as The Bait.

Frustratingly, he really was trying to be silent. It was impossible in Power Armour, and he really didn’t understand how the Scouts were managing to walk through woodland without snapping twigs under every footstep. At the end, of course, being silent would be irrelevant: they were supposed to hear him eventually. He just needed to get that bit closer.

A bright red beam lanced across him from the left, missing him by a good foot or so. Another followed. Then another. It quickly became apparent that he had been spotted, and two sentries had opened up on full-auto with their Lasguns. Crouching, Massone fastened his helmet into its neck fittings. Taking a Lasgun beam in the head was no joke, even for an Astartes, but fully enclosed in his armour he felt invincible. He checked his Bolter was fully loaded and sprang from cover, firing from the hip.

A Stubber opened up to his right, the shells tracing a line in front of him. He swung his aim around, and with a gurgled cry, the heavy weapon was silenced. Seconds later, he came to his original assailants, but both were already dead with large chunks blown from their chests.

Replacing the clip in his Bolter, Massone saw, up close, the archenemy’s soldiers for the first time. Each wore salvaged Guard uniform, their Lasguns carrying defaced Imperial insignia. Their faces were tattooed with symbols that Massone didn’t want to know the meaning of.

More shots made him refocus: a fourth shooter was opening up with an automatic rifle, and another quickly joined him. He hefted his Bolter and ran headlong at the new assailants, shells hammering against his armour but barely scratching it.

“Three down, two in front of me. I’m in,” Massone announced over the comm-link. By the time he was even halfway to the cultists, four of their brethren had also raised weapons and began to shoot.

Caught by surprise, three went down with their throats cut. Maccabe’s team had gained the ground behind the enemy and were showing no quarter. The three remaining heretics tried desperately to club the Scouts with their rifle butts, but all three quickly succumbed to blades across the throat, joining their comrades in whatever hell was reserved for such scum.

“The Nimmeus Gambit, sir?” Dannius asked.

“Gregio’s idea…” Massone answered. “What’s next?”

“The Sergeant’s at forty-five alpha six,” Rubio announced after reading his scanner. “Mission Directive dictates attempting a rendezvous.”

“Then we follow Mission Directive,” Massone confirmed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the Scouts were treating this exactly like a training exercise. Perhaps that was for the best: a Scout who remembered his training was far more use than one who didn’t. And far more likely to survive.

“No sense sneaking around any more boys; on me.” The Sergeant activated his Power Fist, crackling energy engulfing his left arm and drawing the attention of another fire-team. He leapt forwards with the three Scouts at his heels, all four of them firing as they charged their hated foe. Bolt shells obliterated two of the heretics before they made contact. In return, Dannius had taken a light shoulder wound from a Lasbolt, but fought on without flinching.

The cultists tried to meet the Space Marine’s charge on their bayonets. Massone snapped one of the blades on impact and drove his crackling gauntlet through the enemy’s chest. There were four cultists remaining, each trying to land a blow on the three Scouts dancing around them and harrying them with blades. Rubio slashed at the eyes of one of them before blowing his head apart with a short burst from his Bolt Pistol.

Seven more warriors of the archenemy began to charge at them from a nearby tent, six of them armed with clubs and flails. The final one of them, a considerably larger brute, hefted a huge two-handed Chainsword.

“I think your original count may have been off Dannius…” Maccabe ventured as he put another cultist to the ground. The vanquished enemy clutched at the gaping wound in his throat for a few seconds before expiring. Dannius and Rubio efficiently finished off the remaining two enemies before the reinforcements could reach them.

“Fists of Remus, hold,” Massone commanded as they watched the enemy bear down on them. “Leave the big one to me.”

His quarry had the same ideal, and barrelled straight at the Sergeant. Massone leapt aside, avoiding the first swing of the huge blade, and then had to duck a second. The weapon was cumbersome, but was designed to cut bulkheads in emergencies; Power Armour would be no protection against it. Massone knew he had to end it quickly; his brothers were outnumbered two-to-one.

Except they no longer were. Leonidis and the two remaining Scouts joined them and tipped the fight heavily in the Imperials’ favour, the Sergeant’s Power Axe quickly reducing their foe by one.

Massone reached for his enemy’s hands, attempting to wrestle the Eviscerator from his grasp. As he made contact, he activated his Power Fist for a brief moment. The huge cultist flinched back from the shock, and gave Massone an opening: he smashed his gauntlet down, shattering his opponent’s weapon and scattering machinery and chain-links across the clearing. His next blow was more fatal.

He turned back to the squad to find Rubio cutting down the final cultist. All six of the Marines were spattered with gore, but unhurt.

“Dannius, Maccabe, Rubio: secure the perimeter,” Leonidis ordered.

“Good timing Leo…” Massone said breathlessly. “Next time I see Nimmeus, I’m going to smash his teeth.” Leonidis grinned, clapping his friend on the shoulder guard.

“You played his part perfectly,” the Scout Sergeant declared with a grin. “Gregio, show the Sergeant what you found.”

“Sergeant Massone, these data slates contain maps, force dispositions and communiqués. We believe the Captain should see them.”

“I’ll make sure he does,” Massone said encouragingly. “Good work,” he added.

“Thank you sir,” Gregio responded, his chest swelling with pride.

* * *

“His watch is infinite; his light never fades; his strength is eternal. We are the Fists of Remus, Sons of Dorn, The Emperor’s Astartes and we shall know no fear.”

Massone joined with the familiar words. He hadn’t even noticed he was saying them at first.

“The Emperor protects,” Sroka concluded.

“The Emperor protects,” the gathered warriors echoed.

“Chaplain, a word?” the Sergeant asked, approaching Sroka after the service.

“Brother Massone,” he nodded. “I sense that your mind is clouded today.”

“I’m fine Chaplain. My mind is focused on our task here,” he answered.

“You are certain what our task is?” the Chaplain asked cryptically.

“I never am,” Massone responded with a wry smile, which Sroka mirrored. “You are due on tonight’s patrol?” the Sergeant asked.

“With Sergeant Tertius’ squad. He’s taking all nine with him: the Captain wants the patrols doubled,” he answered.

“I never question the Captain’s wisdom… Be careful out there: my squad enjoy having you with us when we jump into combat,” Massone urged.

“The Emperor’s not done with me yet, Son of Dorn!” the Chaplain chuckled. “What do you need to tell me?”

“You were at this morning’s briefing; you know everything strategic. But off the record…”

“Now we get to the interesting part,” Sroka interrupted.

“Some of the Scouts have heard the rumours about Genestealers,” Massone added cautiously. “I’m not sure they’re coping very well.”

“Where did you get this from?” Sroka asked, concerned.

“I was with Leonidis before I came here, debriefing from last night. He’s overheard his squad talking.”

Sroka beckoned him closer and lowered his voice. “It’s precisely because of those rumours that it’s Tertius’ squad out there tonight, and not Leo’s. You know the best way to fight a Genestealer? From as far away as possible, that’s how. Tertius has four of his boys armed with long rifles; I’ve seen them shoot… We need to make sure the Vindicare Temple doesn’t hear about them.”

Massone was only slightly reassured. “What about the psychology of the whole thing? They’re scared of these beasts. You expect them to hold their aim steady with one of those in the crosshairs?”

“Psychology and morale are my area Sergeant. I’m their reminder that Astartes know no fear.”

“You know I trust you Chaplain. I just can’t shake off the feeling that we’re going in underprepared,” Massone declared. “Emperor be with you Chaplain.”

“He always is brother,” Sroka said, returning to his observances.

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