Post by Archon Ahkrenath on Sept 22, 2005 13:37:35 GMT
Sergeant Anton Mortis stared at an indeterminable location beyond the Imperial trenchline, eyes creeping over the make-shift defense of compact dirt, which was the only thing keeping the screaming bullets from hitting him, puncturing his carapace armor, and driving through his fragile flesh.
"Frack me!"
"Is that an order?" Trooper First Grade Alexa smiled at the Sergeant, exposed skin sweating from hours of holding the line against the enemy advance. Sergeant Anton returned a small smile, responding to Alexa's witty remark.
"No, no. Possibly a request, but that's for another place and another time."
The tension noticeably receded from Alexa's face, replaced by blushing across her pale skin.
Seeing Anton's plain misgivings, Sergeant Tyros Rufo, walked towards his fellow sergeant. Tyros, the tallest man in the platoon, never wore his helmet. He didn't care for regulations, and he often broke them. Never injured despite bearing the brunt of most battles, Tyros had won several awards for valor and bravery and gained the respect of the platoon as well as the right to his odd individualism. In battle, he moved with grace and agility, and seemed somehow foresighted - the platoon viewed him as a good luck charm.
His long black hair broke regulation, like the rest of him. He, like the rest of Third Platoon, carried a hellgun, but he also carried an autopistol he had picked off the corpse of a traitor guardsman. His teal eyes held a powerful aura of assertion, calmly staring at the world, unabashed by the horrors most men would never see.
Speaking in a mild voice even as he reached his fellow Sergeant, Tyros' tone was plain and simple, almost matter-of-factly, "Anton, is it that bad?"
"Let's just say that if I was an exceptionally pious man, I'd start saying my prayers now."
"If you were an exceptionally pious man, you'd have been chanting prayers instead of fighting," chimed in Alexa.
"...and you would have been dead long ago," added Tyros in the same matter-of-factly tone as before.
"Not to mention I wouldn't have had such fine company."
"Sergeant Anton, stop fraternizing, and return to your position." That was Lieutenant Dustin Goroth - he was a stickler for regulation, shouting, and what most of the platoon hated...and he was in charge.
Anton returned to his silent vigil, watching as flares flew through the sky. The air support was harrying the enemy position. Thracian Primaris, once the bastion jewel of the Helican Sub-Sector, now a battleground between the forces of the Imperium, traitors, and the ever-spreading, virulent Orks.
A green tide surged over an opposite trenchline, and Anton, Alexa, and the rest of Third Platoon aimed their hellguns over the ridge, except for Tyros; he held his battle-prized autopistol and a larger-than-regulation combat knife. Anton knew enough about Tyros not to question his choice; the man would use what weapons he wanted whether regulation or not. And he was probably wise to do so.
Even as Third platoon fired over the ridge-like trenchline, Anton knew the Orks would make it to the trenches.
"Why do the greenskins keep coming? When will they give up?" asked Alexa.
"When they are all dead, or when we are," assertively replied Tyros even as he shot an ork's oddly-proportioned skull from forty yards, knocking the greenskin to the ground, its strange blood spraying across its cohorts.
Third platoon continued firing, thinning the Ork progression, but failing to stop the oncoming tide. Crude projectiles fired down into the trenches, killing several members of the platoon out of luck more than accuracy - the greenskins weren't accurate, they were just numerous.
Anton didn't look over at the rest of the platoon. Dealing with his own problems, namely an empty powerpack in the face of a rushing greenskin. The Ork smiled down, yellow teeth staring at Anton as a crude axe-like weapon descended towards his head. Anton made a silent prayer to the Emperor, what he assumed would be his last, and closed his eyes. Nothing happened.
Opening his eyes, Anton saw the Ork fall dead, a gaping hole through his skull. Looking to his right as he replaced his weapon's powerpack, Anton saw Tyros, autopistol in hand. Tyros returned his stare with a wry grin, and the two continued firing even as the first Orks poured over and into the trenches.
Some of the men turned despairingly towards the rear, but Lieutenant Goroth rallied them, however unwillingly on their part, around him. Anton used his hellgun as a blunt instrument of the Emperor's wrath, beating and bludgeoning the foul tide to death as they came at him. Powerfully built, Anton found himself struggling against the feral beast-like enemies.
Tyros on the other hand seemed to be dancing through the Greenskins' ranks, killing one after another with ease, plunging his combat knife through their foul skin. Without any fear he was engaging the enemy head on...and winning. Anton only spared a few seconds looking at his fellow Sergeant before bludgeoning another Ork to death.
Turning, Anton couldn't help wonder where Alexa was. He didn't see her fighting the enemy, and he hadn't kept an eye on her since the Orks reached the trenches. Walking forward, Anton almost tripped over her body.
Dead. It took a few seconds for the realization to reach Anton's brain. Alexa was dead, her cold pale flesh no longer blushing at his compliments. Although he had never told her, Anton had been in love with Alexa for some time, hiding his feelings because of his position. The Guard did not allow intimate relations between two soldiers.
Anger welled up in Anton's burning heart, his passions and desires quelled in an instant, replaced by frigid sadness...it stung. He glared at the enemy with far more hatred than before even as he made a silent prayer for the Emperor to take Alexa's soul into His hands. He beat a nearby Ork's skull to dust, turning in time to see another's axe rushing to bisect him. He brought his hellgun up to parry the blow, but the axe cut through it and continued towards his head. Instead of closing his eyes, Anton stared at the inevitable death.
The blade was two inches from Anton's face when Tyros' knife cut through the Ork's back and all the way through its gut. As Tyros withdrew the blade, the Ork's intestines withdrew from its abdomen, and Anton breathed in a sigh of relief...and the pungently foul smell of the greenskin.
And like that, the battle was over. Looking left and right, Anton saw that most of the platoon lay dead, bodies crumpled over in various positions. A final countenance of grim acceptance was written on several faces. Others still stared, terrified, in the direction their doom had come from. Alexa looked up as if in prayer.
Tyros smiled at Anton, but Anton could only look down at Alexa's dead body. Tyros followed the man's stare and understanding passed between the two.
Aircraft flew overhead with a speed beyond any Imperial flier Anton was acquainted with. Looking up, he saw graceful frames soaring through the sky, engines oddly silent. Anton had never seen such designs before, but Tyros looked as if he recognized them.
"What are they?" asked Anton.
"Eldar. The Eldar are here."
Lieutenant Goroth and five others, not including Sergeant Tyros and Sergeant Anton, were all that remained of Third Platoon. The Lieutenant walked towards Anton and Tyros, hands bloodied from the intense fighting, hellgun nowhere to be found. Accompanying him was Trooper Guy Tallin.
"Sergeants, congratulations on a job well done." The Lieutenant's attitude seemed simple and sober rather than his usual strict self. Kindness was something normally beyond the Lieutenant. But congratulations weren't something Anton wanted as he stared at Alexa's dead body. Goroth made to shake hands with Anton, but the solemn soldier declined. Turning to Tyros, Goroth made the same gesture. Tyros extended his right hand, holding his prized pistol, and fired twice at the Lieutenant's chest. One shot went through the Lieutenant's left lung and the other went through his heart. The treachery barely registered in his brain before he spasmed and died.
Even as Anton and Guy went for their weapons, Tyros moved behind the Trooper and seemed to slide his blade against Guy's neck. The blade returned to Tyros' side, and blood flowed from Guy's neck as his body slumped and then fell to the ground, his cries for help coming out as gurgles as he choked on his own blood.
Anton stared at Tyros for a few seconds, but he didn't have time to aim his hellgun. Tyros was behind him, blade at his neck in seconds. He was moving with inhuman speed, far faster than Anton could follow.
"Why?"
"Because I am not who you think me to be."
"So will you kill me then, you don't have much time before the others come this way."
"They won't prove a problem. They are being dealt with even as we speak."
Anton looked down the trenchline, and saw the other guardsmen coming to his assistance. And behind them, shadows blurred and shapes shifted, and Anton thought he saw cloaks flapping in the wind. When the guardsmen stopped in their tracks he was sure the anomalies were real. Suddenly the shapes became people, tall graceful, and elegant looking. Shadowed in dark black cloaks, the figures rushed behind the three unwary guardsmen and strangled each to death with a razor-mesh garrote.
"So who are you?"
"My name is Alesca'ilairon. I am Eldar."
It all seemed to make sense to Anton. Little things came together and helped form a larger, clearer picture. Thousands of questions jumped into his head in an instant, but he only voiced one: "Are you going to kill me now?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
Anton's tension increased as the tall, shadow-like figures approached.
"What my kin have to say."
Tyros stared at the man he had known for an entire year as Tyros Rufo, now revealed to have some strange name. He wasn't even Human! And as his former friend talked in some strange tongue to the figures in black cloaks who had killed the remainder of Third Platoon, Anton felt sure that his fate was sealed. His life was in the hands of strange Xenos, and they would certainly end it, uniting him with his unspoken love. He was prepared for death; he had expected it on multiple occasions already. The strange speech stopped, and Anton looked up at what had - for a time - been Tyros Rufo.
"So I am to die?"
"Not by my hand. Not yet at least."
"Then what? What am I to do?"
"Frack me!"
"Is that an order?" Trooper First Grade Alexa smiled at the Sergeant, exposed skin sweating from hours of holding the line against the enemy advance. Sergeant Anton returned a small smile, responding to Alexa's witty remark.
"No, no. Possibly a request, but that's for another place and another time."
The tension noticeably receded from Alexa's face, replaced by blushing across her pale skin.
Seeing Anton's plain misgivings, Sergeant Tyros Rufo, walked towards his fellow sergeant. Tyros, the tallest man in the platoon, never wore his helmet. He didn't care for regulations, and he often broke them. Never injured despite bearing the brunt of most battles, Tyros had won several awards for valor and bravery and gained the respect of the platoon as well as the right to his odd individualism. In battle, he moved with grace and agility, and seemed somehow foresighted - the platoon viewed him as a good luck charm.
His long black hair broke regulation, like the rest of him. He, like the rest of Third Platoon, carried a hellgun, but he also carried an autopistol he had picked off the corpse of a traitor guardsman. His teal eyes held a powerful aura of assertion, calmly staring at the world, unabashed by the horrors most men would never see.
Speaking in a mild voice even as he reached his fellow Sergeant, Tyros' tone was plain and simple, almost matter-of-factly, "Anton, is it that bad?"
"Let's just say that if I was an exceptionally pious man, I'd start saying my prayers now."
"If you were an exceptionally pious man, you'd have been chanting prayers instead of fighting," chimed in Alexa.
"...and you would have been dead long ago," added Tyros in the same matter-of-factly tone as before.
"Not to mention I wouldn't have had such fine company."
"Sergeant Anton, stop fraternizing, and return to your position." That was Lieutenant Dustin Goroth - he was a stickler for regulation, shouting, and what most of the platoon hated...and he was in charge.
Anton returned to his silent vigil, watching as flares flew through the sky. The air support was harrying the enemy position. Thracian Primaris, once the bastion jewel of the Helican Sub-Sector, now a battleground between the forces of the Imperium, traitors, and the ever-spreading, virulent Orks.
A green tide surged over an opposite trenchline, and Anton, Alexa, and the rest of Third Platoon aimed their hellguns over the ridge, except for Tyros; he held his battle-prized autopistol and a larger-than-regulation combat knife. Anton knew enough about Tyros not to question his choice; the man would use what weapons he wanted whether regulation or not. And he was probably wise to do so.
Even as Third platoon fired over the ridge-like trenchline, Anton knew the Orks would make it to the trenches.
"Why do the greenskins keep coming? When will they give up?" asked Alexa.
"When they are all dead, or when we are," assertively replied Tyros even as he shot an ork's oddly-proportioned skull from forty yards, knocking the greenskin to the ground, its strange blood spraying across its cohorts.
Third platoon continued firing, thinning the Ork progression, but failing to stop the oncoming tide. Crude projectiles fired down into the trenches, killing several members of the platoon out of luck more than accuracy - the greenskins weren't accurate, they were just numerous.
Anton didn't look over at the rest of the platoon. Dealing with his own problems, namely an empty powerpack in the face of a rushing greenskin. The Ork smiled down, yellow teeth staring at Anton as a crude axe-like weapon descended towards his head. Anton made a silent prayer to the Emperor, what he assumed would be his last, and closed his eyes. Nothing happened.
Opening his eyes, Anton saw the Ork fall dead, a gaping hole through his skull. Looking to his right as he replaced his weapon's powerpack, Anton saw Tyros, autopistol in hand. Tyros returned his stare with a wry grin, and the two continued firing even as the first Orks poured over and into the trenches.
Some of the men turned despairingly towards the rear, but Lieutenant Goroth rallied them, however unwillingly on their part, around him. Anton used his hellgun as a blunt instrument of the Emperor's wrath, beating and bludgeoning the foul tide to death as they came at him. Powerfully built, Anton found himself struggling against the feral beast-like enemies.
Tyros on the other hand seemed to be dancing through the Greenskins' ranks, killing one after another with ease, plunging his combat knife through their foul skin. Without any fear he was engaging the enemy head on...and winning. Anton only spared a few seconds looking at his fellow Sergeant before bludgeoning another Ork to death.
Turning, Anton couldn't help wonder where Alexa was. He didn't see her fighting the enemy, and he hadn't kept an eye on her since the Orks reached the trenches. Walking forward, Anton almost tripped over her body.
Dead. It took a few seconds for the realization to reach Anton's brain. Alexa was dead, her cold pale flesh no longer blushing at his compliments. Although he had never told her, Anton had been in love with Alexa for some time, hiding his feelings because of his position. The Guard did not allow intimate relations between two soldiers.
Anger welled up in Anton's burning heart, his passions and desires quelled in an instant, replaced by frigid sadness...it stung. He glared at the enemy with far more hatred than before even as he made a silent prayer for the Emperor to take Alexa's soul into His hands. He beat a nearby Ork's skull to dust, turning in time to see another's axe rushing to bisect him. He brought his hellgun up to parry the blow, but the axe cut through it and continued towards his head. Instead of closing his eyes, Anton stared at the inevitable death.
The blade was two inches from Anton's face when Tyros' knife cut through the Ork's back and all the way through its gut. As Tyros withdrew the blade, the Ork's intestines withdrew from its abdomen, and Anton breathed in a sigh of relief...and the pungently foul smell of the greenskin.
And like that, the battle was over. Looking left and right, Anton saw that most of the platoon lay dead, bodies crumpled over in various positions. A final countenance of grim acceptance was written on several faces. Others still stared, terrified, in the direction their doom had come from. Alexa looked up as if in prayer.
Tyros smiled at Anton, but Anton could only look down at Alexa's dead body. Tyros followed the man's stare and understanding passed between the two.
Aircraft flew overhead with a speed beyond any Imperial flier Anton was acquainted with. Looking up, he saw graceful frames soaring through the sky, engines oddly silent. Anton had never seen such designs before, but Tyros looked as if he recognized them.
"What are they?" asked Anton.
"Eldar. The Eldar are here."
Lieutenant Goroth and five others, not including Sergeant Tyros and Sergeant Anton, were all that remained of Third Platoon. The Lieutenant walked towards Anton and Tyros, hands bloodied from the intense fighting, hellgun nowhere to be found. Accompanying him was Trooper Guy Tallin.
"Sergeants, congratulations on a job well done." The Lieutenant's attitude seemed simple and sober rather than his usual strict self. Kindness was something normally beyond the Lieutenant. But congratulations weren't something Anton wanted as he stared at Alexa's dead body. Goroth made to shake hands with Anton, but the solemn soldier declined. Turning to Tyros, Goroth made the same gesture. Tyros extended his right hand, holding his prized pistol, and fired twice at the Lieutenant's chest. One shot went through the Lieutenant's left lung and the other went through his heart. The treachery barely registered in his brain before he spasmed and died.
Even as Anton and Guy went for their weapons, Tyros moved behind the Trooper and seemed to slide his blade against Guy's neck. The blade returned to Tyros' side, and blood flowed from Guy's neck as his body slumped and then fell to the ground, his cries for help coming out as gurgles as he choked on his own blood.
Anton stared at Tyros for a few seconds, but he didn't have time to aim his hellgun. Tyros was behind him, blade at his neck in seconds. He was moving with inhuman speed, far faster than Anton could follow.
"Why?"
"Because I am not who you think me to be."
"So will you kill me then, you don't have much time before the others come this way."
"They won't prove a problem. They are being dealt with even as we speak."
Anton looked down the trenchline, and saw the other guardsmen coming to his assistance. And behind them, shadows blurred and shapes shifted, and Anton thought he saw cloaks flapping in the wind. When the guardsmen stopped in their tracks he was sure the anomalies were real. Suddenly the shapes became people, tall graceful, and elegant looking. Shadowed in dark black cloaks, the figures rushed behind the three unwary guardsmen and strangled each to death with a razor-mesh garrote.
"So who are you?"
"My name is Alesca'ilairon. I am Eldar."
It all seemed to make sense to Anton. Little things came together and helped form a larger, clearer picture. Thousands of questions jumped into his head in an instant, but he only voiced one: "Are you going to kill me now?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
Anton's tension increased as the tall, shadow-like figures approached.
"What my kin have to say."
Tyros stared at the man he had known for an entire year as Tyros Rufo, now revealed to have some strange name. He wasn't even Human! And as his former friend talked in some strange tongue to the figures in black cloaks who had killed the remainder of Third Platoon, Anton felt sure that his fate was sealed. His life was in the hands of strange Xenos, and they would certainly end it, uniting him with his unspoken love. He was prepared for death; he had expected it on multiple occasions already. The strange speech stopped, and Anton looked up at what had - for a time - been Tyros Rufo.
"So I am to die?"
"Not by my hand. Not yet at least."
"Then what? What am I to do?"