Thanks, Adrian (and everyone for viewing)!
More of this story revealed itself to me today, so fingers crossed that you continue to read and (hopefully) enjoy this.
All of the tales which I transcribe are a mystery to me and I don't know where they are going, so I kind of feel like I'm "here for the ride" alongside you good people.
I'm not "fishing for compliments" here, but I am always trying to improve so (if you have a minute or two) please might you let me have any feedback, or to let me know if these are unclear and/or need changing?
I put the words down for yourselves and to add to the fan fiction in general and it's important to me that these are readable and that you enjoy them:
As ever, I don't do this for my own reputation, acclaim, or feelings of worth, but instead to try to faithfully tell the characters' own stories and just to know that it brought yourselves a bit of some happiness and (perhaps) that it might inspire yourselves to think -and write- about your own armies and these wonderful hobby gameworlds which we like so much.
Anyway, thanks for reading and on with the show. Andygorn.
The craft shudder only slightly as they start to enter the atmosphere; their acute angle of descent was programmed years ago to avoid the worst of the effects, whilst heat-resistant cramics retain the coolness of the ship’s inner workings.
Even if any of the friction-heat had penetrated the hull, the occupants would not have minded 'a little warmth' and would have borne it with stoic determination. Experienced veterans, they are all used to hardship and deprivation.
Though barely a glancing at the rest of the unit, you all know what each other is thinking: "The mission is all, none shall falter."
Grips tighten on rifles, pistols and blades in readiness for the coming attrition, for it shall be a campaign of indeterminate length, instead of the lightning-strike against key personnel that you usually favour.
Ideally, you would have chosen a different method for insertion onto the surface, yet the traditional teleportation beams had been disabled long ago, with no opportunity for respite or repair. The mission is all and you know that even small delays can very easily prove to be fatal for your objectives.
The planet’s multi-layered atmosphere plays havoc with even the most advanced of sensors, so an intense bloom of fire and the spattering of debris across your ship’s front armour is the only indication that the pair of ships to your port side have suddenly disintegrated.
The remaining three craft are already taking wild evasive action to avoid the debris which shrieks past, as well as plotting and evading any enemy targetting devices, yet no warnings sound which would have indicated a lock-on.
Even at these distances and through the hell of planetfall, a vast tell-tale trace of petrochemical vapour speaks of an alien rocket which has come from the Eastern continent, the area of the greenskins’ most substantial gains.
Calling up known texts, streams of scrolling data indicate that the East was once a site of great beauty with verdant rolling fields hemmed in by luscious hedgerows and hundreds of fauna.
Vision sharpening as you descend through the cloud-cover, there appears to be little remaining of such natural wonder:
Now, myriad deep craters and laserburns scar the sandy hills whilst the mountains of haphazardly-welded machine-junk which the Orks use for both residences and war cast their malevolent shadows across your people’s lands.
Incredulous, you gasp at the debasement of the terrain: Even their very presence befouls the earth, let alone the unthinkable damage caused by the horrendous vapours from their maniacal industries.
Elsewhere, black rivers of toxic tar and sludge now flow across the barren landscape, pooling anywhere gravity wills it, uncaring of where it contaminates.
Undoubtedly many base aliens already trespassed into it’s toxic waters -never to rise again- having dared each other to tests of stamina, or hoping that their smoke-belching vehicles’ reckless speed would carry them to safety.
Yet these creatures are galaxy-renowned for their numbers, and such casualties would (sadly) be unlikely to make any great impact upon their overall combat-effectiveness.
Sweeping smoothly over the landscape, you search for a suitable landing zone, finding it five miles from the defender's nearest outpost.
The lack of anti-aircraft fire from the various Ork-towns indicates that the huge rocket -which accounted for two-fifths of your number- had been nothing more than the venting of their racial exuberance rather than any aimed or organised threat.
Although you commmand warriors who have combined centuries of experience, the Orks are too caught up in their mindless violence; the complete chance they bring to life has already severely reduced the ability of your units to win this war.
For what may be the twentieth time, you curse their entire species.
Urgently trying to trace any living relatives of Private Sam/Samuel "Jock" Wilson (Black Watch, No. 6 Commando, UK Army Service ID 2764432, died 10.06.44). Any info/suggestions gratefully received.
"Mockles! Pent on silpen tree, blockards three a-feening. Mockles! What silps came to thee, in thy pantry, dreaming?"
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More feedback = better stories for everyone.
Last edited by andygorn; 02-11-12 at 07:13 PM.