The Guard, Space marines, Emperors Children, Tyranids and Orks. Blood, and a great plot. What more could you ask for?
Thristal Marconas ran through the thick, wet forest. The branches were bowed from the weight of the water that collected upon the small blue leaves. Marconas; soaked and bloody, struggled as he climbed the hill. The branches cought on his Imperial Guard issued fatigues. They pulled at him as if with grasping hands.
Thin tree trunks the color of purple roses created a thick maze that forced Marconas to slow his pace. He ran in a panic, his senses on the edge of sanity. Memories flooded his mind as he ran, three-hundred-fifty-thousand Imperial Guardsmen torn to pieces, Leman Russ battle tanks, Imperial Chimeras, and Basilisks ripped open, the crews torn limb from limb, absorbed, their flesh consumed to fuel the forces of the Tyranid swarms.
He remembered the acid that was spat from bio-cannons that landed upon the flesh of his brothers. The acid melted their writhing bodies as if they were waste paper in water; their screams of torment could even be heard over the din of battle and death.
Spores floated in the air, spewed from the mouths of gargoyles. The jellyfish like, bluish green masses floated gently above the maelstrom of battle until they found living masses of soldiers whose attentions were directed elsewhere. There, above their heads the spores burst like frag grenades in twenty meter circles. But instead of shrapnel that was thrown, acid and venom fell like rain among the solders causing many of them to flail on the ground until Termagants and Hormagaunts, along with Genestealers and Lectors leapt, ran and crawled into their ranks and sawed through them with two meter long scythe-like claws.
Las-cannons, heavy bolters, melta-guns and flamethrowers along with nearly two-hundred-thousand las-guns fired into the advancing swarm. Beasts that defied description fell, burned and exploded by the thousands. Leman Russ battle tanks advanced into the teeming masses firing their powerful cannons and pintle-mounted storm bolters, their treads grinding through the swarms until body parts, acidic blood and bones filled the tread wells.
Mighty dozer-blades pushed the Tyranids back into each other until their bodies broke. But they were not invulnerable.
Massive hive tyrants stood over their slaves directing their hive-mind and relaying simple instructions from their mother, the Hive-Queen.
Genestealers ran on two legs with the speed of horses and cut through the rest of the swarm, covered the mighty Leman Russ battle tanks and ripped through their hulls with four powerful, three clawed hands. The crews didn’t stand a chance of retreat or survival.
Weaker men fell to their knees and begged the Emperor for help. The help they prayed for never came, only death in the form of the Red Terrors that stomped amongst them with cloven hooves, using their bodies as play things for sport. The soldier’s blood fed the plants around them and soaked into the ground as the Red Terrors ripped them into pieces and fed their corpses to the Lictors and Ravenors.
Chimeras and Basilisks fired their mighty cannons their bright lasers flashed like sun rays through clouds. Steam and vapor swirled around their discharge even as thousands more of the hive fell in burning clumps to the ground.
Huge Carnifex barged through the swarm, throwing the smaller creatures into the air and trampling others with their split, giant black hooves. They overran the Chimeras and Basilisk positions and laid siege to their thick hulls.
Pintle-mounted bolters sent huge explosive shells and massive volumes of firepower into their ranks but they kept coming. Some fell and were trampled by the rest or used as shields, held in the fierce grip of massive red pinchers to absorb the volleys of ordinance.
Once close enough to the powerful war machines, the towering Carnifex ripped open their thick green hulls and filled them with acidic venom. The flesh melted from the crews bones and formed a soup that was lapped up by the Lictors and Ravenors.
Guardsmen began to break ranks and flee into the trenches in hopes of greater protection but to their horror they could not find any. Las-guns fired into the air as gargoyles flew overhead in great swarms, unleashing the spores to do their work. But while those in the trenches fired into the sky or into the bodies of approaching Tyranids, the ground gave way below them from burrowing monstrosities.
Like moles in a garden, the Tyranid forces burrowed and burst from the walls of the trenches with meter long scythe-like claws that cut men’s bodies into peaces. Blood, bone and the organs of men painted the walls and ground in thick layers which dripped and ran through the trenches like a river.
Zoanthrope drifted in the air and unleashed blinding bolts of psychic lightning and electric discharges into the fleeing men. One hundred thousand of the Emperor’s finest died in hours but still they would not be completely broken.
The Commissars screamed the scriptures of courage and fired into the hordes of oncoming Red Terrors that ran on four, three meter long scythe-like claws. They also shot cowards in the back as they ran screaming from the beast’s deadly advance.
The Terrors lashed out with long scorpion-like tails that spat acid and venom into the faces of their prey. They slashed with frenzied passion through the bodies of the most brave who still held the line, while the Commissars stood above them preaching the undying word of the Emperor’s deliverance.
The Commissars were the pure examples of how the guardsmen were to live and wage war…but in their final minutes they became the prime example of how to bleed, scream and die while their bodies were eaten whole by the Red Terrors, Genestealers, Termagants and Hormagaunts.
Even as they continued to advance into the ranks of guardsmen, a priest stood with his scriptures unfolded in scroll, reading aloud the ‘Litany of Exorcism.’ The Tyranids would not be exorcized for they whey were not daemons but bio-engineered creatures of alien design.
A Leman Russ plowed past the priest; its exhaust billowing behind it clouding the priest and caused him to have a coughing fit. A Lictor ran into the cloud and grasped the man in its long, bone-white mantis-like pinchers and began to feed like a mantis with its prey even as the priest struggled to escape. Blood burst forth from the wounds that were being inflicted and intestines spilled out from his abdomen even as it was ripped open. The screams of the priest ended quickly when another Lictor ripped the head from his body and swallowed it whole.
The Leman Russ fired its cannon at a downwards angle. The shockwave of the shell’s exit from the cannon lit up the night and sent creatures flying through the air, their carapace outer shells smashed from the concussion wave.
The shell smashed through a thousand Tyranids and detonated in the body of a Hive-tyrant. The Hive-Tyrant’s death caused nearly twenty-thousand beasts to falter in confusion as the psychic connection from their wrangler was severed.
The Imperial Guardsmen noticed the weakness and began a rout from the east that came to a fierce standstill an hour later when the confused Tyranid swarms regained their psychic connection to the rest of the hive-mind.
Hundreds of Biovores spewed thousands of spores high above the exposed guardsmen. The spores drifted on the air, light and delicate looking, like jellyfish in the sea; they exploded in the guardsmen’s ranks causing thousands of men to scream and falter as acid, venom and bio-morphing seeds rained down upon them. Their skin melted and their bodies convulsed as the nerve agents from the venom soaked through their flesh.
The bio-morphing seeds sent roots into the guardsmen’s bodies. The men screamed as the seeds needle-like tentacles bored into their flesh, releasing toxins that liquefied their bodies from the inside out. The seeds drank from this protein soup and grew until they burst like overfed ticks.
The air was thick with clouds of smoke and steam from the battle, a purple-black haze that drifted upon the humid breeze. What was once a beautiful crop-land that formed the ‘Valley of Plenty,’ now bore the bodies of hundreds of thousands of Tyranids, guardsmen and wasted machinery that stretched nearly twenty kilometers from the east to the west.
The crop had been ready for harvest and the ground ready for the harvesters, but now the blood of beast and human alike soaked the land and would corrupt the valley for generation to come.
For two days the battle raged and still it seemed the numbers of the Tyranid forces continued to grow while the guardsmen continued to fall. This enemy could not be overcome. It was obvious to those who fought. The battle to kill off the Tyranid hosts and keep the planet from extinction would fail and all of those massed would surly die.
Reinforcements resupplied the ranks of guardsmen on the nightfall of day two. Ninety-thousand men were added to the lines, but those that had fought the longest were not encouraged. They knew the hell that they fought against could not be vanquished, no matter how many guardsmen packed the ranks.
Along with guardsmen; weapons and ammunition were sent with med-packs, burn-jells and other medical supplies. Food and fresh water and caffeine were meted out among the lines in order to satisfy the most basic of needs.
The Tyranid swarms continued to grow and their onslaught became even more furious, as if they were being pushed by their lust for blood and dominance.
Thristal Marconas watched the shuttles approach from the north; their landing lights were bright in the evening dimness. He could see the fire extending twelve meters long from the shuttle’s open bay doors in a cone of red as the air-cooled pintle-guns fired thousands of rounds in seconds into the swirling masses. Carapace outer bone shells came apart and were flung into the evening sky creating thousands of dark silhouettes that rose slowly and fell quickly into the teeming intruders.
He watched as the bodies of thousands of the hive fell and writhed in their death throws and he rejoiced as he watched the Tyranid swarms die in their thousands.
The shuttles landed with the roar of an ocean; thousands of waves crashing against a rocky shore. Dust and debris were thrown into the air which formed a thick fog of debris. The shuttles strobe-lights flashing through the fog threw shadows as loaders carried wounded men into the spacious hulls and carried supplies out as they made their way to the lines once more.
Marconas longed to get onto one of those shuttles. He longed to get away, to escape, to run and hide like a child into his father’s arms. He was tired and afraid. He was also numb and fatigued and soaked with the blood of a thousand other people and creatures that had died all around him. He just wanted to go home.
He had seen thousands die and he was surprised to find that he was not one of them. A cheer roused him from his longing and caused him to look to the east. A shuttle had landed nearly five minutes ago. He hadn’t paid it very much attention as he was ducking the floating swarms of spores and the psychic bolts from the Zoanthrope.
Huge figures shrouded in armor and over three meters tall bearing guns so large it would take three normal men to fire accurately, emerged from the smoke. They carried swords with chain blades that moaned with the longing for blood. There were fifty of them. They were Space Marines of the chapter of the Holy Retribution.
At first he was amazed and nearly overwhelmed by their mass. They were like living tanks and moved as a single body toward the front lines. Some carried flamers while others carried strange rocket launchers with auto-feeds that supplied small warheads. Some carried long chain swords and bolter-guns. Their movements were without fear or panic and they seemed to stride to the front as if the hellish enemy was just a small number of defenseless children.
At the fore of the company moved a massive giant that was covered in what looked like anti-aircraft guns, long air-cooled barrels that rotated and clanked as they received their ammunition. Thick smoke billowed from hidden exhaust pipes that emerged from its shoulders. From a speaker horn mounted on its left shoulder the scriptures of Courage and Faith in the Emperor’s Deliverance boomed above the cacophony of battle. It was a Dreadnought.
The night was setting in and the darkness kept Marconas from noticing their colors or the insignia that rested defiantly upon the large standard the giant in the lead carried. The fabric whipped and snapped in the strong, warm wind. Thristal Marconas turned his face away from them and looked back to the battlefield and was sure their presence would not be enough.
Marconas looked back to the shuttle and longed once more to climb on board and make his escape. He wasn’t a coward. He had fought well, but he didn’t want to die well. He wanted to live, to see his family, his sons and his beautiful wife. All thought was ripped from him suddenly as pain like he had never known wracked his body and he was thrown from his perch upon the sandbag protected gun tower.
He landed hard on his back and lost his air. His adrenalin was pumping so hard that he blacked out; temporarily blinded by the blackness he began to crawl. His hands groped through the trampled wheat and blood in search for his weapon.
He could feel the toxins invading his body and the beginnings of the acid’s reaction with the immediate area where the parasite had attached itself. His lungs were on fire as he struggled for a breath; for his wind again. At last he was able to scream as the parasite from a burst spore continued to push its roots into his flesh. He tried to reach it but it was in his upper middle back between his shoulder-blades.
Marconas rolled onto his back and ground himself into the dirt in an effort to remove the intruder, but it did no good and the roots continued to grow and he continued to scream.
An iron-clad hand picked him up and lifted him into the air by his leg. ‘Hold still!’ the voice boomed. He did his best; the terror of the giant holding him in the air nearly numbing him past the pain. The Space Marine grabbed the spore and crushed it in his gauntleted hand, pulled it free and threw it aside. The giant sat the man down gently, turned and shouted a command to the other Space Marines near him. As the giant walked down the hill into the swirling masses before him, Marconas said the only thing he could think of, the only thing that made any sense. ‘Thank you, Sir.’
Garlimon Verlhuk, Captain of the Iron Fifty of the Chapter of the Holy Retribution ordered his unit into the maelstrom before them. The thought of death or defeat was as far from his mind as the sun was from the moon. He was bred for battle, bred to be the hand of terror against all that opposed the Emperors worlds.
The bolter in his hand recoiled as he fired its deadly rounds into the bodies of the advancing foe. Acid from the spores that burst overhead smoked upon his armor’s outer carapace but did not harm him. The sacred craftsmanship and care of the armor along with the holy oils that were hand rubbed deep into the pores of the thick, blackened plate would keep the acids from eating away the suits integrity for several hours.
Fire poured from the nozzles of the flamethrowers in streams that covered the Tyranid bodies. The combined firepower of the Space Marines light up the Valley of Plenty revealing the hosts that were falling at their feet.
In the darkness it seemed a river of fire spilled across the center of the battlefield. Marconas watched the valley alight in liquid orange for nearly a kilometer as the flames ruminated into the teeming insectoid forms.
The visor in Verlhuk’s helmet darkened as the flames shot forth. He rejoiced as he watched tens of thousands of burning beasts explode as their bodies were blown apart and burned. They twitched as their nervous systems continued to send information to their limbs. Some crawled on the ground in burning piles, but the Holy Retribution paid them no mind as they moved forward, stomping on the smoldering exoskeletons of the dead.
After the flames, came the release of the rockets into the faltering swarms. The Imperial Guard for nearly ten kilometers stood as one as the glow of the detonations lit up the darkness and threw thousands of the flesh eaters high into the air. For a brief moment the guard seemed to forget the danger they were in. It took the screams of the dieing and wounded to bring them back to the reality before them.
More explosions lit up the night and the men shouted their support and thanks to the Emperor for his deliverance. Marconas allowed himself to rejoice as well, for a moment. But he watched as millions more of the hive-creatures turned as one to face this new threat.
The mighty Dreadnought crashed through the advancing hordes, its armor more than able to repel the blades of the smaller creatures as it ground them underfoot. The air-cooled gun-barrels mounted to its body smoked and created eight cones of flame as thousands of high caliber explosive rounds erupted into the bodies of the Tyranid hosts. Thousands of screeching, buzzing predators came apart and exploded in sprays of bone, alien flesh and acidic blood.
Across the battlefield the Dreadnought’s voice could be heard as it laughed, as if for the first time in decades it was truly enjoying itself. The battle brothers began to sing the songs of the Emperor’s Judgment as they advanced. They quoted the scriptures of Deliverance and they shouted the Proclamations of Courage as they moved through the throngs of the slashing, spitting swarms. They moved as though they walked through a peaceful land, as though nothing could harm them; they were unafraid.
They fought on for nearly seven hours. For those seven hours the Imperial Guard witnessed the glories of the blessed Space Marines. They were inspired by the acts of the giants, the champions in their midst. They were moved to greater acts of heroism and courage. It seemed the tide had turned as the Tyranid forces withdrew from the front lines.
Marconas watched from a fortified gun-tower. His vantage point allowed him to see the battlefield from a different angle than most. The Space Marines fought in the midst of an ocean of death that rose like waves and crashed against the armor of the great giants.
The Tyranids slashed from all sides, raging like an unstoppable river in flood season. They converged upon the chapter of the Holy Retribution and slowly began to get past their weaponry. Thristal Marconas, watching from his vantage point, wept as his worst fears were proven real. He gasped as he saw the Space Marines begin to fall one by one as the tides rolled in.
Chain-blades cut Genestealers, Termagants, Hormagaunts and Lictors in pieces. Gargoyles harried the Holy Retribution from above with the spores they spewed, the acid finally starting to take its toll, pitting and smoking in the gouges opened in their armor by the scything claws of the unforgiving hosts.
Most of the ammunition the Marines carried had been used up and their blades were becoming dull from the countless foes they had hacked apart. They were covered in alien blood, venom and acid. Countless bio-seeds and parasites perched upon their armor-plate, tentacles seeking for a weakness in which to infect their prey.
It seemed that millions upon millions of Tyranids lay dead, not just from the power of the Space Marines but also from the unwavering courage of the Imperial Guard, but still it seemed the numbers of the Tyranid swarms had not lessoned. Now Marconas could see the silhouetted forms of Carnifex, Brood Lords, Red Terrors and several Old One Eyes charge through the hosts of smaller beasts, tossing them out of their way as if they were so much useless waste.
They slammed into the Space Marines with a force that the giants had not faced in this battle.. The Hive Tyrants had directed the smaller creatures by the millions into the path of the Space Marines. They had used them as fodder, as a diversion. The killing had been easy for the Marines and now Garlimon Verlhuk realized the mistake he had made. ‘Fight on brothers. May your deaths be glorious!’ he hissed over the helmet to helmet vox-comm.
The crash of exoskeleton and armor was heard three kilometers away. Even over the din of firepower the Guard was laying down, even over the screams of the wounded and dieing the clash could be heard. Every man that bore witness to the battle wept as they realized their champions would not return.
Silently the ‘Desecration Of The Emperors Dreams’ set in low orbit, hidden by a cloaking field and blind to the Imperial Guard’s sensors by the use of psyker slaves sewn into the very fabric of the ship. ‘The Desecration of the Emperors Dreams’ was a science class vessel, war capable, but just barely. For what it lacked in size, it more than made up with its sleek and thin, easily maneuverable precision.
Its purpose was not for war but for research, observation and experimentation. It had hovered over the battlefield for nearly three days, its occupants extremely pleased to the point of glutinous laughter as they watched the events unfold.
They had watched, a little surprised, as the Imperial Guard fought a losing battle. Those that watched had expected the Guard to die within the first thirty-six hours, but human resilience was one thing that could always be counted on to make things interesting.
From their placement above the battlefield they witnessed the foul puppets of the corps-god enter into the fray. They watched as they advanced into the Tyranid swarms unleashing their arsenal of the weaponry that could level city blocks. They were an unexpected test, an enigma. But Hagash, blessed Hagash had an idea.
‘Ronomonon, direct your pet to instruct her children. Have her guide them. This could be fun.’ Hagash chuckled as he watched the spark alight in Ronomonon’s coal-black eyes. Hagash began to laugh, almost uncontrollably as he watched the battle unfold from the observation telescopic view cameras image enhancers.
Ronomonon stood from his high backed, black, human skinned seat and strode over to the doors of the observation suite. His frame was massive and the armor he wore was gloriously engraved with the symbols of Chaos and the brilliance of Slaanesh, the foul, dark god of the Emperor’s Children. The armor was white and the engravements were inscribed in a liquefied blood-red that did not run but glistened with the former life of its now enslaved soul.
The Aquila, twisted in a desecrated pose, incased in blood and the writhing spirits of those who had opposed him, sat upon the breastplate of his power armor. He extended his gauntleted hand and keyed in the code to open the iron door that led into the experimentation hall. There before him, held by massive chains and a powerful suspension field was a beast so powerful and vile that none but a few had ever seen it and lived.
Ronomonon giggled as he watched the eyes of the great beast dilate in recognition and fear. With a mighty roar and hiss it struggled to turn its powerful body, but the bonds were too strong.
Ronomonon held his hand over a sensor array and pressed a small blood-red button. The beast stiffened under the electrical impulses and bowed its massive head, the neuro-transmitters surgically placed in its skull beginning to place the wishes of the Emperors Child into the brain of the Tyranid Queen.
The Queen of the hive bellowed a defiant roar then grew silent as it psychically screamed the command to its children upon the ground. Ronomonon turned from the beast and walked back into the observation sweet. He laughed when he entered the clean, cold room. It smelled of alcohol and blood.
Hagash had begun to laugh so hard he had fallen to the floor. His eyelids were bleeding from where the stitches had pulled through the skin. Purple-black blood mixed with tears of pure joy, flowed from his eyes as he convulsed upon the floor in uncontrolled barking laughter.
Ronomonon strode over to the view screen. The mightiest of the Tyranid’s forces had converged upon the Space Marines position. The blessed of the Emperor fought to the last but their efforts would be in vain. They were being pulled apart and hacked into pieces by the massive scythe-like claws and crab-like pinchers of the swarm.
The view was dark and grainy but the Chaos Space Marine Apothecaries enhanced eyesight allowed them to see the carnage. ‘Send Brother Rogamal down to gather the progenoid glands from the corpses.’ Hagash sputtered while he tried to regain his composure long enough to watch as another Space Marine was hacked apart. ‘If any of the puppets still survive, bring back what is left of the body so it can watch what we do with its precious gene-seed.’ Ronomonon bent backwards and laughed at the thought of that. ‘Truly Slaanesh will be pleased!’ he spat in riotous laughter.
After the defeat of the honored Space Marines the swarms returned. Thristal Marconas watched their insectoid bodies rise and fall like the waves of the sea as the strobing lights from the Imperial Guard ordinance lit up the battlefield once more.
Again, the tanks and gun-ships advanced into the teeming ranks. Las-cannons fired and sent piercing streams of light through the bodies of the oncoming hordes. Though the forces of the Imperial Guard fought on, it was clear that their resolve and spirit had been broken for along with the death of their heroes came the death of their last hope.
They would not receive any more reinforcements and ammunition was running low. It was humid and the heat and stench of blood, burning corpses and death from the battle was nearly unbearable. The Tyranids added to the stink with an indescribable odor that scorched the sinuses and caused the lungs to burn.
Finally, as the sun rose, early on the fourth morning, the General ordered the Guard to fall back regiment by regiment, into the forest covered hills nearly thirty kilometers to the north.
As the regiments fell back, the Imperial Guard lines became weaker and the Tyranid swarms became even more belligerent.
Thristal Marconas remembered being aboard the battle-barge. Its name was the ‘Glorious Light.’ At that time he was excited about the drop onto the planet. This was his second deployment since he had joined the Bline Infantry.
They had fought against the Eldar on the planet Nuptol, in the Learmont system.
The battle there had been fierce and exhausting. He had lost his brother there, to an Eldar blade that had cut him in half. The war had lasted for nearly two years, before the Eldar finally relinquished their hold on the mighty forge world. Nearly a hundred thousand soldiers of Bline had fallen there.
He thought the Eldar were fierce, but compared to the Tyranid swarms that raged against them now, the Eldar were as lost children in a marketplace.
Marconas remembered taking his seat and strapping in, his harness tight upon his chest and a thin piece of rubber between his teeth to keep him from gnashing his teeth from the shuttles vibrations. He could see the expectant and excited faces of the others around him, the determination of his brothers, and could hear the shouted scriptures from the mouth of the commissar, as he struggled to exhort the soldiers above the roar of the shuttles growling engines.
He had smiled as the shuttle entered the atmosphere, the heat from the solar-shields warming the interior nearly to the point of cooking the human bodies inside. He had rejoiced as the shuttle landed and the ramp opened.
The sky had been bright and blue, cloudless and alive with the exhaust streams from incoming shuttles and fighter craft that circled in support. The enemy had not appeared in the valley yet. The crops were gold and stood nearly two meters high.
Two mountains stood, one to the east and one to the west, nearly seventy kilometers away from each other. They towered into the sky like mighty fortresses, colored blue and purple by the shade their cliffs provided from the afternoon heat.
Thirty kilometers to the north stood the forest covered hill country. It was majestic and beautiful, green and alive with the promise of rest and relaxation around campfires and stories of home. Thristal Marconas had given thanks to the Emperor for making such a glorious place. The name of this world was called Hasfore, “The planet of glorious beauty”.
‘The things you will be fighting are called Ty-ra-nids. They are nothing but big bugs that we will crush beneath our feet and piss on! If you want to be scared of something, men, than be scared of what your mom-mas will think when I tell them their one and only baby boy was eaten up by a little, weak and helpless insect!’ That is what the captain had said they were. ‘Just smash e’m under your feet like roaches!’ he laughed and told the unit not to worry and to continue filling sandbags.
The men sang and told jokes and boasted about their weaponry and what it could do to the bodies of the alien bugs. The Bline Infantry had only seen grainy pictures of the Tyranids. They had never seen one in person, let alone fought one. After the first five minutes from the start of the attack, they had wished they never did.
The first waves of Tyranid creatures came in from the south. They were smaller and used the soft ground of the crop fields to burrow under unnoticed. It was near dark, the sun was down and the moon had shown blood red in the night sky.
With the speed of bolter shells they struck. Thousands of them erupted from the ground; their dark purple and blood-red carapaces blending perfectly with the darkest shadows of the night.
In their thousands they erupted from the fertile soil and painted the fields in the blood of the Imperial Guard. With two meter long claws that were sharp as razors and hard as steel they severed limbs from screaming, panicked men, decapitated heads from bodies and ripped torsos completely in half. . .blood poured through the trenches faster than the ground could absorb it, creating a river that filled the snaking man-made ravine nearly ankle deep. Before the soldiers even knew they were under attack the swarms were among them and in all directions men screamed.
The Tyranids screamed a sonic pitch that burst the eardrums of those within earshot. Men writhed upon the ground, blood pouring from their eyes, ears and noses. Many forgot who they were and set on the ground like children cried for their mothers.
That is how it started, how Thristal Marconas remembered it from the back of a transport vehicle, covered in the blood and ichor and acids that ate away the clothes he was wearing and the outer layers of his exposed skin. His flesh stung and the bitter-sweet smell of it all caused him to vomit over the back rail. Surrounded by darkness and blood-covered, wounded men that were fleeing for their lives, Thristal Marconas prayed the Solitude of Repentance and Deliverance.[/SIZE][/SIZE]
Last edited by Adrian; 10-09-11 at 05:14 PM.