Token Trans Mod
Join Date: May 2011
Location: On the internet.
I scribbled this up last night in response to a writing prompt and felt like sharing it. It's nothing particularly special, but sometimes you just have to write.
The stink of blood was ever present as the sound of the dead and dying was everywhere around him, a maelstrom of noise that seemed to exist in a storm around him and for a moment Sergeant Gleff Hantim wondered who they were fighting this time, and as the storm of violence began to reach him he decided that it didn't matter.
What did matter to him was that the enemy was attempting their charge again, to break their lines with their lasguns and gas masked clad faces, the rubber masks hiding the mysteries of their foe's faces. He didn't try to imagine their faces though, and instead met them with his power sword and laspistol, a rallying cry on his lips as he lept into the fray, tearing into the enemy with the brutal efficiency that only a soldier could manage.
Blood sprayed as he hacked left and right, the gun in his hand finishing anyone the sword didn't immediately kill. There was no point in taking prisoners from their attackers, and even less in having them needlessly suffer. He only stopped easing their suffering when the power cell in the pistol ran dry and the enemy wouldn't relent long enough to allow him to reload. So the pistol went back into the holster as the sword continued its bloody work, the power field angrily growling as it continued to bite into the people he'd been sent to this world to kill. Some tried to block the crackling blade with their rifles only to have the power field reduce the weapon to mess of burning metal.
Almost as quickly as the wave of men had pounded into his line they drew back, breaking to let someone through. While the man's rank insignia was unfamiliar to Hantim he could tell that whomever had come to see what had stopped the advance was important. Part of it was the way the man carried himself, almost as if he wasn't in a hurry despite being in the middle of a battlefield, the other was the impressive looking blade that he was aiming at Hantim's weary face, the masked face barking something at him in a language he didn't speak.
The body language he did speak though. The newcomer clearly wanted to fight him, and he was more than willing to oblige. Let these dogs see the truth of who truly owned this world the old fashioned way. Mirroring the challenger's body language Hantim's blade now ran parallel to the one pointed at him, their hands almost meeting in the middle, the challenge accepted despite neither side knowing what the other was saying.
Eternity seemed to stretch on as neither moved, each trying to judge the other's action and prepare to counter-act first. Eternity exploded as the blades began to flash, the power fields sparking as they collided, the men meeting on equal terms at first as they attacked and blocked in rapid succession. Both men had considerable talent and experience with their blades, but the challenger wasn't as fluid in his movements, as if his body was at its limits before they had even started.
Hantim almost wanted to give the man a reprieve in the name of fair competition but without having the words to discuss things he decided to instead allow the man seek eternal rest. His blade began to strike faster and faster, drawing blood each time it struck, the shallow cuts beginning to strike deeper and deeper into his opponent's flesh, the power field searing the wounds shut before they had a chance to drain the other man. The challenger was faltering under the onslaught now, unable to keep up with the fury at which the sword was striking and finally look the crackling blade through the shoulder, the power sword tumbling out of his gloved hand.
Hantim saluted the man, and prepared to strike a clean killing stroke when his back exploded into a rain of pain and heat, the snapping sound of a number of lasguns opening fire catching him off guard. As his body lost control of his legs thanks to a shot severing his spine his eyes looked up at his foe and he spit in hatred as the man drew a laspistol of his own.
"Leave it to the followers of the Corpse-God to not know the honor of a fair contest. May Khorne damn you for all time."
If the Guardsman understood Hantim's cursing he didn't react as he pulled the trigger, a bolt of energy lancing from the muzzle of the weapon and through the traitor sergeant's face, silencing his curses forever.
Last edited by Dave T Hobbit; 05-04-16 at 12:55 PM.
Reason: Stripped Quote so people can quote