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post #1 of 14 (permalink) Old 04-21-11, 05:23 PM Thread Starter
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Default Caliban Dies.

Author’s Note: I recently returned to my love of the Dark Angels, and decided to write something up - Both as an exercise to regain my writing mood, and to help me conjure up my own telling of Caliban’s final moments. Now, allot of this may be contradictory to previously established fluff, but I ask you to bare with me. I’ll update it every two-three days, though there isn’t much to post. It deals predominantly with the Lion and Luther, but other major characters will be seen.

The parts are small for the most part, so it should be easy to read without a problem. In fact, the first is the shortest. We'll say that I'm posting this to check for interest, then.. Hope you enjoy!

++++++++

‘Traitor,’ Spat the Lion, energy coruscating along the length of his blade, illuminating his handsome features. ‘You have abandoned me.’

Around him, Terminators of the First Company flocked, aiming their weapons at the figure kneeling in the centre of the marbled edifice, black armour polished to a beetle-like sheen. Long, silver hair fell from his head, masking his face.

‘Traitor.’ Reiterated the Lion, stepping forwards. His Terminators followed, decorative, leather skirts swaying. Their Primarch lifted his hand into the air, drawing the Terminators to an halt. ‘No, he is mine.’

Great, thunderous strides, brought the Lion closer to the kneeling figure, blade held high above his head, a threat in the superhuman hands of the Primarch. The Lion’s intended target spun quicker than humanely possible, swinging his own blade upwards to meet that of the Primarchs. A great, ululating clang reverberated around the cathedral’s interior.

‘You,’ Said the silver-haired man, standing, pushing the Lion’s blade backwards. ‘Are my liege no longer, not since the day you banished us here.’

A shocked, erratic twitch pulsed beneath the Lion’s right eye. How could a mere pro-human rival the pinnacle of genetic experimentation? It was impossible, it defied the laws of reality. But then, in recent, dark times, stranger things had happened.

‘Luther, brother..’ Stammered the Primarch, staring into his opponent’s eyes. They were jaded, distant - Staring on, as though peering into the Lion’s thoughts.

‘No, Primarch,’ Spat Luther, his voice trembling and changing. ‘We stopped being brothers long ago.’

Luther pushed himself away, spinning theatrically. He reengaged in an instant, and the standoff devolved into a desperate flurry of blows and curses.

Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.

"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"

'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Yes, lord.'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
'No, lord.'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'

Last edited by dark angel; 04-21-11 at 05:26 PM.
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post #2 of 14 (permalink) Old 04-21-11, 05:26 PM
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Wow, although that was pretty short it was very good, Dark Angel .

Have some rep.
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post #3 of 14 (permalink) Old 04-22-11, 11:34 AM Thread Starter
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Thank you for the kind words and rep, BoK. Appreciate it. Any grammatical errors that are sighted, if someone would be so kind as to point them out - That'd be great. And now, an earlier-than-planned, second part.

++++++++

Astelan’s auto-cannon sang, sending a flurry of superheated rounds into encroaching Dark Angels. They were punched from their feet, trailing strands of viscous gore, holes wrought in their ceramite. Astelan felt no compassion, merely anger at the events which had unfolded. He regretted ordering the guns of Caliban to fire, knowing that he had undone the world and everything which the Imperium had struggled for.

He was alone now, the lives of his brothers having expired, backed up against the gates of The Rock. His Terminator armour wept blood profusely, from where he had been the target of sacrilegious atrocities, committed by loyalist Angels. But still he fought on, ignoring the convulsions which wracked his body from time-to-time, determined to make his final stand one of glory.

‘Astelan,’ Came a sudden voice, loud, echoing despite the distant rumbles of war. ‘Betrayer, caster of oaths. Face me.’

A figure emerged from the smoke, sparks leaping from the joints in his power armour. A half-cape of cream fluttered about his shoulders, edged in grey-white fur. In one hand he held a whirring Chainsword, in the other a combat shield, decorated by spread wings. The lenses of his helm were the deepest crimson, staring intently onwards, fixated on Astelan’s battered form. Through the soot and claret which had accumulated on the figures chest, Astelan made out a single word. Belath.

A smile, dark, malicious, spread across Astelan’s rugged face.

‘So be it.’ He called, detaching his auto-cannon with an ebbing clang. With that hand, he reached behind his back and drew a long, broad blade, the edges serrated for further damage.

Lightning crackled in the distance, and Astelan’s dour face was shown. Ruby droplets decorated his pale flesh, though none was his own. A shadowy cloak swirled around him, festooned around his throat by decorative broaches. The hood which was lifted over his head, obscuring his features was made of similar material.

Whereas Astelan had the advantage of Tactical Dreadnaught Armour, Belath had that of speed and maneuverability. Of course, both were fuelled by old rivalries, which would now end in the death of one, or, possibly both. Astelan sighted the green upon Belath’s shoulder, his lips peeling back. The disunity among the Dark Angels was an embarrassment, criminal. It had resulted in civil war, now waging on Caliban herself, destroying the planet.

Astelan’s blade was like quicksilver, striking in shallowly at Belath, the full brunt of his Terminator-enhanced power behind it. Belath’s own blade was fast, pushing Astelan’s high, teeth shattering upon impact. The Calibanite had pushed the Terran’s weapon backwards, and before Astelan had time to recover, Belath was diving forwards, weapon directed between Astelan’s hearts.

It never met.

Astelan’s free fist connected with Belath’s helm, knocking him backwards. The right eye reticule collapsed, spraying glass inwards. The blow had been ferocious, certainly strong enough to kill an human, but Belath was no man. His metabolism compensated for any pain, pumping stimulants into his body.

He immediately retaliated. His Chainsword struck Astelan’s thigh, sending up a fountain of sparks where it met reinforced ceramite. The unexpected happened, and the armour buckled. Flesh was mulched, and the sparks were replaced by flecks of blood and flesh. Astelan’s fist rained down upon Belath, clanging louder and louder with each blow. But still, he continued to push the Chainsword.

The Terran retracted his leg from the churning teeth, throwing himself back. He stumbled uneasily, knowing that his wound would clot eventually, but for now, he was impaired by the gash. He cursed colourfully, using it as an announcement of his renewed attack. His blade came down at an angle, flashing as it caught distant explosions along its polished length. Belath twisted, hefting his shield upwards, catching Astelan’s sword between its wings.

‘This is over.’

Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.

"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"

'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Yes, lord.'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
'No, lord.'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'
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post #4 of 14 (permalink) Old 04-22-11, 11:50 AM
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It was so awesome that I decided to rise your rep to 999.

[Flerden] 9:05 pm: Why the hell can't he just go offline if he goes to watc tv?
[dark angel] 9:06 pm: It is Doelago, we will never know
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post #5 of 14 (permalink) Old 04-22-11, 02:52 PM
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Great work, and I'd rep you again if I could .
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post #6 of 14 (permalink) Old 04-23-11, 07:19 PM Thread Starter
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Cheers for the rep and kind comments, guys. Appreciate it, and it's nice to know that you are enjoying this. Now, because I'm feeling happy, here's the next two parts. Enjoy.

++++++++

‘Down!’

The warning ululated across the landscape, and a dozen black-armoured figures threw themselves into the dirt. Fire stitched the sky above them, throbbing reds and yellows that would have blinded a normal man. But, Caleb had not been a normal man in over a century. He was a muscular, armour-clad murderer, ferried away from the Great Crusade in favour of younger, inept Calibanites.

He felt his ire rise. This was the Lion’s doing, he was the one which had forced destruction upon Caliban. Luther had attempted to deliver the First into salvation, but that too, much like the Lion, had failed.

‘Brothers,’ Cried Lord Cypher, walking forwards, surrounded by a bodyguard of wing-helmed Space Marines, each wearing a cloak of black and carrying great, shimmering blades. ‘Do not shirk beneath the guns of the Angels, sally forth. Caliban will die, we will die. But how we do so, is our choice alone!’

Caleb watched Cypher pass by, and caught a glimpse of those dark, forever-humoured eyes beneath the hood of his robes. Caleb’s squad were clambering to their feet, gathering up their weapons. A host of Astartes, numbering over a hundred, had began to accumulate around Cypher.

Ahead, the boxy forms of Rhinos and Land Raiders were tearing their way across the Calibanite landscape, which burned and sloughed about them. Humanoid forms, most carrying Bolters and chain-based weapons, encroached in the wake of the vehicles. There were thousands of them, each baying for the blood of their turncoat Brothers.

Caleb’s hearts skipped a beat at the sight. It was beautiful, a staggered line of post-humans, emerging from the ash, carrying banners denoting their loyalties, their armour seemingly reflective as the First Legion emerged.

‘Brother-Sergeant,’ Gasped one of his Initiates, Brathor, stepping to Caleb’s side. ‘We cannot defeat such numbers. They will crush us.’

‘Hush, Brathor. Such words are heretical.’ Sneered Caleb, reprimanding his subordinate. ‘Luther knew of the consequences when he turned against the Primarch, as did we all.’

A pair of Land Raiders, both wearing the personal heraldry of Luther, rose above a crest behind them. Their frontal hatches fell open, like great maws, and unleashed their payloads. Terminators, each with crackling hammers and auto-cannons fixed to their arms, marched from within. The twelve of them, the finest which Luther had to offer, stepped ponderously down the crest, tailed closely by their transports.

‘See, reinforcements arrive.’ Smiled Caleb reassuringly, but still he knew that this was his end. He did not bother to deny that.

Cypher and his guardians broke into a charge, blades held before him.

‘For Luther!’ They cried, from hoarse throats.

‘For Luther!’ Echoed Caleb, breaking into a run.

++++++++

‘Do you fear death?’ Questioned Luther, panting sporadically. The Lion’s sword was lodged firmly in his ribcage, blood bubbling from around the tip.

His Primarch, hand wrapped around the hilt of his blade, snarled. Luther’s own sword punctured the Lion’s armour, driving through his torso until it touched reinforced bone. Around them, the scorched, desiccated corpses of the Lion Guard lay where Luther had slaughtered them with mind alone.

It had been a frightening display of power, revealing to El’Jonson how far his former comrade truly had fallen. It was at that moment that he had realised that if he was to maintain the Legion, Luther had to be disposed of.

‘No.’ He replied simply, twisting his wrist. Bone and cartilage crunched, blood spouting around the tip. ‘I am death incarnate.’

‘Please,’ Luther chuckled, blood wetting his lips. ‘Enough with the comedies.’

With unparalleled strength, the Lion tore his blade upwards and free. Luther stumbled away, ripping with him his blade, and a considerable chunk of the Primarch’s flesh. Both were in similar states of destruction, blood dripping from the grooves in their armour, faces writ with grim determination. The stained glass windows around them, which had once cast exuberant colours inwards, were now hollow sockets. A large portion of the pillars, draped in burning banners, had collapsed into the ground.

The sky above the Tower of Angels had turned an ugly purple, as though some benevolent, outlawed God had struck it. Runes winked in both the Primarch’s and the rebel’s retinal displays, various combat reports ad urgent messages, some begging for parlay, others for reinforcements. Neither took the time to answer, so fixated upon one another were they. Their throats were too clogged with smoke and blood to make unneeded conversation with otherwise-capable commanders, only their current opponents mattered to them now.

‘Why? Why have you done this, Luther?’ Lamented The Lion, his voice a pitiful, wet, rasping.

‘Put even in the simplest of terms, you would not understand, Primarch.’ Insulted Luther, a predatory smile seeping across his ruby-freckled countenance.

‘You..’ The Lion stammered, the grip upon his blade tightening. ‘You are no better than my brother..’

The pair traded a quick, blinding flurry of blows. Neither blade met armour or flesh, resonating clangs alerting distant ears to the sounds of battle. Of course, this scene was being repeated a thousand times across Caliban, each equally as ferocious and desperate. Brothers clawed at their brother’s throats, stabbed for vital organs and launched vehement curses at one another.

‘Perhaps.’ Mused Luther, launching a strike at the Lion’s exposed throat. The armoured collar had been torn free by Luther’s hands, during one particularly frantic moment of the bout, where swords had been thrown aside and fists had become predominant. ‘But then, what do I know of your brother? Only rumours and wife’s tales, nothing else.’

The Lion’s sword became a slither of coalescing light, and with a clatter, Luther’s sword hand departed his arm at the wrist. Blood squirted for a moment, spraying across the Lion’s decorative cuirass. The swipe was followed up by a tremendous backhand, one which only a Primarch could commit, and Luther was sent bouncing across the cathedral, shattering pews with his armoured bulk.

‘You were my brother.’ Cried the Primarch, trudging towards the downed form of his tutor, blade held in a downward grip.

Luther acknowledged him with those glazed, baleful eyes. He clutched the stump of his wrist, stemming the blood flow. The muscles and bones of his jaws distended, widening to impossible parameters. The fingers of his remaining hands lengthened and became barbed tips, menacing, utterly deadly. He stood, a smile upon his torn lips, hovering a metre above the ground, slowly.

‘I was.’ Said a voice, alien to Luther.

Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.

"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"

'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Yes, lord.'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
'No, lord.'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'
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post #7 of 14 (permalink) Old 04-23-11, 08:01 PM
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Wow, that was fantastic . I would rep you, but I can't. .
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post #8 of 14 (permalink) Old 04-24-11, 09:02 PM
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Excellent work mate.
A bit of rep comming your way me thinks.

HMMMMM, looks like i gotta spread it around first.
sorry mate

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post #9 of 14 (permalink) Old 05-04-11, 05:14 PM Thread Starter
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Cheers for the comments, guys. Rep isn't no biggy, I would much rather kind, or harsh, words than extra numbers and a green bar.

Now, after a delay of something like two weeks, here's the next part. (Also, if any of you remember my World Eaters fiction from a while back - It has been rekindled, and now includes the Night Lords and, hopefully, Istvaan!)

++++++++

Astelan and Belath traded blows, both intending to cut down the other, neither able to penetrate the parries and dodges. The churned flesh of Astelan’s leg, now pigmented to a rosy sheen, had crystallized into a hardened plate, but still it ached and itched. Astelan was struggling, physically and mentally exhausted, but ultimately remaining focused on Belath’s weak spots - The gorget, the underarms, the leg joints.

Belath on the other hand was making clumsy attacks, throwing his weight behind the blade, using his shield as a counterbalance. Astelan fully understood the rage which Belath felt; his world was burning, pulling itself apart at the seems and thousands of his kinsmen simply stood by, guns trained upon the returning Dark Angels. It was zealous rage, admirable to a degree, pathetic to another.

Terran met Calibanite with locked swords, eyes narrowed, staring at each other. Astelan only saw raw, unkempt hatred. Belath on the other hand noticed a tint of regret, overpowered by animalistic urges to survive.

If Lion El’Jonson had not neglected Luther and his sect, then none of this would have happened. The Primarch would have returned to vast parading, the sounds of willowy instruments and a completed Tower of Angels. Instead, his fleet had been met with terrific weapons fire, in such intensity that many of the Primarch’s ships had become clouds of plasma and strips of decking.

Astelan regretted nothing. It had been a moment of tense anticipation, followed by the triumphant cheers of Astelan’s coterie. And then, the returning salvo had been sighted and once again silence took over. The Lion, in a state of perturbed anger, had ordered immediate orbital bombardment and preparation for planet fall. None had expected the First’s Lord to personally lead the attack, not even Luther.

‘Die,’ Sneered Belath, blade arcing up for Astelan’s forehead. Astelan’s own blade met the tip, angling it backwards. ‘Simpleton, die!’

An explosive, unforeseen series of slashes from Astelan sent Belath on the defencive, his Terminator armour crying out in exertion, the cogs and wheels spinning. Belath deflected most expertly, though several struck home, sending uncontrolled, jarring vibrations along Astelan’s blade. His patience thinning, Astelan continued his onslaught with renewed vigor. But still, Belath repelled each strike and thrust, twisting his wrist with dexterity more suiting of an Emperor’s Child rather than a Dark Angel.

‘I’d rather not.’ Grinned Astelan, his teeth gritted in annoyance. The muscles of his arms burned, even his advanced biology struggling to contain the pain.

A simple, misplaced step became Belath’s undoing.

He stumbled backwards, arms held wide, his torso unguarded by shield or blade. Astelan saw his chance, and with a roar of ‘For Luther,’ launched a cunning lunge. Armour peeled away, and Astelan’s blade tasted Belath’s blood for a split-second.

The Master of the Raven Wing, run through by Astelan’s weapon, let out an agonized cry. The wound in his gut was ghastly, weeping crimson, but still he mustered the strength to pull himself free, spitting inside of his helm.

‘Whore-born bastard.’ He hissed, swinging his sword inwards. Astelan blocked it with ease, striding closer to Belath and lifting his blade high above his head.

He rammed it down, and with a screech, it pierced through Belath’s gorget, entering his body at the chest. It continued onwards, carried by momentum, through Belath’s organs until it remerged at the tip of the spine.

Once again impaled, Belath tossed aside his own blade and began to claw weakly at Astelan’s throat. The Terran smirked, pushing Belath to the ground with both hands, leaving his sword go.

‘Belath, Son of Caliban, Lord of the Order of the Raven Wing,’ Astelan snorted, looking down on the pitiful form. ‘Your life is ended. Go to the Emperor in peace, with dignity.’

‘Traitor..’ Whispered Belath, reaching for his discarded Chainsword. ‘You will be hated for this, and someday..’

His voice trailed off, devolving into a gurgle.

‘..You will be brought to justice.’

Astelan pulled his Boltpistol free, pointing it down on Belath.

‘Someday.’ He said simply, and depressed the trigger.

++++++++

‘For Luther!’ Bellowed Lord Cypher, firing his plasma pistol into the encroaching horde. A Marine was immolated, his corpse collapsing, the armour fringed with scald marks and atomized blood.

The Dark Angels were now upon them along the line, hacking and firing. Caleb, clutching his Chainsword in one hand and the banner of his squad in the other, was among the first around Cypher to meet their enemy.

His blade sang, gnawing into the throat of a Brother, cutting through the oversized muscles. Blood, rich, supple, painted Caleb’s faceplate. With a sickening crunch, the man’s head came free, a welter of blood erupting from the twisted, gnarled neck. Another, bearing the insignia of a Sergeant, died silently as the tip of the squad banner punctured his right eye and brain, emerging through the top of the helm.

Behind him, the reluctant Brathor was being set upon by a trio of barbaric, bloodthirsty Dark Angels. He held his sword in a low grip, his stance hunched, strictly defencive. One launched a intrepid attack, and Caleb was amazed when Brathor twisted towards the side, raking the Astarte’s side with bolter fire. Armour deteriorated under the explosive warheads, and the gutted form of the Angel slumped, face first into the ground; dead.

‘Asturias!’ Cried one, charging forwards, his Chainsword revving. Brathor’s sword arm straightened, and the Marine ran blindly onto the tip, impaling his secondary heart and nicking the primary.

Brathor twisted his sword, pushing it further through the post-human, until it was buried to the hilt. This show of brutality allowed the third assailant time to advance, coming in from behind Brathor, his combat blade held high, his bolter angled towards the small of Brathor’s back. Before he struck, a series of rounds danced across the floor towards him, snapping him off his feet. Blood shorn against the black of his armour, where he had been torn open by explosive rounds.

The saviour of Brathor emerged from the melee, a hunch-back figure in the smoky haze, clutching a steaming auto-cannon. Brathor nodded his gratitude, and the Terminator returned it with a bob of his horned helm, before disappearing once more into the maelstrom.

‘For the Lion!’ Vociferated a nearby, strong voice. A skull-faced Astartes stood nearby, swinging an angel-hilted sword in wide arcs, each one cutting down one of Luther’s Marines.

Reddish steam drifted upwards from his activated sword, wispy strands that entangled around his chest and head. A pair of eyes, emerald like the ravaged forests of Caliban, scanned the battlefield for a new target. They locked with equally as dreadful eyes, shining from within the shadows of a hood.

Lord Cypher called a challenge to the Brother-Redemptor, twisting his sword in one hand, slipping his glowing plasma pistol into its holster with the other. The Brother-Redemptor turned slowly, his tabard fluttering about him, and pointed his blade at Cypher. With one finger, he drew a line across his throat - An archaic, child-like threat.

Cypher nodded, and returned - ‘Yes, Brother-Redemptor. You will die.’

Both met with a loud jangle, followed by the sizzle of overlapping power fields. They twisted around one another, blades still locked, talking in hushed, hate-filled voices. Cypher dashed away, blade held in a double-handed grip, sending a multitude of flickering colours across his face. The Brother-Redemptor circled, predatory strides bringing him around, one hand folded behind his back, the other firmly clutching the hilt of his blade.

Lord Cypher propelled himself forwards, hacking mindlessly, striking the Brother-Redemptor’s shoulder pauldrons with each ferocious blow. The Brother-Redemptor returned a quick, dangerous strike that struck Cypher in the chest, but was deflected away by the armour. Cypher twisted from the path of another blow, spinning towards the side and bringing his blade in.

The Brother-Redemptor allowed a single, pain-ridden cry as Cypher’s blade chewed through armour and flesh, devouring organs.

‘Repent,’ He said, his melodramatic voice rising above the sounds of battle; the barks of bolters, howls of chain-based weaponry, cries of the dying. ‘Or die.’

‘I would sooner die than kneel before you.’ Spat the Brother-Redemptor.

Cypher pulled his plasma pistol free, pressed it against the skull-face, and fired. The Astarte’s head evaporated, a puff of blood and blackened chips of bone. Without remorse, Lord Cypher kicked the corpse from his blade, and set back off into battle.

Caleb, fighting for his life, would remember that moment for as long as he lived.

Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.

"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"

'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Yes, lord.'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
'No, lord.'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'
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post #10 of 14 (permalink) Old 05-04-11, 07:53 PM
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I don't know how you're doing it DA, your writing just keeps getting better and better . No critisisms here from me, other than I want you to write faster.
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