Howdy guys, this is a bit of fiction back-story i whipped up the other evening, trying my hand at a few new things/techniques here, +rep to whoever can guess one of them!
Anywho, please tell me what you think, it was a quick write up so there was not much editing involved, let me know if it reads smoothly to you all, i would love a little C&C if you feel like giving it. Gratzi! enjoy...
The woods were quiet. Eerie beams of light shone through the humid canopy in sections to spotlight the forest floor below. Things were missing. Things that made the silence lay upon the wood like a blanket, covering everything. The native fauna had either gone silent or completely disappeared, for there were no discernible signs that they were there. There was no breeze to be felt. The air was stagnant and warm, as if afraid to move.
Hidden amongst the thorns and bracken, a pair of eyes scan the forest 180 degrees. Other than the vegetation, his helmet display shows no signs of life. He knows to be wary. For that was how he was trained. He is a merchant of death. His hands and arms sheathed in gauntlets of black adamantium, his chest and legs cased in ceremite plates of the same. His helmet, also black and crested with golden laurels, bears a red stripe down the middle from back to front. In his left hand he holds a weapon of divine power. A holy weapon that aids him in his judgment of others. From its aperture spews bolts of incandescent plasma. Encasing his right, humming quietly, is a most sacred artefact. Passed down over three hundred years and witness to one thousand campaigns, it is a weapon of awesome power. Only given to those deemed worthy, it is a black iron fist four times the size of his hand and bares four claws. Each crackling with blue bolts of energy. Equally capable of flenzing flesh from bone as gashing a battle tank like a knife slicing the air, it has done both many times. It is 'the hand that slew one thousand Orks.' To the one who bares it, it is the right hand of Angarius, his dead homeland. It bares the souls of all those dead and gone. Many of those his brothers. For he is Brother-Sergent Lucian Vicarus, and he is a Space Marine. His shoulder plates bare the symbol of his chapter. It is a grey diamond, plain and glorious. He is a soldier of the Iron Diamond.
The Iron Diamond Space Marines are little known throughout the galaxy and that is what they want. They are silent and swift as a wisp of smoke, and as brutal and ruthless as a pack of daemons. They serve the Emperor of Mankind, wholly devoted and unwavering in their allegiance to the golden throne of Earth. But they do so amongst the shadows, so much unlike their loud and boisterous brothers, the Ultramarines. They prefer the silence of a knife in the dark. They are few in number, and as such rarely commit their entire force to one single action. They are surgical killers. Silencing the few to prevent the killing of many.
And such is his charge now. Brother-Sergent Vicarus raises his lightning claw above his head.
As he stands, nine others stand with him.
Matte black warriors of shadow, cased in the same plates of armour, stand like statues breathing silently behind helmeted faces. They are veteran tactical squad Aerosav. They are First Company veterans. All tested by one hundred campaigns, they have earned their spot in the annals of Chapter history and lore. They are their chapter's finest.
Many generations have passed since the destruction of their planet, but still they fight for it in memory. Having each sworn a blood oath to purge the galaxy of the foul mutant xenos that destroyed their homeland, their mighty battle-barge 'The Might of Angarius' along with the rest of the 'Iron Fleet' travel from system to system chasing their eternal enemy. Their enemy the Orks.
“Forward my brothers, the enemy is near and their stench is intoxicating.” whispers Sergent Vicarus. His battle-brothers stomp their right feet twice in unison to show their lust for revenge. Vicarus smiles to himself behind his helmet. The picture of his burning planet fresh upon his thoughts as if it had only been yesterday, he steadies himself and begins to move forward. His brothers follow in perfect step. Even though each man is a monster in size and in strength, still they move silently through the wood. Not one twig snaps beneath their feet, and not one sound is made. The men of tactical squad Aerosav move through the wood like spectres. Fifty meters grows to one hundred, their nerves and senses heightening with every step they take forward towards their enemy. At one hundred and fifty meters, Sergent Vicarus orders a halt.
“Brother Olin, what do you see?” says Sergent Vicarus.
The soldier to to his right moves to him. This is Brother-Marksman Stern Olin, the oldest in their group. Slinging his modified bolter over his shoulder, he addresses the Sergent.
“Sir, auspex shows fifty plus targets at seventy six meters. Most centrally located, sir.”
“Thank you brother. Find yourself a suitable vantage point from which to cover and await my signal. I trust you know your duty.”
“Aye sir, the Emperor protects.”
“Only those he deems worthy brother.”
Brother Olin stamps his foot twice and disappears back into the shadows.
To the others, Vicarus raises his lightning claw once again in the air. It makes no sound as he flexes each clawed finger. He slowly lowers it and in quick succession he disengages the wrist locks that secure the claw to his armour. Dumping it off into his other hand, he holds his bare fist aloft.
“Brothers,” he says almost inaudibly, “do not forget your charge this day. Simply remember the pain the filthy greenskins inflicted upon Angarius and its people. Return to them a pain worse than death. Let them bear witness to the wrath of angry spectres. Spectres without a homeland. Do not be seen. Do not be heard. For as the spirits of our homeland are invisible, so are we.”
With practiced precision Brother-Sergent Vicarus reattaches his lightning claw. Turning back the direction of their quarry, he lowers his body back to a crouch.
As he crouches, eight others crouch with him.
Vicarus inches forward, seventy six meters closing to ten, then eight. At five meters, he reaches the edge of the clearing. Standing back in the shadow of the trees, his brothers close up around him at the edge of the wood.
His dully glowing red lenses take in the scene before him. Fifty-three Orks kneel before a grotesque display of wood and iron. Chanting quietly and tamping their weapons on the ground in unison, they seem to be worshiping the idol. Brother Vicarus doesn't spend any time attempting to decipher the ritual. Opening a com-link he coolly states his directive:
“Brothers, kill them all.”
As one, veteran tactical squad Aerosav moves forward towards the knelt Orks. In a split second, brother Vicarus slips a cold gauntleted hand over the mouth of the rearmost Ork and removes his head with a quick pass of his lightning claw. The already kneeling Ork slumps silently onto himself.
At the front of the pack of Orks kneels a giant of a greenskin. No doubt the strongest among them, he is fitted with an iron jaw and metal forelimbs typical of his status. Brother Vicarus opens a com-link to brother Olin, hidden amongst the trees, “Now brother,” he whispers into his helmet.
A second later, the lead Ork's neck and shoulders explode in a splattering shower of black ichor and flesh. Startled by this, the remaining Orks snap from their trances.
Brother Vicarus chuckles deeply from behind his helmet, “I hope you have made peace with your god,” he yells, “for today you DIE!” He raises his plasma pistol and charges into the mass of gathered Orks, flensing flesh and showering them in beams of incandescent death.
As he charges, eight other charge with him.
Racking the slides of their bolters and disengaging the safeties the members of veteran tactical squad Aerosav enact the vengeance in their hearts. Each metal casing that tinkles to the ground has scratched in it, the name of a citizen of their once mighty chapter planet Angarius. Every round, blessed by Iron Diamond Chaplain Kneva, carries a part of their souls. Once spent, they are left as a marker to their final resting place. This is how their spirits attain peace; in service to the God-Emperor of mankind.
As the bloody mele comes to a close, brother Vicarus strides towards the fallen Ork leader. Its body twitches, too stupid to realize that it is dead. The massive disembodied head, jaws still snapping, eyes enraged stares up at brother Vicarus.
Bending down to survey his prey Vicarus smiles menacingly behind his helmet. Picking up the giant cranium he spears it upon his lightning claw. He can hear the meat sizzle as his claw sparks in delight. Raising his prize above his head he yells, “In the name of the God-Emperor of mankind, and with all the might of Angarius, may you never see the light of this universe again!”
Raising his pistol, Brother Sergent Lucian Vicarus, leader of veteran tactical squad Aerosav, flings the head of the Ork into the air, and vaporizes it with a jet of blinding plasma.
Once again, i would appreciate any thoughts/comments/smart remarks! many thanks for reading! Cheers!