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Birth of a Living Ancestor (revised)

7K views 52 replies 3 participants last post by  Myen'Tal 
#1 · (Edited)
Birth of a Living Ancestor. A story I started some years ago as my middle son came of age to play 40K and in his surfing found Heresy. Anfo was his handle, and he wrote quite a bit here, and I think acquitted himself well. Cutting his teeth on Epic 40k, I let him bring out the Chaos army I had against the Orks. It didn't take long for him to find Heresy and get into the gaming and round robin writing found here. From there it was a short trip to modern 40K, and when 8th(?) edition came out, I bought the collector's edition for him.

As for me, returning and getting ready to field my 40k Squat army - we only played Epic since it was cheaper back in the late eighties/early nineties - was something I was all set for. The rest is history cuz by that time the Squats had been dead for a decade or so. In my time fugued anger, I started Birth of a Living Ancestor and then because Anfo and I had read the Dawn of War trilogy, copied the off-the-reservation style of the last book. I was going to change everything. What a laugh.

As BofLA spiraled out of control, and I disliked the sound and direction more and more, I found I couldn't continue and was unwilling to delete back to something recognizable. The story was shelved and sent down to the locker. Time to time I still think about it and wonder about how I much I'd like to continue it. I long since decided to swallow my pride and simply cut out the portions of the story I did not like, I still have plenty of squatieness to delve into. So I wrote to Dave for his input and will take his advice - that being, restart from scratch with a new thread and rewrite.

This came up as I have gone and touched up some of the posts and rewritten over the parts I didn't care for on my writing blog. Which got me to thinking that my writing blog isn't really read by Warhammer players and maybe I should add it to Heresy. That and get over my foolish embarrassment. Without further ado....


Birth of a Living Ancestor (revised)
 
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#2 · (Edited)
Before the Battle of Today

Prelude​

In the early days of 745M41, the Enemy came unannounced. It took the Homeworlds of the Dwarven Mining Consortium without mercy or pause. An unstoppable flood that struck the Squats, their homes, their stongholds with such ferocity that within weeks, the military force that had withstood alone the combined aggression's of Orks, Eldar, and the forces of Chaos, was swept from the halls of power and into the dustbins of history. There would be no more conflicts with the Eldar over the ancestral mining rights usurped from the dwarves by the greedy elder race. Grudge matches against the greenskins that every dwarven child dreamed of getting embroiled in. The end of blood feuds between the dwarves who fought with the Emperor and their craven cousins, the Chaos Dwarves. Yet dwarves go not quietly into the night. Though the darkness gathers, a candlelight is carried on. To light other candles? History and the Emperor will be the judge.

745M41, The Loss of Durnak

Three meters high, it towered over the hapless Squat warriors that bravely stood in defiance of its charge. Fire discipline was a thing long lost. Great scythes at the ends of its four arms flew with lightning precision and warriors fell, their corpses falling only to be kicked and scattered as if leaves being danced through by a child in the autumn. Missiles streaked harmlessly by while heavy bolter rounds seemed to unable to bring the beast down.

A battle cry, amplified by a speaker on a dwarven berserker's back, cut through the cacophony of explosions and bolter fire. Twenty-five strong, the band scurried towards the great beast. Twenty-five of the Brotherhood's craziest. Twenty-five of the strongest and best fighters, even if they were impossible to deal with after a battle, here in the thick of everything they could be counted upon to pull the Botherhood's fat out of the fire.

The behemoth turned to the screaming band and the music blaring out of their speakers. The crazy fools charged as fast as they could, the towering nightmare, while the few remaining warriors at its feet scurried away, each trying to flee and not get cut down by the incoming rounds of the thunderer squad that had been holding their flank. The berserkers did not share that caution and more than one fell as they ran through the fields of fire in an eager attempt to engage what no one had ever seen, let alone fought.

Veghard pulled his heavy bolter up. The berserkers were engaged. It was time to find a new target. A target of something. His squad was formed up in a line trying to stop the strange creature. It was something new, but everything in the Emperor damned battle was. Even their progress though the terrain was damned. They only went in one direction. Back and away from the enemy. Whatever the enemy was.

"Veg? What's the plan? Where do we go?" Dagmar the radioman looked to him. The lieutenant waited for his decision too. This mess they were in had no solution. Headquarters could not be relied upon. Several times in the past day they had been dispatched on orders only to be called back, repositioned to oppose an empty field, then sent on an emergency dispatch to supply reinforcement, and called off again.

The first time they engaged the enemy, flying creatures the size of men dropped from the sky. They had been cut down quickly enough, but the Sixty-sixth Gilbaldum Brotherhood had been sighted and the artillery had began to rain down. The Grand Battery of thudd guns and mole mortars took the brunt of the first attack. Undeployed, the odd sphere shaped charges of the enemy fell with devastating effect. They also learned that should a round fail to hit a living target, the round would float until an appropriate target came within reach and detonate then. Even more disturbing , the artillery seemed to be able to continue to sight in on the location of unexploded ordinance as it floated aimlessly around the battlefield. Even odder, as they tended the wounded, the exploding rounds weren't even made of metal. Many died as the medics could not identify the shrapnel with their battle kits and had to seek out it by sight and touch. The shrapnel seemed to consist of naught but bone and carapace.

Then the gene stealers came.

Those at least were known. Veghard had read about them. His family connections gave him some education the average citizen did not even know of. Things that could grant an all expenses paid visit to the Inquisitor. Gene stealers was one of those dark horrors that Veghard had found fascinating as a young boy reading through the Clan's library files. Knowing about them didn't save the rhino compliment that had been brought along to move the Brotherhood. Or the guild force, who had been awaiting orders when the attack began. Robbed of their speed and movement, half the force had been put down before they could get underway and rocket out of the killing field. The combat trikes took the least damage. The motorcycles of the other two platoons came away so heavily mauled, they were no longer viable units. Like the bikes, the Brotherhood would have run, but when the enemy covers ground twice as fast as you, retreat is not feasible.

Veghard was not an officer, but his clan and name were well known in the Brotherhood, and when he spoke, the captain and lieutenant both listened. The warlord who had been formulating a plan to pull back ordered a solid defense and though the gene stealers tore down some deployed robots, they were stopped. They had been stopped long enough for the Two Hundredth Iron Breaker Brotherhood to arrive in their Leviathan. As the battle was reviewed, the Two Hundredth had quite the fun needling the Sixty Sixth for needed a fully supported brotherhood reinforced by a full Guild Force to bring down thirty gene stealers, and still managing to lose half the force and their Grand Battery. Three companies, one with full support. It took some time for the officers to pull the berserkers apart once they began to brawl over the insults.

The void shields of the Leviathan fell quickly and the resulting crater devastated the warrior brotherhoods. One hundred squat warriors were almost wiped out when the enemy tanks arrived and destroyed the great Leviathan in two volleys. Strange creatures with gun protuberances growing out of their backs had come up on the two brotherhoods in the wake of the gene stealers. Supported by dog like infantry that fired spiked rounds a short distance, the mocking stopped as the Leviathan ceased to exist in a devastating explosion as the containment fields on the void generator failed.

Not all was lost. Veghard, along with his thunderer unit, berserkers and squads of brotherhood warriors turned and fled the battlefield. Veghard had the distinction of being the first to break and run. His flight saved the Brotherhood, but not much else. When their flight was done, Veghard could not explain his actions beyond his adamant denial of cowardice and an unshakable feeling of needing to head back to their deployment zone. A claim that would earn the average Imperial trooper a round from a Commissar, but was an acceptable defense in the Squat army. Dwarves, as a rule, do not run.

The day ended with the berserkers dragging down the great four armed creature. One of the berserkers activated a melta bomb, strapped it to his chest and played keep away until it detonated and stopped the rampaging beast. The long night was a forced march that saw the loss of more men and equipment. Dawn found the sad remains of the Sixty Sixth Brotherhood at the edge of the tarmac and being boarded onto a transport along with panicked civilians were rushed into the ships. As the ship shot up towards the safety of space, Veghard watched the undulating mass of the enemy flow over the space port behind them. The paltry forces the Sixty Sixth Brotherhood had engaged was less than a drop of rain compared against the ocean that made up the main body of the enemy.

Only one thing was relevant. This Homeworld was lost. Not Veghard's, but his would face the enemy too. It, like the other Squat Homeworlds would fall, unable to outrun, out-shoot, or outlast the onslaught. Veghard found himself again and again sitting in a seat, peering out the window as the Tyranid Hive consumed world after world. It began to feel as if the bugs sought Veghard out, for he would no sooner arrive at a new world and the Tyranids would be close behind. As each planet fell, Veghard could feel a rope tied to his insides tugging him from one massacre to another, always keeping him just out of reach of the enemy.

Until one day there were no more Tyranids. Only marines. When the fighting began again, it wasn't against the Tyrnaids , but instead a force of Eldar. An odd comfort, Veghard found, to be faced with an enemy so simple.

No battle is as simple as it seems.
 
#3 ·
Hey, Treesnifer, this is a solid beginning to your revised story. There's a lot of potential here that I think you'll tap into ;). Though, I will say that I was a little confused who the factions were. I had forgotten you mentioned it was a squat story. At first I was thinking of Chaos Space Marines when you said Bezerkers, then Imperial Guard when you mentioned some of the troops. You don't really make a mention of squats until much later in your beginning. I would mention them earlier, imo:).

Overall, I really like it. Will be following:so_happy:.
 
#5 · (Edited)
Chapter the First: Scattered Clouds pt 1 of 5

Chapter The First
Scattered Clouds​

White Shield Abelard threw himself down into the dust and grime below the ragged remains of a stone wall, a sharp jab in his shoulder told of a sharp rock he had not seen while scrambling for cover. The report of shots fired and the resulting pinging of ricocheting shuriken let the panicked boy know how close he had been to being shot. Dust caked his mouth and nose and he huddled atop his lazrifle, panting into the ground. Explosions peppered the ground beyond his makeshift cover, and he waited for the ill fated round that would fall on the wrong side of the stacked stone fence that was his lone protection from the Eldar forces arrayed against him.

Forcing his eyes open, he fought to turn his head to the side, looking down the line of the low wall to see how much of his squad made the mad dash. The artillery barrage continued to fall, and Abelard knew it was just a matter of time before he would be under the guns of the bombards that were blindly firing into the coordinates they had been supplied. It had been the sick joke of a common problem back at the barracks, artillery that failed to stay within the proper firing coordinates and troopers dieing by friendly fire. It had been a mad dash across the short field. Mad and bloody, for Abelard watched the men ahead of him, as they charged together, get cut down by the withering fire coming from the Eldar in the tree line ahead. Looking down the wall Abelard could see that he was the only trooper on station at the wall.

A slap to the back of his head caused him to turn to look the other way. There in the dirt along side of him lay Sergeant Michael, Germain, Gregoria, and Damon. The lieutenant was speaking to him, but the concussion from the barrage was still ringing loudly in his ears, there was no sound but an eerie quiet that masked all other sounds. The order was clear though. They were not stopping at this shattered wall. They needed to continue as the barrage tapered off. He was a moment slower than his fellows nearer the center of their platoon and again he was the helpless observer of death as those first brave souls made their last vault over the stones that made up the low wall that sheltered them from the barrage. The lieutenant reached back and grabbed Abelard by his webgear, dragged him out of his stupor and over the stones. Thrusting the boy ahead of him, White Shield Abelard stumbled forward, blindly following his fellows, mouthing prayers of protection to the Emperor that He ward him from the deadly rain of shuriken fire, or at least make sure there were far more guardsmen than Eldar. That and hoping the lieutenant did not shoot him for not being fast enough.

Of all his prayers, he realized as he suddenly found himself flung like an unwanted toy, he forgot to pray for protection from the bombards. With the world spinning crazily, it seemed even the ground reached up to hit him too. Blood was on his hand as he fruitlessly mopped at the side of his head, thinking it was sweat, and a fuzzy realization occurred to him that his helmet was missing too. His arms shook as he tried to lift himself up. Another helmet presented itself to him and as he prepared to put it on his head, in the band he read its previous owner's name; George.

Abelard continued to blindly crawl through the rubble and debris kicked up by the bombard’s barrages. His face was streaked from his tears and the grime of the battlefield. His lazgun was lost, as were his companions. The withering fire of the Eldar wiped out their charge and his companions after splitting him from his troop. Shame and fear were all that kept his body moving. Fear of the Eldar warred within him with the fear that one of the commissars who patrolled the army seeking bad behavior to make examples of would find him and shamed by his cowardice, for he never even fired a shot once from his missing lazgun.

His shaking hands dragged him around great boulders tossed into the air by the massive explosions that continued to pound the ground all about him. Abelard tried to think which way he was supposed to be moving, as well as how he lost his rifle. His last thought was a panicked blur of watching the fastest of his platoon getting cut down by their hidden enemy and a confused view of sky as the concussion of an nearby blast knocked him down. Now he was alone, unarmed, and lost. The One Seventy Seventh in their tan and black were reduced in number to a single white shield who was almost too terrified to even keep moving.
 
#6 ·
Good update, Treesnifer, I like your portrayal of the eldar. An elite force capable of hitting hard and mercilessly. So just to clarify, this update focuses on Imperial Guard? Also, there was one sentence that confused me, something about Abelard moving around boulders flying into the air by artillery barrages. But then I looked again and see you must have fixed it, because I cannot seem to find it.

In any case, good work:victory:.
 
#8 ·
Good update, Treesnifer, I like your portrayal of the eldar. An elite force capable of hitting hard and mercilessly. So just to clarify, this update focuses on Imperial Guard? Also, there was one sentence that confused me, something about Abelard moving around boulders flying into the air by artillery barrages. But then I looked again and see you must have fixed it, because I cannot seem to find it
Yep. A failed combined operation against the Eldar. And the rocks will settle to the earth as Abelard matures from a raw recruit into a guardsman. Of course, these are the opening moves of this battle and the war is far from won. At this point in history, there are no more Homeworlds, Hive Fleet Behemoth was defeated, and the remaining squat military units have been absorbed into the main body of the I.G. A vassal race just like rest of the abhumans that fill in the niches in the forces of the Emperor, autonomous allies no longer.
 
#7 ·
Chapter the First: Scattered Clouds pt 2 of 5

Worming his way along the lip of yet another blast crater, he cried out in alarm as a strong hand reached out from behind him and hauled him away from the crater he was attempting to slide into. Abelard was tossed unceremoniously onto his back and found himself staring not at one of the elder, but a man. Abelard continued to whimper as he attempted to crab away from the newcomer. Still mostly deaf from his advance through the artillery barrage, he realized he must be making more noise than he thought, for the man who dragged Abelard into the small defile first clamped a hand of stone over Abelard’s leg, dragging Abelard again to his side and then clamping a gloved hand over his mouth. Bright spots of pain blossomed in Abelard’s teeth and jaw brought on by the punishing grip of his captor.

“Quiet!” though seeming far away, the command and glare that followed it pinned Abelard like a mouse beneath a cat’s paw. After ascertaining Abelard’s compliance, the other peeked around the rim of the debris that formed a tiny battlement. With one hand, the stranger reached over and with a grunt threw a heavy bolter onto his shoulder, and with a practiced hand reset the ammo clip and thumbed off the safety.

As he lay in the mud, Abelard began to regain his senses. The crushing fear receded, and Abelard found himself staring in shock at his savior. Though his uniform was of the tan and black of the One Seventy Seventh and he sported the crossed rifles of Abelard’s company, a third regiment patch was stitched below that. It was a hammer trailing a stream of fire over a green field, with the patch’s rim in silver. Several service hash marks covered the left sleeve, out of compliance with field regulations, but Abelard was unable to count them as he suddenly cringed under a shower of hot brass when the bolter opened fire.

“Veghard. Sixty-First Detatched Thunderers. Get out of my way.”

Veghard shuffled to the other side of the rock he had fired past. He kicked Abelard when he didn’t move fast enough and then bracing himself, fired several quick bursts. White teeth flashed though a coal black beard that was fuller and more meticulously groomed than an officer’s doxy as Veghard grinned down at Abelard. The short stump of an unlit cigar waggled its way from one side of Veghard’s mouth to the other.

Blazoned on the front of his blouse was his name tag, Veghard. An unknown chevron pattern at his lapel gave testimony of some rank beyond Abelard’s own White Shield. Thick gloves the widened out at the wrists covered his hands, but the bit of skin that peeked around the thick beard and from below the strangely billed combat helmet was pale. Arms as thick as Abelard’s legs held the heavy bolter, while legs near as thick as two of his own didn’t show the least bit of strain as Veghard moved back and forth now that Abelard was out of his way. A backpack, a non-reg modified piece of equipment, looked to be packed near to bursting with special pockets holding additional ammo clips. An odd looking lasgun was stowed along the side, within reach of Veghard’s free hand.

Scrambling to his feet, Abelard looked down at Veghard. With the heavy bolter on his shoulder, Veghard came up to Abelard’s chin, and Abelard was far from being the tallest in his platoon. Without the heavy weapon, Veghard would be hard pressed to be much over four and a half feet. Abelard began to giggle at the funny sight of Veghard’s diminutive height wielding a weapon that Abelard would barely be able to carry, let alone fire when a hand shot out into his gut, doubling him over. The loud report of the bolter accompanied by the musical chiming of the falling brass caused him to flatten himself to the ground while he tried to recapture the breath that Veghard had knocked from him.

“Time to move, boy”, Veghard reached down and pulled Abelard up to his knees as he gagged for breath. “On your feet! Shake it off!”

Another two bursts rang out and then Veghard scrambled out of the defile and onto the stretch of ground Abelard had been crawling along.

“On my six, boy. I’d give you a weapon, but I don’t want to lose Gracie quite yet. Keep up, or them scorpions will get you” Veghard laughed as he trotted off.

Veghard began to lope through the debris as if he had some destination in mind, seemingly to be oblivious that somewhere hidden in the tree line hid elder sharpshooters. After a moment’s hesitation, Abelard hurried after Veghard, easily outpacing the smaller man, only to be roughly grabbed and tossed to the ground.

“Keep your head down, or you’ll lose it, boy”, was all the gruff voice had to offer in apology.

“You’re one of them stunties!” blurted Abelard. “Aren’t all of you dead?”

He gulped at the sharp glare that was leveled at him, making him feel more exposed than he had a moment earlier. He waited for some retort or fist to add weight to the glare, but none came. Instead, Veghard turned from him and was looking along the lower portion of a slope Abelard remembered running over earlier in the day.

“Your artillery squads need a lot more training, I though White Shields weren’t used to man auxiliary units. They’ve messed up the lines of this battle” Veghard grumbled, and turned an ear to the sound of several distant explosions. “There they are.”

“Move out, boy.”

Without a glance back to see if Abelard was following, Veghard set off below the crest of the slope with a ground eating trot.
 
#9 ·
Hey there!

I just really had to say that I really enjoyed your last bit. I have already grown to like Veghard!

It's my kind of story, when it is violent and funny at the same time!

Keep up the good work. Can't wait to see the next part!
 
#10 ·
Good update, Verghard seems an interesting character. Hopefully, he'll be around for a while ;).
 
#12 ·
Thank you for the warning, but yes, it is there intentionally. Veghard does lighten up a bit on Abelard, but right now Abelard is just a fresh recruit and the 'Boy' is supposed to be a denigrating comment meant to motivate Abe to be more than just a frightened boy and act like a man. Just think Drill Sargent.
 
#14 · (Edited)
Chapter the First: Scattered Clouds Pt 3 of 5

As Veghard and Abelard began to move out, not far away a lone warrior was running a race of his own. His armor declared him a space marine of the Ultramarines. The signature color of his armor was blasted away in several places by enemy fire, and though he moved with strength and purpose, obvious battle damage gave testimony that the marine had not arrived unscathed. Running a zigzag pattern, the marine would stop, scan the area around him. Occasionally stooping to examine the ground, and then take off running again. His posture alert and his weapon ready, the marine hunted.

His name was Novarius and he was not a happy man. His squad had been decimated, leaving only him to carry out their mission. The support that had been expected by the guard units had vanished like the dew of the hot mornings on the world they were attempting to defend. The eldar force that had somehow moved onto the world was far greater than Novarius had ever engaged and after a run in against a squad of warp spiders, Novarius found himself alone and deep within enemy territory.

Again, he tapped his helmet. The vicious mono filament strands fired into his squad without warning had damaged his armor, though it had kept him alive. His battle brothers were not so successful at dropping to cover. The warp spiders had appeared and then disappeared, without returning, giving Novarius the indication that the attack had been an attack of opportunity while they were moving elsewhere. Whatever damage had been sustained by his armor, vox and satellite data were both knocked out. He still had the basic tactical data along with his inertial locator detailing where he and his squad had originated from. Doctrine stipulated that he advance, following his inertial locator, until arriving at the deployment zone or he reestablished vox communications, but as he had recovered from the Eldar ambush, the Guard’s artillery began saturating the area that his return path indicated.

The blue of his armor, newly scored by the incoming fire of the vanished aspect troops, still shined bright. The shoulder pauldrons still proudly bore the golden U of the Ultramarines. His bolter clacked as he installed a fresh clip, and after taking a moment to orient himself, Novarius began to move out. The barrage pattern would move over his immediate area and he had no desire to attempt to sit though an artillery barrage fired by his own support. Unable to properly apply battle doctrine, Novarius moved through the forest, attempting to follow the direction the warp spiders had seem to vanish towards.
Moving through the underbrush, Novarius’s progress was masked with the sound of artillery and small arms fire. He had successfully made his way out of the barrage pattern and he had managed to orient himself matching terrain to what was left of his tactical information. He found himself wishing for a tech marine for having only the silence of his thoughts as he made his way through the battle disconcerting, even a scout would be good company. Never in a battle had he been without any vox communication of any kind. Moving around a tight copse of wood, Novarius found himself facing the back of six eldar guardians as they lay suppression fire down before their position.

The report of his bolter echoed in his ears and it jerked and leapt as he began firing into the rear of the guardian squad that seemed to be firing out of the forest at a Guard unit. Two of the elder fell under his first salvo while the other four suddenly looked about for where the shots emanated from. Grinning under his helmet, Novarius turned his fire on the fasted of those remaining. More shots rang out as the hapless guardian jerked and fell back, his armor unable to fend off the multiple hits from Novarius.

Shuriken whizzing by his head, the last three guardians brought their catapults to bear on the advancing marine. Several ricocheted off his shoulder and legs, while a scant few managed to stick in his chest but were unable to penetrate through. Novarius continued to fire down on the guardians, but their armor was able to deflect the lethal fire of his bolter when, without warning, one of the guardians suddenly burst into a bloody fine mist as the rounds of a heavy bolter ripped through his armor. Another burst followed the first, demolishing a tree next to Novarius, causing him to seek his own cover and a third burst that spun another guardian to the ground. The last eldar, a woman, reached down to grab her wounded partner and began to drag him away. More bursts cut through the foliage seeking the fleeing eldar and kept Novarius down, but fired blindly they were more of a danger to the marine than the retreating eldar.

The heavy bolter fire ceased, and Novarius felt it was safe to get back to his feet. Bringing his bolter up, he gave chase to the remaining two eldar. They had not even escaped his sight, as he trotted up the trail behind them. The woman continued to try and pull her injured compatriot even as Novarius closed on them. Mercilessly he raised his weapon and relished in its kicking strength.

“Xenos scum. Feel the Emperor’s wrath!”

Novarius slapped a new magazine into the receiver of his bolter. Today he was not only unable to save his battle brothers, but he was almost cut down by friendly fire and rather than an entire squad detailed to the objective, there was only himself. Doctrine dictated he reestablish communication and contact, but without vox and hemmed in with misapplied artillery barrages, he would be hard pressed to accomplish either and that would mean a reprimand or even demotion. Novarius was not a happy man.
 
#16 · (Edited)
At thirty years out of the military, and that at the end of the peaceful years, I'll admit to my knowledge being pretty rusty. :grin: I went back through and found a typo (and I can't find it now. bah!), a double punctuation, and definitely a description change. Pretty bad for a piece that has been rewritten and proofed at least four times. :blush:

Any faults you come across, don't hesitate to point out. When the money is good, I keep a membership to The Writers Village where it is incumbent that everyone in each class give feedback to each other, so I am used to blind spots being pointed out to me. Anything I like will be followed! In this instance, clip was used to avoid magazine being repeated too quickly. :)

Actually, if anyone would like a glimpse into how The Village works, there is a free introductory class that starts twice a year - one being in just a couple weeks - August 26th. F2K3 is a 7 week course, each week's lesson is run by a mentor and all work is graded by peer review. After I took the F2K class a few years back, my writing improved quite a bit and I would suggest that if anyone has the time, sign up for the class. I found the class worth it.
 
#18 ·
Very nice update, Novarius seems down on his luck, haha:p. Also, the Writer's Village looks interesting. I may have a look into it.
 
#19 ·
Chapter the First: Scattered Clouds pt 4 of 5

Moving with his accustomed purposeful stride, Novarius moved swiftly along the tree line as he attempted to ascertain if the Warp Spiders who ambushed him had indeed traveled in this direction. The lack of tracks or signs of passage frustrated him, and in his heart he knew lacking more marines he was more likely to miss the necessary egress points the Warp Spiders had to use. If speed had not been their need perhaps he would have found some sign of their passage, but their attack and failure to follow up upon it pointed to an urgent need for speed. A flicker of movement caught his eye and his bolter came up to face the danger even as he turned to identify the disturbance.

Beyond the sparse edge of the woods he moved through was the blasted field that had been pounded by the bombard company far back in the distance. Next to an uprooted boulder stood two men, an Imperial Guardsman and a Squat Warrior bearing a heavy bolter. The guardsman was oblivious to Novarius’s presence and location, but the squat looked right at him and sent a nod and sketched a quick salute to him. Once he had done that, he tugged on the guardsman and began to trot along the tree line, though it was soon obvious the two would cross under the trees another few hundred feet away.

Without conscious thought, Novarius abandoned his hopeless attempt to follow the Warp Spiders and began to run an intercept course that would meet him up with the squat and the guardsman. It mattered not if the two had any communications as his forming up with the unlikely pair would begin to satisfy his requirement to reestablish contact with Imperial forces. He continued to scan deeper in the wood as well as ahead of him. The sudden lack of enemy was maddening. The short, deadly attack on his battle brothers had brought up his anger, and his own ambush of the small Guardian squad did little to appease him. Novarius found himself fearing that even with the distant sound of combat that was obviously drawing the other two soldiers towards it, the eldar were long gone. That they had achieved their goal on this flank and had reduced the advancing Imperials to two guardsmen and a single marine.

It was without incident that the three met together at the blasted edge of the wood. Abelard had not even seen the marine until Novarius stopped beside them. Abelard was bent over at the waist with his hands supporting him by bracing his knees. The heavy footfalls of the marine caused him to look up in surprise and almost caused the young man to faint in shock.

“Veghard. Sixty-First Detached Thunderers.”
“Novarius, Fifth Company”

Veghard looked at Abelard who was shocked to be faced with a space marine. Though the marines were not commonly encountered by the average guardsman, many dreamed of getting to meet them. When Abelard still did not speak, Veghard did for him.

“This is Abelard, One Seventy Seventh, White Shields.”

Novarius looked the panting, sweating White Shield over. No backpack, no weapon, no obvious wounds. It all added up to either a deserter or coward. It also explained why he and his battle brothers had not received the support they had been told to expect. If they had known that it was a White Shield force, they would have had more battle brothers accompany them on the mission. White Shields were to prepare an enemy position for attack, not support Astartes in straight up combat. Remorselessly he raised his bolter. This Abelard would pay for his failure now.

Veghard, the squat, batted Novarius’s arm with one of his gloved hands. Novarious found himself battling with being either shocked or angered by the intervention. He had never been touched by anyone who wasn’t a space marine. Within his helmet, he glared down at the abhuman. He could not help but wonder if both of them were not traitors and were trying to desert. With the evidence of Veghard’s attack on the Guardians, Novarious was at odds with himself on whether he should administer the Emperor’s Justice on the two of them or not. Veghard’s gruff voice interrupted his internal debate.

“You don’t want to do that, son. We’ll be needing him soon enough.”

There was no fear in the squat’s face, only an implacable glint in his eye that actually gave Novarious pause, a reaction that gave him a start when he realized that Veghard could elicit such a response from him. Veghard continued to steadily regard him, until something in his body language satisfied the squat and Vegard turned from him. While doing so, Veghard reached to the lasgun that was stowed on the side of his backpack. A quick tug pulled the weapon from its stowed position and he offered it to Abelard.

“This is Gracie”, Veghard said to Abelard. “She’ll do you right if you remember a couple things. One. She’s not your standard issue. She’s my work. So if you’re rough, she won’t fire for you.”

As Abelard took possession of the weapon, Veghard’s hand continued to caress the lasgun as he explained the modifications done.

“Two. Her range is better than that excuse you called a firearm. Use the scope for anything beyond a block or two. Three. She’ll get warm to the touch, so don’t panic. Finally, she cycles faster that what you’re used to. Which means that I don’t want you to waste energy spraying like you were shown in training.”, Veghard explained what he had done to the lasgun, and finished with a cold tone that caused the boy’s face to pale and send a shiver of remembrance down Novarious’s spine.

“You will not lose Gracie. You will not hurt Gracie. You will tend her before you care for yourself. If she touches dirt or water, you will be punished for it and if you do lose her, she will be the last thing you lose. She is your wife now, so treat her as such, but I am still her father and I reserve a father’s right to protect his daughter. Do you understand me?”

While the trooper nodded vigorously, Novarious could hear the echo of the training cadre officers drilling weapon care into him and his fellow aspirants and the punishments dealt to those who failed to maintain weapon discipline and care.
 
#20 ·
Originally Posted by Treesnifer View Post

clip was used to avoid magazine being repeated too quickly.

I'm glad you said this. You wouldn't believe how many people don't know that this is a bad thing.
Huh, you learn something new everyday :wink:.

I don't have much criticism to give in this update, there's nothing that really stands out to me. Something does tell me, though, that Abelard has crossed onto a path that he can not turn away from :).
 
#21 ·
Chapter the First: Scattered Clouds pt 5 of 5

At a time before the Annihilation, the Tyranid Invasion, in the calm before the storm, a dwarven woman stood before a mirror. Fresh and black, rimmed in angry red, two runes newly tattooed across her cheeks stood out, dominating any other aspect that might catch a man's eye. No one would comment upon the luxurious fall of her brunette hair. Brutally short away, it lay in a scattering circle about her feet. The bright blue of her eyes would not bring flirtatious smiles from the more amorous who might cross her path and catch her gaze. Either one of the runes would kill such greetings with utter finality. No man's eye would surreptitiously sink to gaze, however briefly, upon her bosom, or perhaps fall even farther to admire the lay of her day's choice of clothing. Those looks and glances would instead flick from rune to rune and then upward to her hair. Her woman's glory would declare not her pride and beauty, but darkest tradition. Tradition so old that no tale told of its birth. Sickly greens, off whites and colorless grays now stood in lieu of her once brown hair. Lye, in ritual application, now bleached her hair. The lye's presence stiffened the once pliant glory that she had taken such pride in and now brought out such horrid color. Her hair now stood upright and molded into an array of spikes. The days of her existence would no longer be counted in years, but counted in battles. Should there be more than one, other tattoos would join the two on her cheeks, but today there would only be the important ones, Loss and Abandonment.

Battles later, on another planet, at a later time, a Living Ancestor slapped her hard. Though her head snapped back, the Ancestor no longer had the strength anymore to cause real harm. The blow did bring her out of her drunken stupor. She did not remember what had been going on, the grog that had been in her tankard had finally stopped filling and refilling, the damned thing, and she had been staring at the somehow empty tankard. She knew it was empty, but not what she should do about it. There had been quite a commotion in the tent, but Jyn paid it no mind. When the horns would sound, she would take her place with her brothers and sisters to kill and kill and, should the ancestors relent, die. Then the Ancestor slapped her.

With a cry of rage, Jyn hopped to her feet. Her combat dagger shot out in her fist. The silly thing always knew when she would need it, she never even needed to reach to its sheath. It would simply appear in her hand to cut and maim whatever needed it. Strength and determination drove her arm forward to bury the blade deep in the eye of the ancient squat in front of her. Honor demanded the strike be returned and death would be the result of it. Jyn was a berserker. Her hair was dyed purple to red in full spectrum. More battles than colors in life and Jyn was still killing. No one commented to a berserker, but another berserker and no one struck one. Death dealt from a berserker was never prosecuted. Berserkers were already accepted as dead in society, they were simply still breathing.

The knife point stopped inches from the Ancestor. Movement stirred behind the shrunken old squat. Armor clad attendants shifted their weight, preparing to intervene, but Jyn stayed her hand. Berserkers were not struck as a matter of safety, but no one struck an Ancestor. They were the living conduit to all those who had died throughout all the ages. The Living Ancestors were ageless creatures who spoke to and heard counsel from the dead. No one struck an Ancestor, no one. With a sob, Jyn turned from the Ancestor and threw her free arm down on the field table she had been sitting at. With jerking motion, she carved another rune into the flesh of her forearm, cutting across half heal scars of other runes. Marring the angry red and partially healed wounds, she chanted to herself over and over as blood flowed from her and she carved a new rune, “Shame. Shame. Shame.”

The Ancestor stood, impassively watching Jyn cut upon herself. After a few minutes Jyn looked up, surprised to see the Ancestor still waiting.

“Jyn”, the Ancestor said, once she stood before him. Jyn nodded, the blood from the runic wound dripped unnoticed to the ground. The guards behind the Ancestor looked on, disgust apparent on their faces. Berserkers were despised by the average squat for they were individuals who committed a crime or chose to pursue death rather than face whatever problem they encountered in their life. The two runes on Jyn’s cheeks told of a woman abandoned by her husband and who chose to die instead of resolve her problem.

“I am Desdyn and I have a task that you need to do.”

Another time, a new day, a different battle. Jyn reached up and touched the unit patch on the chest of her flak jacket, it was the flaming hammer of the Sixty-First. She didn’t understand why Desdyn insisted she add the patch to her kit, but it was one of the instructions he told her. Checking a map reader, she compared the time and location. She did not understand why the Ancestor sought her out, there were others in the tent that were the same as her. The route that had been sketched for her in the map reader had taken her in a very circuitous route to the side of a low hill. Her instructions had been explicit. She was not to engage any enemy, unless attacked. That prohibition ended at the hill she had come to at the bottom. She smiled when she heard the sounds of battle. Pulling her pistol and drawing her combat knife, Jyn ran with all her speed towards the conflict ahead of her.
 
#22 ·
Author's Note

Here ends Chapter One.

We have met, albeit briefly, our heroes, or at least the main ones. Don't worry, more faces are on the way. With a bit of luck, this will wrap up within five chapters. Double the original length I outlined sadly.

Thanks again for all the feedback I've received so far. I really do appreciate it. This next post will be an interlude, and there will be a bit of a wait for it. I need to do this next piece from scratch. Chapter 2 will post quickly as it's mostly rewritten.

Till the next post!

---Snif (short for Treesnifer)
 
#23 ·
Here ends Chapter One.

We have met, albeit briefly, our heroes, or at least the main ones. Don't worry, more faces are on the way. With a bit of luck, this will wrap up within five chapters. Double the original length I outlined sadly.

Thanks again for all the feedback I've received so far. I really do appreciate it. This next post will be an interlude, and there will be a bit of a wait for it. I need to do this next piece from scratch. Chapter 2 will post quickly as it's mostly rewritten.

Till the next post!

---Snif (short for Treesnifer)
Interesting learning the lore of the squats, the berserkers are kind of like Dwarven slayers from fantasy.

I enjoyed reading the first chapter a lot. A colorful cast of cast of characters with a lot of personality to them. Well done:). I think there were one or two missing words from the latest update, I'm on my phone now or else I'd point them out. Doesn't really detract from the story itself, though. Keep it up :).
 
#24 · (Edited)
Interlude - Dwarfmoot

Interlude
The Dwarfmoot​

Deep in normal space between the stars in the endless black, a tear in fabric of reality split the darkness. A maelstrom of color never meant to be witnessed by the unaided eye heralded the arrival a great fleet. Corvettes careened into real space from the anarchy of the Warp, each powering itself away from their egress point to stations ranging far afield. Immense cruisers entered next, gliding in stately disinterest they formed up to escort ships even greater. Kilometers long, with Grand Cruisers in close attendance, the great battleships slipped silently out of the chaos and drove forward. In their wake, the tear seemed to shudder. Its whirlpooled center flexed and spun, yet as the capital ships sailed away, the gate impossibly held itself open. Ripples flowed away, causing the reflected light of stars eons away to shimmer, flex, and wobble in their eternal sentinel duty.

Diving into space, far in the wake of the ships of combat, haphazard and pell mell, tiny ships of commerce fell into existence. Gnats compared to the parade that preceded them, they milled hesitantly about, nearly navigating into one another in their attempt to exit the warp gate. The stately purpose of the proceeding fleet was shattered by the chaotic mess of private vessels, ore carriers, pleasure ships, freight haulers, and the miscellaneous flotsam of interstellar commerce. Yet, inexorably, the mess of ships moved away from the still open gate, making no attempt to disguise that more was yet to come in this parade of star ships.

Great as the ships of battle were, their bulk filling the swirling gate, the final ship through seemed to stretch the unimaginable tear. Rounded and formed like no other ship, the nose dwarfed the cruisers as the battleships did the freight haulers, yet inexplicably the bulk of the ship was still hidden within the warp. Great runes declared the vessel as it squeezed itself through the gate. Blocky and long, the warships of the fleet bore no resemblance to the impossibly immense ship that finally drew itself out of the gate that impatiently snapped closed, as if it wished to bite down and rend the great ship like the mighty bite of a ravenous beast. Resembling nothing so much as an impossibly large egg, its runes held no doubt to its origin or purpose. Perhaps the size of as many as three battleships, the great vessel drove forward. Dwarven script, along with hundreds of clan sigils filling the nose of the hull, named the vessel; The Ark.

Inside, deep within, a debate was coming to a close. A week of controversy had reached its end;

“I, for one, still strongly disagree”, declared Oolong of the Stonehammer Clan.

“Nay, you say? Can you not do anything else?” The angry retort was punctuated by a slammed fist on the table.

“Peace, Y’Mordin. Oolong.”’ A placating tone from a wizened old dwarf forced a nod from the two who then glared at one another. “None here care for your personal quarrel. Put it aside. You are both adults.”

“You would instead have us pick and choose what engagement to embroil ourselves in, like some Eldar Craftworld. By the Ancestors, is that not what we are now? Allow me recess to be fitted with dancing shoes that I might look more Eldar than I live now!”

“Ever the skeptic, Oolong.” Y’Mordin began calmly, though he became more animated as he renewed their argument. "Yet you propose, Nay! Demand! That we fracture what is left of us, just as the Eldar have done, to make some fruitless attempt to propagate and at sometime regain the Homewords? No mind to the future! No consideration of resources! Not a care for any of our allies, or even a thought to our enemies!

"Peace! The two of you!" The placating tone was dropping swiftly and anger replacing it.

"Not a care? Not a care!" Oolong shot to his feet, his chair clattering across the floor behind him. Mirroring him, Y'Mordin stepped away from his chair and the two advanced upon each other. On the other side of the table, the older dwarf pinched his nose and breathed deeply.

"Chaos take you, Cisternwatch! I care! Have I not put aside all claim to restitution for the Ark's design? Guided this counsel in this Exodeus? Not a care?"

The two dwarves glared at each other. Y'Mordin walked up to Oolong and poked him in the chest with his finger.

"Your restitution? You senile old fool! Cisternwatch had pushed this plan for how long?"

"It was only accepted when Stormhammer took up the standard. Hah! Cisternwatch, as ever, has been ineffective in trying to prove any benefit to any proposal." Oolong pushed Y'Mordin back, slapping the braid in Y'Mordin's beard as he fell away.

Y'Mordin franticly brushed his beard back into place and glared at Oolong.

"And now your plan is to disperse all strength we may possess? Emperor above! The Ark has no weapons!"

"Just wait and see, Cisternwatch. You can prance and crow all you care to. The Moot will hearken to Stonehammer long before seeing relief from Cisternwatch. Go back and keep tabs on the depth of your well, waterboy."

"The ever shoddy work of the revered Stonehammers? Tell me, mason. When was the last time any clan came to you or yours for basin work?" Y'Mordin growled back. Oolong's face grew deep purple as he spit at Y'Salnos. "This body seeks not your wisdom, if it could be called such. Stonehammer foresight has ever been flawed. Just like your stone cunning skills."

The two combatants glared at one another. Each waiting for the other to speak. A soft cough from the table claimed their attention. The elder dwarf who had spoken before was sitting back in his chair, seemingly asleep. The other dwarves around the table were quietly waiting for the argument to subside. The two dwarves traded another glare and moved back to their seats. As they reseated the dwarven elder spoke softly.

"By the Book of Grudges you two. That was nigh a thousand years ago. No one cares what was wrong with that bath."

"It was an emergency cistern."

"It was a catch basin, elder."

The two answered reflexively and just as swiftly glared at one another, their ire growing again.

"You will only set them off again, Y'Ressantin. Please." Another of the ancient dwarves at the table groaned only to have Y'Ressantin's wheezing laugh as a response.

"Nay, my friend. Nay." His laugh falling to a soft coughing fit. "At my age, I need something to entertain me. Besides, have we not formed a consensus on the matters before us?"

The heads of the dwarves around the table all nodded and murmured their assent. The soft mutterings of the men was brought to a halt as the doors to the room opened.

"Hail, the Moot." Another wizened old dwarf moved into the room, raising his hand in greeting as he moved to the table.

"Hail, Y'Desdyn. The Moot recognizes you." Y'Ressantin smiled at the newcomer. "Welcome back."

"I have made contact with Titan Slayer Jyn and she has received her commuted sentence." Without preamble Desdyn sat at the table, pulling some cold cuts of meat to him and filling his plate. "I am unsure of the outcome though. I do not relish our paths crossing in the future."

"You alone have dispensed happiness and not death. Should that not be cause for celebration?"

"Do not the Slayers find happiness and celebration in death?" Desdyn frowned at his plate. "Have any of us have even seen a Titan Slayer? I am unsure if she can comprehend anything beyond death and war."

The mutters of other dwarves at the table again filled the room.

"Berserkers aplenty. Those of the criminal class."

"It galls me that these criminals steal the berserker title from our legitimate troops."

"Troll Slayers? Aye. Giant Slayers? Two I recall."

"Only one, myself."

"What is a Titan Slayer?"

"When Stompers are too easy to bring down, these psychopaths turn to gargants as the next challenge to surmount."

"I have never given the choice to a criminal. What would be the point?"

"It is enough that the first domino has been put in place. We will soon welcome another to our ranks. The promised one who will know the minds of our enemy." Y'Ressantin's reedy voice rose to cut through the soft voices of the other dwarves and silence fell across the room.

"The Tyranid." Oolong grumbled the word.

Desdyn finished building his sandwich and stood. Saluting the assembled dwarves with the sandwich, he spoke his farewell.

"The warlord will be splitting his forces away for the collection effort shortly. Jyn has already been detached to the force and I will be counsel for the warlord. Ancestors willing, we will be able to recollect the bulk of the Sixty-First Brotherhood of Durnak."

The dwarves raised tankards to the departing Desdyn.

"Hail and well met! Victory to the Warlord!"
 
#25 ·
Interlude
The Dwarfmoot​

Deep in normal space between the stars in the endless black, a tear in fabric of reality split the darkness. A maelstrom of color never meant to be witnessed by the unaided eye heralded the arrival a great fleet. Corvettes careened into real space from the anarchy of the Warp, each powering itself away from their egress point to stations ranging far afield. Immense cruisers entered next, gliding in stately disinterest they formed up to escort ships even greater. Kilometers long, with Grand Cruisers in close attendance, the great battleships slipped silently out of the chaos and drove forward. In their wake, the tear seemed to shudder. Its whirlpooled center flexed and spun, yet as the capital ships sailed away, the gate impossibly held itself open. Ripples flowed away, causing the reflected light of stars eons away to shimmer, flex, and wobble in their eternal sentinel duty.

Diving into space, far in the wake of the ships of combat, haphazard and pell mell, tiny ships of commerce fell into existence. Gnats compared to the parade that preceded them, they milled hesitantly about, nearly navigating into one another in their attempt to exit the warp gate. The stately purpose of the proceeding fleet was shattered by the chaotic mess of private vessels, ore carriers, pleasure ships, freight haulers, and the miscellaneous flotsam of interstellar commerce. Yet, inexorably, the mess of ships moved away from the still open gate, making no attempt to disguise that more was yet to come in this parade of star ships.

Great as the ships of battle were, their bulk filling the swirling gate, the final ship through seemed to stretch the unimaginable tear. Rounded and formed like no other ship, the nose dwarfed the cruisers as the battleships did the freight haulers, yet inexplicably the bulk of the ship was still hidden within the warp. Great runes declared the vessel as it squeezed itself through the gate. Blocky and long, the warships of the fleet bore no resemblance to the impossibly immense ship that finally drew itself out of the gate that impatiently snapped closed, as if it wished to bite down and rend the great ship like the mighty bite of a ravenous beast. Resembling nothing so much as an impossibly large egg, its runes held no doubt to its origin or purpose. Perhaps the size of as many as three battleships, the great vessel drove forward. Dwarven script, along with hundreds of clan sigils filling the nose of the hull, named the vessel; The Ark.

Inside, deep within, a debate was coming to a close. A week of controversy had reached its end;

“I, for one, still strongly disagree”, declared Oolong of the Stonehammer Clan.

“Nay, you say? Can you not do anything else?” The angry retort was punctuated by a slammed fist on the table.

“Peace, Y’Mordin. Oolong.”’ A placating tone from a wizened old dwarf forced a nod from the two who then glared at one another. “None here care for your personal quarrel. Put it aside. You are both adults.”

“You would instead have us pick and choose what engagement to embroil ourselves in, like some Eldar Craftworld. By the Ancestors, is that not what we are now? Allow me recess to be fitted with dancing shoes that I might look more Eldar than I live now!”

“Ever the skeptic, Oolong.” Y’Mordin began calmly, though he became more animated as he renewed their argument. "Yet you propose, Nay! Demand! That we fracture what is left of us, just as the Eldar have done, to make some fruitless attempt to propagate and at sometime regain the Homewords? No mind to the future! No consideration of resources! Not a care for any of our allies, or even a thought to our enemies!

"Peace! The two of you!" The placating tone was dropping swiftly and anger replacing it.

"Not a care? Not a care!" Oolong shot to his feet, his chair clattering across the floor behind him. Mirroring him, Y'Mordin stepped away from his chair and the two advanced upon each other. On the other side of the table, the older dwarf pinched his nose and breathed deeply.

"Chaos take you, Cisternwatch! I care! Have I not put aside all claim to restitution for the Ark's design? Guided this counsel in this Exodeus? Not a care?"

The two dwarves glared at each other. Y'Mordin walked up to Oolong and poked him in the chest with his finger.

"Your restitution? You senile old fool! Cisternwatch had pushed this plan for how long?"

"It was only accepted when Stormhammer took up the standard. Hah! Cisternwatch, as ever, has been ineffective in trying to prove any benefit to any proposal." Oolong pushed Y'Mordin back, slapping the braid in Y'Mordin's beard as he fell away.

Y'Mordin franticly brushed his beard back into place and glared at Oolong.

"And now your plan is to disperse all strength we may possess? Emperor above! The Ark has no weapons!"

"Just wait and see, Cisternwatch. You can prance and crow all you care to. The Moot will hearken to Stonehammer long before seeing relief from Cisternwatch. Go back and keep tabs on the depth of your well, waterboy."

"The ever shoddy work of the revered Stonehammers? Tell me, mason. When was the last time any clan came to you or yours for basin work?" Y'Mordin growled back. Oolong's face grew deep purple as he spit at Y'Salnos. "This body seeks not your wisdom, if it could be called such. Stonehammer foresight has ever been flawed. Just like your stone cunning skills."

The two combatants glared at one another. Each waiting for the other to speak. A soft cough from the table claimed their attention. The elder dwarf who had spoken before was sitting back in his chair, seemingly asleep. The other dwarves around the table were quietly waiting for the argument to subside. The two dwarves traded another glare and moved back to their seats. As they reseated the dwarven elder spoke softly.

"By the Book of Grudges you two. That was nigh a thousand years ago. No one cares what was wrong with that bath."

"It was an emergency cistern."

"It was a catch basin, elder."

The two answered reflexively and just as swiftly glared at one another, their ire growing again.

"You will only set them off again, Y'Ressantin. Please." Another of the ancient dwarves at the table groaned only to have Y'Ressantin's wheezing laugh as a response.

"Nay, my friend. Nay." His laugh falling to a soft coughing fit. "At my age, I need something to entertain me. Besides, have we not formed a consensus on the matters before us?"

The heads of the dwarves around the table all nodded and murmured their assent. The soft mutterings of the men was brought to a halt as the doors to the room opened.

"Hail, the Moot." Another wizened old dwarf moved into the room, raising his hand in greeting as he moved to the table.

"Hail, Y'Desdyn. The Moot recognizes you." Y'Ressantin smiled at the newcomer. "Welcome back."

"I have made contact with Titan Slayer Jyn and she has received her commuted sentence." Without preamble Desdyn sat at the table, pulling some cold cuts of meat to him and filling his plate. "I am unsure of the outcome though. I do not relish our paths crossing in the future."

"You alone have dispensed happiness and not death. Should that not be cause for celebration?"

"Do not the Slayers find happiness and celebration in death?" Desdyn frowned at his plate. "Have any of us have even seen a Titan Slayer? I am unsure if she can comprehend anything beyond death and war."

The mutters of other dwarves at the table again filled the room.

"Berserkers aplenty. Those of the criminal class."

"It galls me that these criminals steal the berserker title from our legitimate troops."

"Troll Slayers? Aye. Giant Slayers? Two I recall."

"Only one, myself."

"What is a Titan Slayer?"

"When Stompers are too easy to bring down, these psychopaths turn to gargants as the next challenge to surmount."

"I have never given the choice to a criminal. What would be the point?"

"It is enough that the first domino has been put in place. We will soon welcome another to our ranks. The promised one who will know the minds of our enemy." Y'Ressantin's reedy voice rose to cut through the soft voices of the other dwarves and silence fell across the room.

"The Tyranid." Oolong grumbled the word.

Desdyn finished building his sandwich and stood. Saluting the assembled dwarves with the sandwich, he spoke his farewell.

"The warlord will be splitting his forces away for the collection effort shortly. Jyn has already been detached to the force and I will be counsel for the warlord. Ancestors willing, we will be able to recollect the bulk of the Sixty-First Brotherhood of Durnak."

The dwarves raised tankards to the departing Desdyn.

"Hail and well met! Victory to the Warlord!"
Nice update, Treesnifer, very interesting to dive deeper into your take of the squat lore. I will say this, though I have been guilty of it myself. When the dwarves are talking about the titan slayer simultaneously, you may find it better if you just left all that in the description of your paragraph. A couple of voices with no owners may detract from the reading. Some might disagree, which is okay, it's just my opinion. See what works for you :).
 
#27 ·
I think adding emotions and faces will work just fine, maybe the in character description to. Hope that helps :).
 
#29 ·
Treesnifer, the changes implemented make everything much clearer, I get an overall better sense of clarity when I'm reading the Interlude. I can easier tell who is who and their importance in the Elder Council(?). Looking forward to the next update:).
 
#30 ·
Interlude - The Eldar

Interlude
The Eldar

As Veghard, Abelard, and Novarious joined together, on the opposite side of the battlefield, a tall lithe figure stood before a silvered pillar that sent a soft white glow up towards the sky. Suspended within that glow, slowly orbiting themselves, floated a gathering of rectangular chits colored the hue of aged bone. After contemplating the flow and dance before it, the figure turned its attention to a map. A delicate hand, encased in armor, deftly touched icons defining troops and their positions and moved them. Elsewhere, troops picked up their gear and began moving.

Turning back to the silvered pillar, the figure gathered the chits and after a moment’s meditation, gracefully scattered the chits back into aura of light to watch their dance. Each chit was etched with a single rune of a geometric design, each different and unique. A oracle of ancient design that had always been the harbinger of good things, and the cry of warning in times of trouble. As the runes spun and the chits slowed their orbits, the figure that initiated the toss froze in disbelief. Another figure, armored and helmed as the first, stepped up to contemplate the rune’s message. Together they observed two additional casts of the runes, both matching the first.

Another consultation of the map followed by another study of the floating runes. Reaching out a delicate hand, the floating chits were gathered up and placed into a small bag. A soft click gave testimony of others unrevealed within. Reaching inside, a single rune was withdrawn. The figure nodded, satisfied with the draw. Returning the single rune to the bag, the figure rose it's masked face to the sky before bowing its head seemingly in prayer. Reaching again into the bag, three runes were withdrawn and tossed into the light where they were caught and held suspended slowly revolving. The two exchanged a look.

“What is it, Farseer?” the newcomer asked.

“Trouble, my friend”, the farseer reached up to remover the helm. Long tresses of bright golden hair spilt down the back of the farseer. “You may find your service in higher demand than I first divined.”

“How shall we proceed?”

The farseer was silent. He gazed at the cast of three runes, then gathered them to cast out five stones.

“Here, Anfelas, see? These three have come up again. Locked into their place.”

“But you’ve added two dimensions to your cast. That changes it, does it not, Erl’myasdul?

Erl’myasdul nodded absently. Anfelas wasn’t sure if his friend’s mumbled answer was directed to him, or Erl’myasdul talking to himself. “What lies before us. What we cannot see. What we seek. Here is the influence. The outcome. I care not for this outcome.”

Anfelas waited patiently. The farseer would decide the best course of action, and Andelas would implement it, as best he could. Though he tried his best to learn the art of casting, Erl’myasdul walked the path of the farseer. As a warlock, Anfelas strength was of a more direct nature. When he matured a bit more, perhaps he would be able to find where the path of the Farseer started. He just needed to cultivate more patience.

Erl’myasdul tossed the runes again and again. No more orders came from the farseer though and Anfelas found himself growing concerned. Speed and mobility was their strength, and this lull would only benefit the mon-keigh. His thoughts starting to wander, Anfelas started when Erl’myasdul suddenly poured all the stones from the bag into his hand and threw them at the oracle beam.

Several of the chits flew outside of the pillar’s cone of light, but not all. The rest swirlled around and around as Erl’myasdul stood, his eyes closed in concentration. One by one the chits fell from the cone and onto the table, until there was only one rune left floating alone. The farseer stood staring at it, lost in thought. Anfelas frowned when his friend spoke unexpectedly.

“Recall Olirneth. His squad is in trouble and we cannot risk them where they are now.”

Anfelas nodded. He was unfamiliar with the single rune floating before them. “What is that?”

Erl’myasdul gazed at the last rune, an odd smile played on his lips. The rune, a depiction of five vertical parallel lines topped by two horizontal, was a stylized face. “The Dvergr. The Dwarves. Our old allies come, and they are calling their dead to them. Our gift to them, did you know? In their Age of Trade, we guided their psychic growth, but now they are so few. So inconsequential. It never even came to mind that they could even be involved here. Have you ever faced one of their living ancestors, my friend?“

Erl’myasdul removed the chit from the oracle and set it aside. With Anfelas’s aid, he picked up the scattered runes, replacing them into their bag. “I have, and it is good that I am with you today. Many a farseer does not use this rune anymore. It is a rare rune to have in any event, but it does detect their psychic signature and we won’t wonder at the source of the interference with the oracle.”


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#31 ·
So nice to see the eldar getting involved, I like your interpretation of them very much :). The suspense is mounting, keep it up!
 
#32 · (Edited)
Chapter the Second part 1 of 5

Chapter the Second

Storm Front on the Horizon​


Back on the battlefield, the three new acquaintances appraised one another. Abelard ran his hands over the modified lazgun Veghard had handed to him, familiarizing himself with the couple different controls. Abelard could feel the anxiety that surrounded him begin to slip away. Whether it was the gigantic presence of Novarious, Veghard’s unflappable calm, or having not only a weapon in his hands again, but what was obviously a superior piece of equipment than his standard issue lazgun, Abelard did not feel as though the sky had closed in around him and trying to force him into the dirt.

Novarious had also given the lazgun an inspection. He was mildly impressed with the weapon, but used the time to surreptitiously observe the other two. Abelard, he could see, was standing straighter, breathing more regularly. Veghard after making sure Abelard understood the differences in his new lazgun, had turned away from the group and was surveying the area around them. Novarious had seen Squat warriors before, but he had never had to interact with them and while he had heard of their stalwart nature, heard how they were as impervious to fear as any Astartes, he had never given the rumors any credit. The few sentences he had traded with the Squat gave some credence to those rumors, for Veghard had not so much as blinked at having to speak to him. An almost unheard of feat in Novarious’s experience. Only commisars seemed to be able to control their fear when addressing one of the Emperor’s marines.

Veghard looked the young boy over. Getting caught in the barrage still had him rattled, but against normal human behavior, Abelard had not broken. Veghard’s concern did not diminish though. He was pleased that Novarius had not kill the boy outright for having obviously lost his unit, his weapon, and his field gear, but he was not sure how long the marine would stay his hand. A mercy that would not survive any failure on the boy’s part Veghard knew. He also knew that they would need the boy, and soon.

Vertigo struck Veghard having him drop to the ground on one knee. His vision blurred and the sound of his own breathing drew to a deafening crescendo. Though their voices were garbled and indistinct, Veghard knew the other two were speaking to him. He was unsure of their concerns as even the tones of their voice were lost between the breath of his lungs and the now thunderous drum of his heart. The streaks of white and tan sloshed about his vision. He could tell that others had joined the three of them. He could feel them moving about him, though they said nothing. Only Novarius and Abelard spoke and Veghard tried to calm their fears and explain what had happened to him. Then as suddenly as it befell him, the world snapped back into focus.

Veghad found himself kneeling before a map drawn in the dirt. Novarius and Abelard were knelt down to either side of him with Abelard speaking to him.

“And once we have rejoined these forces here, in which we will not…” Abelard’s paused, puzzlement creasing his forehead. “How do you know we won’t face any opposition?”

Novarius nodded his agreement and added a comment of his own.

“The white shield is right. This map is incredibly accurate, but we have no updates of enemy movement. These guardians that were stationed here were at best advanced warning of any broken units working the area, which will bring reinforcement, most likely in the form of their rangers.”

Veghard looked at each of his companions. He was still struggling to ascertain how he even drew the map, but he could not shake the feeling of assurance that if he moved and followed the directions of the map he seemed to have drawn that no harm would befall him. Time though was limited. Looking at Abelard, Veghard knew that the man would be crucial in the moments ahead, just as he knew the working of his lasgun. It felt like a half remembered conversation, the actual words and arguments used forgotten, but the gist and outcome remembered. Novarius would not be swayed. He would have to decide for himself if he would follow Veghard and Veghard knew that the likeliness of that was slim. Abhuman as Veghard was, it was a show of extreme will that the marine was even speaking with the two of them.

“Time is not on my side”, Veghard had decided to attempt to explain himself would be a fruitless endeavor. “Elements of the One Seventy Seventh will have been driven along that ditch line.”
Vehard toed a point of the map in the ground. “The Sixty First’s initial orders were to hold to the left and ensure the shields were not flanked. The remainder of the thunderers will still hold that position and that is where I need to be.”

Vehard picked up his heavy bolter and sank his shoulder into its harness.

“Emperor guide you, Astartes”, he saluted the marine and then turned and barked an order to the white shield. “Abe, on my six and stay close.”

The next thing Abelard realized was Veghard trotting down the low ridge he had been illustrating to him and the marine. With a trepidatious look towards Novarius, Abe jumped to his feet and, crouching low, ran after the squat warrior. In a space of a few steps, he overtook the shorter man. Remembering his last chase, Abe made a point of keeping to the rear of Veghard. He cradled Gracie at port arms as they trotted along the draw, fear beginning to gnaw at his gut again. Abe could not control his breathing and found himself panting, almost out of breath, even though Veghard was not pressing forward with any great haste.

As the two ran along, the lack of action or enemy fire, Abe found himself recovering. No whistling shuriken flew by, no explosions from incoming missiles or grenades. The absence of opposition began to bring more of a sense of boredom than fear. A feeling that was shattered when Abelard looked to his right as he scanned the copse of trees that they were passing beneath when the deep marine blue of Novarius’ armor loomed up above him. Abe stumbled, almost losing his footing. He had first thought that the marine would shoot both him and Vegard down when the squat all but ignored the marine’s concerns. Though when they had moved some distance, and no shots rang out, Abe thought that Novarius had decided to go elsewhere. Running almost silently, a shocking feat to Abe, the giant marine had moved up and took position off his right shoulder.

The silence that had fallen over their area, was shattered by a scattering of laser fire and the high pitched whine of some unknown weapon from ahead of them. The draw continued ahead and wound down to their left, chasing the sloping end of a finger from the crest of a hill. Veghard veered up and out of the draw and began climbing the side of the finger, choosing a small outcropping of rock at the midpoint from the top of the hill. The area was clear, for the copse of trees had fallen to their rear. Dry grasses that only came to their knees was the only cover available to them besides the hill they had yet to climb over. The rocks that Veghard was navigating towards formed a military crest along the ridgeline of the hill’s finger. Kneeling down, Veghard looked to the both of them. Abe felt the fear that had receded earlier return with such great force that his bowels almost turned to water.

“Abe. You will lead from here on. I want you charge over the hill at this point, the rocks. You must cross at their peak! Look!” Veghard pointed emphatically at the outcropping. “From there, you will start to lay suppressive fire into the forces that are holding the high ground. Stay focused! Novarius and I will be just above you in the saddle.”

Abe’s face paled as the blood rushed from his face. Veghard swiftly reached out and slapped him hard. Spots flashed in his vision as he tried to clear the ringing in his head.

“If you cannot do this Abe, your usefulness to the Emperor is finished. Novarius will fulfill his duty. Climb the rocks. You are behind the Eldar here. Remember the map? Fire down upon them. Surprise is on your side, and once the shock of your fire is absorbed, we will be set at the saddle. You are free to choose your action after that. Get to cover if you need to. We are not alone. The rest of the 177th is there, pinned in the draw. Only you can save them.”

“But…”, Abe’s voice was weak. “Novarius is astartes! Why can’t he do it?”

“We all have roles to play, Abe. This is one is yours.”

Novarius slammed the bolt carrier on his bolt gun, bringing a fresh clip into the receiver. Abe jumped at the unexpected sound. The expressionless helmet hid his features, but Abe knew the marine would shoot him down if he felt Abe was too frightened to do as he was told. Veghard stared hard at the boy.

“Go!” Veghard said to him, and pulled him around to face the last short yards to the crest of the finger. “Go! Now! They need you to pull the Eldar’s attention away from them!”

Abe did not look back. With what seemed as just three steps, he found himself standing atop the exposed rocks that seemed to form a knuckle in the hill’s finger. A wide low bowl was formed below him. To his left, deep in the draw, was the remainder of the 177th. Just before him though, advancing in rank and fielding suppressing fire, aspect warriors of the Eldar forces closed in on the pinned men below them. Abe brought Gracie up to his shoulder, depressed the firing stud, and with a high pitched whine Gracie threw bolts of light down and into the side of the Fire Dragons that were clearing out the humans from before them.
 
#33 ·
Chapter the Second part 2 of 5

Down below Abelard in the bowl, deep in combat and unaware of his presence or its danger, the Fire Dragon Exarch, Vondel, sprayed the make-shift trench before him mercilessly. Left and right, his Dragon’s Breath spat death across the mon-keigh forces. These stragglers had fallen into their fusion guns just as Erl’myasdul had foreseen. Deniilan’s own fusion gun fired, passing through and melting away in a flash the human that had popped out of the trench to fire a futile burst of coherent light from the paltry firearms they carried. In enough numbers the weapons could be lethal, but haphazard shots were more often turned away by the bodysuits the Eldar wore or bounced ineffectively off the reinforcement plates protecting the more vulnerable areas.

Where these troops had originated from in the battle, Vondel did not know. The Farseer had given him explicit instructions on which checkpoints to maintain, and how long. The skirmishes that his unit of Fire Dragons had swept through had culminated in this body of men running headlong into the muzzle fire of his arrayed plasma guns. His own Dragon’s Breath, usually hampered by its shorter range and disdained by the majority of his brethren in the Aspect Temple in favor of a firepike, rained a fiery doom upon those foolish enough to think the trench and rocks would aid in protecting them from the Eldar force they had ran into unexpectedly. The fear that had gripped the humans after the initial salvo that decimated their force had indeed saved the lives of some, who did not go to ground and try and hide from the Eldar’s fire. Haurin, Fellthain, Iyannashi, Tellqui, Lleyyagho, Jaaxisha, and Bispasqu continued unabated fire in the broken human unit. It would be suicide to let up and give the mon-keigh and opportunity to lick its wounds and recover. Like treating any wounded animal, death would be kinder and safer.

More of the humans died in the trench and Vondel knew the few remaining would be eliminated in moments. A gasp and sigh from his left caused him to turn. It was not an unfamiliar sound. A mortal wound had somehow found one of his unit. Tellqui, he saw, fell forward. It was the slow fall made with no effort to catch oneself. Several holes had been burned through the chest piece of his body suit. Another companion lost, another soul caught in the sparkling gem that now came alight with almost a renew purpose. Another task, one of incredible distaste, that Vondel would repeat as he had countless times as his role of Exarch. All around his fallen comrade, more stabs of light sent tiny puffs of smoke up from the dead grasses and duff that covered the ground. Swiftly they traversed the distance between Tellqui’s position in the formation and closed in upon Iyannashi. Vondel barked warning and turned to bring his Dragon’s Breath to bear upon the counter attack that had surprisingly come from a secured sector of control.

Expecting to see perhaps a small squad of mon-keigh, stragglers who escaped notice, Vondel watched a single human fire from over the crest of a knuckle in the low ridgeline. The human, even before Tellqui finished his fall, charged down towards Vondel and his Fire Dragons in a suicidal rush screaming incoherently. More flashes of contained lightning fired out of the muzzle of the human’s lazgun. Almost twice the cycle of fire, Vondel realized as he counted emotionlessly, of a normal human weapon as he raised his own to eliminate the surprise nuisance. With a detached air, Vondel gauged the distance to the human. Iyannashi had delicately moved away from the scattering fire laid blindly down, for Vondel could see now that the human did not even have his eyes open. How Tellqui had succumbed to such a random act as a blindly firing human pained Vondel, and even the knowledge that the act would be avenged was no salve against the wound on Vondel’s own soul.

Thundering staccato broke Vondel’s attention. Iyannashi, who had so deftly moved to bring the silly human to a swift end, exploded in a rain of tiny metal explosions that tore effortlessly through the armor plates and body suit. Haurin, who had continued to deal death to the scattered remains of their original prey, joined Iyannashi in her fate as the merciless fire continued along the end line of the Fire Dragon’s formation. From yet another quarter, though not far enough removed to indicate a new unit, Vondel saw two more individuals moved in from the saddle that ran between the rock knuckle and the crest of the hill. Above and between his troop and their path to safety, the two new figures were now Vondel’s primary concern. The broken humans, including the charging mon-keigh, were of no importance. The presence of the heavy weapon, a heavy bolter Vondel recognized not only by its bulk but by its signature report, was of highest import. To the side of the heavy weapon, and now down the hill, charged one of the constructed menaces of the human empire. Clad in its signature dark azure and argent rune, Vondel knew it was stronger and more resilient than those in his troop and should the human successfully close with them only Vondel could walk away from such a clash easily, if the marine made it all the way to him and his. Another order sent out to the remainder of his troop brought guns to bear on the Ultramarine and his supporting heavy weapon.

Veghard continued to fire down upon the Fire Dragons in the bowl of the hill below him. Novarius charged down the hill, swiftly closing with the Eldar below. Veghard, freed of the marine’s constant observation, began a slow trot that took him down towards the rock knuckle Abe had abandoned. Firing as he moved, he knew such action would be better protection than a good bunker. Most did not worry about a heavy bolter moving from a position. The squats had long since been able to wield heavy weapons that would force the taller humans to stand and brace themselves. Their short stature and life under heavy gravity made the squats stronger than most any appreciated. That coupled with their superior understanding of gyros and anti-recoil technologies brought the standard squat heavy bolter a greater degree of mobility than any other Imperial equipment.

The Fire Dragons turned on Novarius, their plasma weapons locking on the charging figure when Veghard had reached the knuckle. The elimination of the One Seventy Seventh had been averted, but Veghard knew what was coming and he was afraid the Fire Dragons would cause too much damage to the few troops Veghard knew of. Squeezing his trigger again, a hail of spent casings fountained around him and cascaded about the rocks. Starting at the far end of the Eldar line, Veghard watched another of the lithe creatures dance in jerky motion before falling still under the weight of his fire but he knew his effort alone would not be enough to save the lone marine.

Down at the end of the bowl he stood sentinel over, Veghard gave half an eye to the boy, Abe. He had survived his initial rush and had provided the time Veghard had needed to cut down the two Eldar who had been tasked with clearing out the draw the One Seventy Seventh had taken cover in. Novarius had not reached the Eldar and his shots, which were fouling the aim of one Dragon, failed to bring it down. Lasgun fire from Abe completed what the Astartes had not, but what brought a small grin to Veghard’s visage was Abe’s wild gesticulation at the cowering troops in the draw. Up from their hiding places, the remnants of Abe’s troop began to pour lasgun fire into the Dragons. Fired upon from multiple directions, the discipline of the Fire Dragons began to break down. The coordinated fire started to instead be divided between the marine and the recovered humans, none of which hit their mark as the Fire Dragons broke ranks and attempted to retreat back up the bowl. In moments, the rout of the One Seventy Seventh had been turned into the elimination of the unit of Fire Dragons.

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#34 ·
Chapter the Second part 3 of 5

As the last Dragon fell, Veghard felt himself stumble back from the rock knuckle. The edges of his vision faded to a foggy grey and a sound like the roar of the ocean filled his ears. Fighting to stay on his feet, Veghard lost the feeling in his legs and he felt himself slide forward into a never ending fall through seemingly infinite fog.

Grey fog parted as Veghard fell. The ground spun crazily below him, and the browns of grasses blurred with the greens and blacks of the blasted forest. The roar that seemed to have started with the roar of the ocean, he now recognized as the scream of wind as he shot towards the surface of a planet. Veghard, who most considered level headed even for a squat, felt panic tighten his chest. He did not know how or why he was suddenly suspended in the air, or falling from such a height. It would not matter in moments, but that fact did not keep Veghard from flailing his arms in futile panic, trying to somehow stop his meteoric descent.

“Ah! You made it!” A semi-familiar voice announced near him, totally unconcerned with Veghard, or the other’s predicament.

A hand reached out and grabbed Veghard, stopping his flailing. At once, the screaming of the wind stopped, the world righted itself, and Veghard found himself again at the rock knuckle. Shock filled him as he watched the battle unfold itself before him, Novarius falling before disciplined fusion gun fire, while the One Seventy Seventh melted away as Abelard was cut down. No supporting fire came from his position as unlike just moments ago, his heavy bolter was nowhere to be seen. Somehow, his actions had no effect. The battle below him, sliding away as the Dragons moved into the draw, was different that the one he could remember just fighting in. Veghard looked behind the rock knuckle, expecting to see his own body, melted or charred beyond recognition. There were stories of those who had been miraculously resuscitated who spoke of the ancestors coming to guide the fallen. The stories were similar, so most took them as dreams that were half remember and so the dreamer would fall back upon the other instances to copy them for some type of explanation. Dreams made up while the brain slowly died, yet found that life was not quite done with them.

Veghard was as most. Such stories were just that, stories for the gullible. The ancestors were revered, just as the Emperor; unseen, untouched, and unknown. The Emperor would no more stride the battle field, like the Eldar Avatar, than an ancestor would come hold your hand as you died. The dead did not sit in judgment as taught to all squat children, but their achievements and actions were to be emulated. The Living Ancestors were an anomaly, but an anomaly in a universe of anomalies. Veghard gave the Living Ancestors credit that was their due, but in the end they were only psykers. Useless to the Imperium, though revered by the Squats, the Living Ancestors lacked the unbridled power of the sanctioned psykers, the Eldar warlocks, or the magics of the Chaos sorcerers, all of which had been witnessed or experienced by Veghard. The mumblings of a senile squat held little import in Veghard’s eyes.

Rock solid belief was now shaking inside Veghard. He could piece together the destruction of the Eldar, not his Imperial forces. Looking behind the rocks, an almost unconquerable fear was building inside of him. Somewhere he would see his own body and life would be denied him, even as he felt as if he was alive even now. Would seeing his own body end even this? Yet, around the knuckle there was no sign of blood, gore, or even body. Veghard was so engrossed with seeking his fallen body he started with a jolt when the voice he had forgotten about pulled his attention from his search.

“You won’t find anything looking down there, Veghard.” The voice came from another squat. Dressed as Veghard, the squat looked no different from any other Veghard had dealt with.

Veghard found his voice had a quavering note to it, shaming him, but being unable to quell his fear he was unable to force it to his regular timber. “Are…are you an ancestor? Are you one of my ancestors?”

The other gazed back at him. Veghard knew immediately what the newcomer would say. Something like, “What do you think?” or as evasive. The thought of such a retort made Veghard angry, which loosened the grip the fear had over him at the thought of being dead. Surprisingly, the other simply nodded and Veghard found himself without an angry retort.

“Am I dead?” Another question, but this time the other smiled and shook his head negatively. “Then what am I? What’s going on?”

His anger had found a target, but the gruff tone of his voice had no effect on the other.

“What is your name? You know mine, who are you?” Veghard was not sure what was angering him more, the other’s sudden silence or the mocking smile that refused to leave the man’s face, though the direct question did finally get a response.

“My name? Why it doesn’t matter. Call me what you wish. My name died with me, but my purpose has always held me. I will be your guide, for a short time. There will be others who will need me, and soon you will not. You will find others to counsel you. Come, you don’t have much time. Your strength will wane soon and you must see.”

“See? See what? Everyone was killed”, Veghard gestured to the Dragons that had moved past the draw and were moving up the other side. “My plan failed. I didn’t even fire a shot.”

His guide followed Veghard, watching the Dragons move away and he even chuckled. “Well, that’s different.”

“What’s different?” Veghard was puzzled by the other’s disinterest in the death below them.

“This isn’t what happened. This is was what the Farseer was grasping for. Most Ancestors don’t see options of the past.” He turned to look at Veghard. “Of course, that is why we have been waiting for you. Because you are different, my friend.”

“My friends have names”, snorted Veghard.

“Then give me one”

Veghard paused. Fear began to build in him again. Squats were not by nature susceptible to tendrils of chaos, but strongholds had been subverted. Though not many, such places were hated even more than the greenskins. Veghard felt cold. If he was not dead, this could be some chaos creature that had invaded his mind, if that could happen. How did someone become possessed? If he named this vision, this dream, would it gain access to his soul? Possess him? Or was he already damned and no longer protected by the Emperor? He wanted to turn and run from this unknown squat, but squats did not turn and run. And if this was some chaos spirit, where would he run to? Veghard tried to think of his options but all he could think of what that he was at the mercy of this creature.


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#35 ·
Sorry, I haven't been able to keep up with the last few updates. Classes are coming to an end soon, so I am swamped at the moment. I'll catch up as soon as I get the chance, though ;).
 
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