I hide I hear everything too loudly I am falling apart I grew up too fast I am still a child I cannot stand still I see every detail I panic I cannot remember what I'm doing I talk about dinosaurs and doctors and darkrooms I cry for no reason I do not have the ability to cry now I see the world differently I wish you saw it like me I have a puzzle to put together I wonder if you'll help me I hear a song and must sing it I see a picture and must take it I see a world, a broken world I want to fix that, too I want to play I need to work I close my eyes and fall asleep I remember everything I forget my head I stand in blue light I see the world in shades of blue I am lost I have been waiting for you I am the empty child Are you my mommy?
Do you remember all those years ago – when we first met? I remember it perfectly. I was so very close. So very, very close to my last shred of sanity snipping. And then I saw a peculiar little girl in white dress – you. Your left hand was occupied by a tattered doll. Your right was wet from wiping your tears. Your eyes began to water again, but I caught it for you that time. I still had a shred of humanity left, gnawing at my heart's strings to care for you, to pity, and to comfort. You were scared by my face, but I mustered a smile, and told you not to fear. You told me that you were lonely, that you were unloved.
And from that point on, I never left your side.
Do you remember all those years ago – when I saved your life? I remember it perfectly. The cursed fellow had threatened you, and I had intervened. You were bigger, but still, I needed to protect you. He chased you up the tower, calling you a monster, saying you needed to disappear. And then he drew his rapier. I had never moved faster in my life than I did grabbing that awful man by the brim of his ebony vestment. I had never acted as instinctively as I led him to the window. I had never whispered as softly as I did to you of reassuring, and to him of the pain of death. I had never been more deafened than by his scream as I cast him away.
Take away upon your black wings, bishop, for your mistress commands it.
Do you remember all those years ago – when you saw my face for the first time? I remember it perfectly. Soul of black I had retrieved, and offered it to the gentle flame I did. My flesh was deep and wrinkled no more. I turned to you, and you seemed shocked at my form. You were my height, and we were both exceedingly young. I could even remember a flicker of attraction…but no. I refused desire. My love for you was of parent to child, or of sibling to sister. And it was good that I refused, for you grew, oh so very fast. Soon, you towered above me, and regardless, I still guarded you with my life.
I made a promise to you, Priscilla. I promised that I would never let you see darkness.
Do you remember that short time ago – when the people gathered? I remember it perfectly. Ariamis gathered, and desired your pure blood. How shocked I was. How scared you were. They hurried to the theatre, where you and I often met. How ready I was. How well-hid you were. The crowd broke through, and I met them head-on. How ravenous I was. How aghast you were. Ariamis fell to my feet. How alive I was. How frightened you were. After I finished, I ran to you, and embraced you.
I fell the entire city as the ax man does the forest. I was invincible.
You would be safe forever.
Do you remember that short time ago – when I found the red rock? I remember it perfectly. I had slain anyone that came near you. Everyone was a threat, as everyone was present at the theatre that fateful night. And then you began to cry, for you were lonely again. I did everything I could to comfort you. Yet you ran from me, from your sole friend, terrified. So I brought new friends. I tempted those with Lifedrain to pursue me, as their master tempted them with the very art they wielded. I brought many new friends for you to meet.
I will do anything in my power to keep you safe, Priscilla.
Do you remember the fall of Ariamis? I remember it perfectly. The city crumbled under the assault of the Crimson Ones. All through the onslaught, you sought me. You found me in the theatre, and I greeted you merrily. But then you turned your blade on me. Your beautiful scythe sliced the air beside my head flawlessly. I was blank. My only friend wanted me dead. I begged you to stop as I evaded cut after cut. You screamed at me, calling me a monster. You claimed I was nicer when I looked to be a monster. You called all humans monsters. And then I held my weapon to receive a blow from the elegant scythe.
And that was perhaps the greatest mistake I ever made.
Your immense size…It threw me an admirable distance.
And then, you hooked your foot under my torso, and threw me off the edge with it.
When I finally landed, tears fell from my eyes as I felt my body fade, and the fiery ring burn brighter…
…I am back, Priscilla. I have come to fulfill my promise to you…
A short story about the Painted World of Ariamis, and it's fascinating inhabitant, Crossbreed Priscilla.
I say "fascinating" because unlike other bosses in Dark Souls, Priscilla lets you walk away without a scratch, only if you return the favor. Therefore, I made a little connection to the character and Priscilla.
*NOTE: This is in no way real Lore. Only a theory that was expanded into a writing.*
A Kig-yar sniper meandered to the edge of the frigate's exposed deck, focus rifle slung over its shoulder. It looked out upon the massive yard below. From his vantage point it looked empty; all the action was down closer to the landing pad, out of visual range. The bulk of the enemy had holed up in the large building on the other side of the grounds, while the Sangheili busied themselves on the other side of the ship, preparing the next wave.
The rest of his group was huddled about the bodies of fallen humans they had gathered in the hold. A lone Unggoy deacon was with them, spouting a number of Covenant prayers. The Kig-yar were ravenously hungry, and unwilling to feast on the corpses of heretics without proper blessing.
He would have loved to join them, but the Sangheili required at least one guard at all times, and he had been the unlucky one. No matter how much he hated their warrior leaders, he knew it was unwise to disobey them.
The tired and starving sniper lowered his head in silent dismay as his stomach growled. He was so distracted by his hunger, he took no notice of the figure creeping up behind him until it was too late.
Eryn smiled behind her visor as she watched Colin withdrew his knife from the Jackal's gut. It always helped when their enemies were lazy or distracted.
She slung her DMR onto her back and continued to move through the latticework, crawling through the metal beams of the Commonwealth's skeleton until she could hear the gibberish prayers of the Grunt below her. She flashed her acknowledgment light once and readied her rifle. A second later, Colin's light winked back.
Eryn fell through an opening in the rafters and landed on her feet. She tossed a grenade into the midst of the hungry Covies. About half the Jackals spotted her move and rolled away from the explosive. The other half and the deacon weren't so lucky. Bits of alien and human corpse flew through the air; red and violet blood splattered across Eryn's visor. Unfazed, she shouldered her rifle and opened fire.
Her shots pulped the faces of two Jackals too slow to activate their shield gauntlets, but the remaining six were soon in a phalanx formation of overlapping shields. She fell back as plasma and needle shots swarmed about her, taking cover behind a wide strut.
A second grenade fell behind the enemy formation, glowing an actinic blue before detonating. Four of the Jackals were incinerated in the blast, and the plasma blast shorted out the shields of the survivors. Colin leaned around the corner of his cover and unleashed a blast of full-auto fire into the defenseless aliens.
The Spartans regrouped and scanned the area. Clear for now.
"That was easy," Eryn said, sounding almost disappointed.
"Enjoy it while it lasts," Colin replied. "There'll be more Elites soon enough." He walked over to the remains of the fallen troopers and tore off a strip of cloth from the fatigues of the least bloody body. Most soldiers wouldn't be able to do that, but Spartans weren't as severely affected by the gore of shot, exploded or violated corpses. They'd seen it all before.
He passed the cloth to Eryn, who used it to wipe her visor clean of the mixed blood. Then, laying on his front, he crept to the edge of the bow and took a look.
The ground between the ship and the cliffs was packed with Covenant, the enemy's next wave. At least two hundred Grunts milled about, shuffling into formation as Skirmisher squad leaders paced the perimeter. Occasionally the raptor-like aliens would snarl or squawk, harsh rebukes to Grunts that stepped out of line. About a dozen Elites looked over the gathering of their subordinates, barking orders to the Skirmishers.
Eryn crept up alongside Colin. "Damn," she muttered, "this might be a tough one."
Colin had to agree. The Grunts were being deployed in ever greater numbers, and the agility of the Skirmishers was a significant problem if you couldn't bring your gun to bear soon enough. Add to that the fact that there were a number of Elites in charge three of which appeared to be sword-wielding Ultras and he could tell that it was going to be a major challenge, even for Spartans.
"I hope the others can reach us soon," he said, almost nervous. "We can't hold the line here alone, and we need to give Whirlwind time."
Eryn nodded toward the junkyard. "The others had best hurry. Looks like the next wave is almost ready."
Down below the Elites had started herding the Grunts into a formation facing the Commonwealth, while the Skirmisher pack tightened up in front, ready to leap aboard the frigate when the order came.
The two Scimitars reloaded their rifles. They would hold out as long as possible, but they knew that wouldn't be long without reinforcements.
Whirlwind-One stood atop the refinery, leaning on one of the prototype missile pods. His team had set them up on the roof, having realized that using them inside the narrow interior might be tantamount to suicide. They had mounted them on stands typically used for heavy machine guns. Any clustered Covenant or hostile vehicles in the open would be easy prey for the defenders, at least until they ran out of missiles.
Three of Whirlwind's other Spartans were posted around the roof, covering all points of ingress to the refinery. Whirlwind-One had sent the last two up the cliffs to the north, hoping they could get out of range of the Covenant jammers and get a signal to the Portcullis.
Provided it still exists, he thought. The Spartans had no idea how the fight upstairs was going. For all they knew, the Covenant could already be glassing other parts of the planet.
He pushed that last thought aside. There was no sense in worrying about that, he told himself. All they had to do was their job, same as anyone else.
"Whirlwind-One, this is Scimitar-One."
"I read you, Scim-One," he replied, "what's your status?"
"The ship is clear for the moment, but the next wave is about to move in. About a couple hundred Grunts with Skirmishers and Elites."
"Copy that. Any vehicles?"
"None yet," Scimitar-One responded. "Might want to warm up those pods anyway. Might be able to clear out some of the Grunts."
"We'll do that," Whirlwind-One laughed, picturing the little guys flying through the air in massive explosions.
"Any word from Alison or the others?"
Whirlwind-One sighed. "Negative," he whispered, his tone grim. "Either they're in the middle of a fight, or..."
"Acknowledged, Whirlwind... We'll do everything we can to hold them off. Good luck. Scimitar-One, out." The COM clicked off.
Whirlwind-One looked back out over the yard, knowing it wouldn't stay empty for long.
The COM crackled back to life. "Sir? Whirlwind-One, do you read?"
"I've got you, Four," Whirlwind-One said.
"We found the jammer," Whirlwind-Four reported. "We need a few minutes to kill the guards."
"Better hurry, Four, Scims One and Six are about to be in deep shit."
"Roger that," came the reply, almost drowned out by an explosion in the background. The COM clicked off again, and again all was silent.
"One-hundred percent charge!"
Captain Ferth practically leapt out of his chair. "Fire the MAC!"
The hull of the Portcullis rumbled as the massive round of depleted uranium shot out of the frigate's MAC cannon, speeding through empty space into the starboard side of a Covenant destroyer. The slug ripped through the destroyer's shields and smashed into the hull. The ship was as good as dead.
At weapons, Lieutenant Barnes sighed and sat back in her seat. Ferth dropped back into the captain's chair. "Good work," he said, relieved. "Commander, ship status?"
Commander Lawrence spoke up from the ship operations station. "Reactors have recovered from that last rush, sir. Damage to decks four through eleven. Archer pods D through F are spent, and we have one shot left for the MAC."
Ferth steepled his fingers before his brow. It certainly wasn't the worst status report, but they were running low on weapons and morale, and defeating one Covenant ship out of several hundred was barely even a small victory. He was considering his options when a junior officer piped up from communications. "Captain," he shouted, "Team Whirlwind is contacting us!"
"Put them on," Ferth ordered.
The intercom on the bridge crackled with static as the comms officer patched the signal through. The first discernible noise was gunfire and what sounded like a charging fuel rod cannon.
"Portcullis," came a voice a few seconds later, "this is Whirlwind-Four. Do you copy?"
"We hear you, Spartan," Ferth replied loudly, making sure that he could be heard over the sounds of combat. "What's the situation at Boneyard?"
"Not sure, Captain," Whirlwind-Four answered. "Whirlwind-One sent two of us north to take out a Covenant jamming device. All we know is that the next wave is about to move in, and only two members of Scimitar can be accounted for."
Ferth bit the knuckle of his thumb. "Roger that, Whirlwind-Four," he said grimly. "We'll send as many reinforcements as we can manage, but we'll have to split them to get you - "
There was an explosion over the COM, followed by a pained grunt. "Don't worry about us, sir," Whirlwind-Four said, his voice brave but suddenly weak. "We're done here."
Whirlwind-Four was on his knees, blood pouring out through several cracks in his armor. He had thrown away his helmet, and his unkempt blonde hair was stained red from the gash across his forehead. Ten meters to his right Whirlwind-Five lay motionless, her broken form scorched from a nearly point-blank fuel rod blast, and beside her lay the incinerated remains of the responsible Hunter pair. The Covenant jammer was nothing more than scattered pieces on the field.
The Spartan's final foe strode forward. The arrogant Elite warrior's split jaw opened in what Whirlwind-Four guessed was a triumphant smile as it brandished its energy sword.
He could still hear Captain Ferth's voice coming from his helmet a couple feet behind him, but the words meant nothing to him anymore. His consciousness began to waver, and he did not resist when the Elite grabbed his throat and lifted him into the air. He barely even felt the plasma blade pierce his abdomen. He simply smiled, stuffed his fist into the alien's maw, and pulled the pin.
While the battle at the landing pad rages, Scimitar-One and Scimitar-Six attempt to retake the Commonwealth in preparation for the Covenant's next wave. Meanwhile, Team Whirlwind makes it clear what Spartans will do to finish their mission.
Yeah, kinda crappy summary. The actual chapter is much better. I think I liked the last part best, despite the dark tone. Is it just me, or am I kind of good at writing the darker stuff?
Anywho, still trying to make certain things work. I added the acknowledgment light system, even though there's never really any canonical clarification that SPARTAN-IIIs ever used it themselves. Look at all the shits I give.
Keep watching me and ~averagegamer102; not sure who's got the next Spartan chapter, but I'll probably try to get another Elite chapter done in the meantime.
P.S.: Don't know about the others, but Whirlwind-One may get a name soon.
Don't be offended at the title. "Teenagers" is just my way of saying "people who write unprofessional/shallow stories." Not all teenagers write shallow stories, it just sounds catchier.... Anyway.
The first thing I want to make clear is: I'm not talking about anything mechanical in this deviation. Grammar/spelling is important (obviously), but that point has been beaten to death by people on the internet already. My purpose, as always, is to talk about the stories themselves, regardless of the way they are communicated. Whether it be through written word or on-the-spot narration, I believe there are certain tricks to telling good stories. Not rules, mind you. Tricks.
I don't believe that telling good stories is about what you "should" do, rather than what you shouldn't. Example: people generally hate Mary Sues, right? Well, sometimes I notice things that are "like" Mary Sues, in the sense that they're equally as shallow/unprofessional ways of telling stories. The purpose of this deviation is to point them out. I won't be talking about Mary Sues or self inserts in this deviation. This is about things that tend to go more unnoticed (I already have deviations about those anyway).
1. Thinking that "most" = best
Sometimes people who write think they're making "the best story ever," because it's the MOST dramatic, MOST dark, MOST romantic MOST (insert your choice of adjective here). Having the most of something doesn't equate to it being the best. Think of it like salt.
Do you ever read a story, and it feels like there was a big hole in it? Maybe it was a tragedy that focused on nothing but tragic events. The author got carried away in their emotions and didn't create a well-rounded world for us to care about while the sad things take place. Sure, sad things are sad, but that is no accomplishment of the author. It would be MORE sad if the audience had a well-created world to be sad about in the first place. In fanfiction, the writers have the advantage of writing about something that people already care about. That's how a lot of people with barely any imagination can get so many people to like their fanfiction stories. "Hey! Let's take the Once-ler and find a way to drench him in blood! It sure took talent to think of that!" Never judge someone's imagination by how popular their fanfiction is. Never...
Sometimes people consider themselves to be a certain way. They write certain genres or about certain themes for the sake of adding to their self-proclaimed image. They use their stories as stepping stones (a lot of times without even realizing it) to show off in front of other people. A lot of times it's in the little things, strategically placed to look innocent or humble. "The woman shook her head in admiration at *insert-person-that's-supposed-to-be-like-them's-name.* 'That girl sure is *insert-their-choice-of-adjective!* We may never understand her!"
4. Abusing character roles (sort of a Part 2 of Narcissism)
I want you to think about Belle from Beauty in the Beast for a minute (the Disney version). If you're familiar with it, think of the song sung by the villagers about her in the beginning. Has anyone else ever noticed something...odd about it? The villagers are singing about how different (or "weird") she is, all because she reads books and acts like... well, the average girl you'd meet every day on DeviantArt. Meanwhile, if you met one of those villagers in real life, you'd probably think of THEM as the strange ones (first of all, they're abnormally nosy, all bothering to sing a big song about a perfectly normal girl whose personal life they REALLY bothered to have apparently looked so much into... o_O). Okay. I understand that can be a strategy in story telling (using the background to add to the general effect of a certain thing... i.e Belle wanting a break from her boring life). I bring this up however, mostly as a warning. I don't know how...um... healthy it is, that a lot of teenager girls these days really seem to think they're sooo great that they write stories about themselves and use other people as tools to look good. They make people (sometimes fake, sometimes real) in their stories impressed far too easily by themselves (or certain things) sometimes to the point even of contradiction. It falls into the same attitude as the narcissism example. Sometimes it goes beyond, "Oh, a cute little Disney story," and gets really narcissistic and vain. A story will suffer if it's written for anything besides the pure pleasure of writing it. Ulterior motives distract from making it the best it possibly can be. Not to mention, nobody likes being used as an audience for people who can't stop shining the spotlight on themselves. (It needed to be said). Furthermore, Disney movies are corny. It's a fact. That's why we like them. The point is simple: if you are writing a CORNY story, feel free to use their little trick of making the whole world conform to one character/theme (heck, make everyone burst into song about them!) If you're NOT writing a corny story, avoid it at all costs. It's a cheap trick, and it's no substitute for actually making there be something special about whatever character/thing you're trying to make something special about.
Fun fact: "Bully" characters are possibly the biggest form of abuse to story-telling. This can be in the form of a snooty, popular girl at school who picks on the main-character we're supposed to feel sorry for, or in the form of unreasonably/obsessively cruel bullies who are far from even borderline realistic. They're the classic example of cheating in a story; the cheapest way to make other characters seem special or victim-ly.
5. Pretty feelings
Did you ever put on an Owl City song while you were writing/drawing and think something like: Lalalalalala, beautifulness, and the dreams and the beautifullness of the wonderful outerspace, flying through the sky and the shooting stars lalala! Yeah, we could tell. No, seriously, it's fine to get your inspiration from wherever you want. Just make sure that while you're getting all into the music that you don't let the emotions that the song brings you be your only guide. Sometimes people get REALLY excited about their characters or a story they're making up and draw all this beautiful art of it, and you're like, "Hey! That's an amazing picture of the main character on a shooting star! So... when can I read this?!" Then you see the story, and think, "...this is it?" Don't fall into the trap of thinking that your emotions are the story. A lot of people who listen to music while they write make this mistake, though that isn't to say that listening to music when you write is always automatically bad.
To conclude this, there's really only one thing I want to say. Write because you like to. Write about things you like no matter what they are and force them to fit together. Write about things that you like and wouldn't be too ashamed to show your friends or family. Odds are, if you're too embarrassed to show it to the people you know best, it's not coming from the heart. I don't mean "your emotions" as your heart. It's not really YOU if it's something you're embarrassed of. Embarrassment can be a sign that you know deep down your story might be a wee bit... well, stupid. And then there are the people with no dignity.......
I love feedback. If anyone has anything interesting to add, I'd be glad to hear!
Discover the deceptive world of American liberalism through this easy to follow and free translation publication that shows you how to translate the euphemisms, dysphemisms, and other terms liberals use to sugarcoat or demonize various political and social subjects and beliefs or to avoid offending someone.
"Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter!"
"The art of making true things seem false and false things seem true by the use of words."
Racial profiling: Proper criminal profiling by law enforcement.
Pro Choice: Pro Abortion
Progressive: Term for a liberal, socialist, Marxist, or statist. Used as a self label to make themselves feel ideologically superior to others who do not share their views.
Sustainable development: State controlled resources and state managed society.
Alternate lifestyle: Homosexual behavior. Sometimes also used as a euphemism for general sexual deviancy.
Planned Parenthood: Planned Deparenthood.
Hate speech: Any statement that a liberal does not agree with it. Not to be confused with actual hate speech.
Free speech: Any statement that a liberal does agree with it.
Scary part: Coined by Senator Feinstein, this term is used to refer to the handguard of an AR-15 or similar rifle.
Freedom fighter: Communist terrorists or Islamic extremist terrorists.
Revolutionary: Communist terrorists.
Affirmative Action: Government sponsored discrimination.
Sexually liberated woman: Tramp.
Man-made disaster: Terrorism.
Non-viable tissue mass: Unborn baby.
Family balancing: Selective abortion based on the confirmed gender of the unborn baby.
Emergency contraception: Abortion.
Domestic partner: Homosexual lover.
Anti-Choice: Pro Life.
Teabagger: A vulgar insult towards members of the Taxed Enough Already (TEA) Party.
Equality: Preferential treatment of a particulary group.
Social justice: A euphemism for confiscation by legal or physical force with the claimed intentions of redistributing it to a group recieveing preferential treatment. Also a euphemism for socialism.
Gun control: Systematic disarment of civilians.
Bi-partisan: There’s just enough pork in this unconstitutional crap sandwich to justify voting for it.
Fundamentally changing America: This phrase was used by Barack Obama in his 2008 election campaign and parroted by his supporters. It means to completely throw out or distort the moral and constitutional basis of the United States.
Compassionate-Care Clinics: Marijuana shop.
Displaced foreign traveler: Illegal Alien.
Sustainability: Environmentalist buzzword. (See Sustainable development.)
Freethinker: Euphemism for an atheist.
Glass ceiling: Idea that an invisible barrier keeps women from reaching higher offices. Used as an excuse by feminists for affirminative action.
Family planning: Use of birth control or abortion options.
Homophobe: A person who doesn't agree 100% with the gay agenda.
Illegal war: A war not approved by the United Nations.
Resistance movement: Attacks on civilians or government members by Communist or Islamic terrorist groups.
Global warming: Bullshit. Also known as the theory of man made climate change.
Keynesianism: Advocacy of tax and spend policies.
Wingnut: Insult towards those who have right wing views.
Investment: Massive government spending, specifically on social programs.
Intergenerational sex: A recently created term used as a euphemism for pedophilia.
Temporary marriage: Adultery.
Overseas contingency operations: War on Terror.
Politcal correctness: The usage of euphemisms and word meaning distortions to avoid offense to a group or to promote acts considered immoral or evil.
"Your fair share": Taxes.
Deficit reduction: Tax hike.
High capacity magazine: Standard capacity magazine.
Forward investment: Increased taxes.
Arsenal of weapons: Gun or knife collection.
Machine gun: While an actual class of firearm, liberals commonly misapply the term to the assault rifle and semi-automatic rifle.
Fiscal stimulus: Higher taxes.
Misspeak: A term used to excuse a blatant lie.
Incorrect promise: (See Misspeak.)
Inflated promise: (See Misspeak.)
Trustworthy news source: Liberal propaganda.
"Tax the rich": Tax anyone with a job.
Public option: Government run insurance.
Liberation organization: Terrorist group.
Islamic movement: Extreme Islamic terrorist groups, such as al Qaeda.
Featureless rifle: Semi-automatic rifle with all the "scary" features removed so it can be legal under an "assault weapons" ban.
Racist: Anyone who criticizes Obama in any way. Not to be confused with a person who discriminates based on race.
Infant's gender choice: The completely idiotic idea that an infant can or should choose its gender and that a doctor's identification of the baby as male or female is an oppressive assignment of gender and gender roles.
Faux News: Term implying an alleged falseness of Fox News' reporting. Faux is however not in any way pronounced like fox and sounds more like the word foe.
Economically disadvantaged: Poor.
Unwilling sperm recipient: Rape victim.
Itinerant sperm donor: Rapist.
Extremist: Anyone with beliefs that a liberal disagrees with.
Racism: Cried when a liberal is losing an argument.
Kinetic military operation: War.
Healthcare reform: Socialized medicine.
Right to privacy: Abortion.
Hate rhetoric: Criticism of liberals.
Gun nut: Anyone who owns a gun.
Intolerance: Disagreeing with liberal views.
"The Constitution is a living document.": Who cares what the Constitution says?
Enjoy my nifty and at times humorous guide to the hypocritical and stupid world of liberal speak, which takes you on a daring ride through the twists and turns of euphemisms and dysphemisms, as well as loops of hypocrisy and idiocy. Today you can learn to understand one of the most poorly conceived and moronic languages in the world! Libspeak is a foreign language, so foreign that it came from some alternate universe where their political ideas make sense! And you thought Cambodia was far away!
Translations by that Bible-thumping, racist, teabagging, anti-choice, gun nut on deviantART. (That's how you say ONI-Defense in libspeak!)
THE COLD AIR in Baron Rorke's study did little to calm his nerves. He was expecting visitors this night and they were not the best of company. A shiver of dread ran down his spine and he spent most of the twilight hours staring out of a large window which stood behind his writing desk. It was amazing, he felt, how quickly a man could become attached to a life of luxury; only to be made painfully aware of how easy it was to lose it. War was always a frightening thing, even more so when one had the knowledge and sense to realise that it was no longer an exercise of glory, but a simple festival of bloodshed and cold murder. In war it did not matter if you impaled a stranger on the edge of your sword, such a thing would be punishable in any city or country, but in times of war it became an accepted norm. If the man in front of you wore a different colour, then it was alright to kill him, it was alright to rip him apart for he was an enemy. That was the twisted reality of combat and looking back on his memories of the field; the Baron wondered how he had ever considered such a thing to be glorious. Instead, he found himself almost repulsed by the thought of spilling another man's blood. It is difficult to understand the frenzy that grips a man. War is a mere keyword for destruction, it is a word of power that transforms a rational man into one without morals; who still believes himself to be just. The Baron sighed; it would do him no good to think about such things. Instead, he had to focus on the present. No longer was he the confident, barrel-chested youth with the strength of an Ox, but no less were his responsibilities even in his old age. Somehow, though he could no longer lead or inspire his armies, he would have to protect the peace that he had obtained and doing so would require a sacrifice. A sacrifice, he repeated to himself. The balding, grey-haired man that was reflected in the window seemed to smile. I will pay any price, he thought to himself, if I may enjoy these days of peace and stability. Marina will be getting married next spring, the lucky boy is a rich merchant so she'll have little to worry about. Marco on the other hand will be heading off to the Royal Knights academy in autumn and it will be four years before he graduates. Until then, I must keep things the way they are, I must keep things from changing, at least until they can all stand on their own. The Baron smiled wryly as he saw the irony in his current situation. He had participated in the War of Unification as naught but a commoner, with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Now he was a noble lord who had all he desired, but stood to lose it all. Fate can be both humourous and cruel, he chuckled to himself, in the end it seems as though my life has come full circle. Once I had nothing and now I desire nothing. All that is left to me is to maintain this existence, at least for awhile longer for the sake of my children who have no need to dirty their hands. Rorke shivered again, it was a cold night but he had been instructed not to make a fire. They would not come if he made a fire
Rorke was about to slip comfortably back into his own reverie, when the doors to his study burst open without warning. He was shocked at first, but the Baron quickly straightened his back and stood firmly. He had been informed that they would enter his home in such a manner and he had prepared himself to receive them. The air in the room seemed to stagnate immediately as though its movement were no longer permitted. A thick miasma of gloom and despair settled over the entire area and Rorke's mind grew troubled. Nerves, worries, fears of his childhood, all of it began to scurry forth like spiders from the dark recesses of his mind and the very act of swallowing his own saliva became difficult, as though something hard and lumpy had been caught in his throat. A cloaked figure appeared in the previously empty doorway, it was a slender and graceful individual that seemed to glide into the study. It was accompanied by a giant, armed from head to toe, that stood just two steps behind it, his presence making the entire room seem small and cramped. The first of the two figures, the normal sized one, pushed back the hood of its cloak and instantly the atmosphere of gloom vanished. Rorke found himself staring now, at one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his entire life. Her skin was flawless, unblemished and perfect; lips as red as the finest of roses. Her eyes sparkled like green pools of mystery and power and her long dark hair appeared to be as soft as silk. Her entire body seemed to carry the promise of forbidden pleasure and though the cloak hid it from sight, Rorke was painfully aware of the temptation that lay beneath the thin veil of cloth. This lady, is an enchantress! he thought to himself, trying desperately to fight against her charms. She is definitely a wielder of the arcane arts
"I am as you believe me to be," the figure responded, seemingly reading his thoughts. Her voice was rich and melodious and it seemed to soothe Rorke's heart and mind, his suspicions of her falling away immediately.
"I-I greet you," said Rorke, feeling slightly breathless. He thought that he should probably offer them a handshake and show them due courtesy, but his legs simply refused to obey him. "Forgive me for my lack of manners; I seem to be unable to approach you."
"That is fine," said the lady, her lips curving into a confident smile, "A worm has no right to touch me in the first place. Arghast is the only one permitted contact, aren't you?" The lady turned to smile at her companion, who remained silent with just the barest nod to acknowledge her statement.
Rorke found himself unable to look directly at the lady without feeling a shameful amount of lust and so he averted his eyes away from her, settling upon the giant. This man was indeed a titan and he easily dwarfed his female companion by a large margin. He appeared to be about seven feet tall, perhaps slightly under, but his muscular physique combined with his heavy armaments to multiply his size and make him very intimidating. Rorke thought that he looked like a walking fortress and that nothing in the world would have an easy time in trying to topple him. Rorke shivered as the idea of facing someone like him in the field crossed his mind. It would be an utterly terrifying experience with the only options being retreat or death. It made him glad that he long since retired from the field. Still, a part of his soldier's instinct remained with him and before he knew it, Rorke was doing a mental identification of everything the giant was carrying. Amongst the various plates of armor, Rorke noted the following arms: one pair of battle axes, with a vicious serrated edge on each one, strapped across his back for easy access; several throwing knives, holstered around his waist, all curved in an unnatural manner; one batch of throwing axes, heavy headed and hand-made, hanging freely from his belt and within quick reach of his right hand. Rorke couldn't particularly quite see it well, but the giant also appeared to be carrying a large shield-like object across his shoulders. Rorke thought that he might have a closer look at it, but his gaze was forcibly torn away and brought back to focus upon the lady.
"A worm should not be averting his sight from one as beautiful as I am," said the lady, walking slowly toward the Baron, her hips swaying gently with each step. "Am I of no interesting to you?"
The Baron's breathing quickened and he felt his heart beating faster, but this wasn't excitement, this was fear. "No m'am," he stammered, using a polite title despite the lady being obviously younger than him, "I meant no disrespect."
"But of course you didn't," said the lady, reaching out with her right hand to stroke his cheek gently. "I did not permit it after all."
The Baron's thoughts began to grow cloudy, the lady's touch was so soft and warm and her scent was heavenly, it made him hungry, hungry to be close to her.
"Would you like to be my newest toy?" asked the lady.
The Baron was about to answer with a loud 'yes', when he was thankfully brought back to his senses by a wicked curved knife that flashed in front of his face, embedding itself all the way down to the hilt upon his writing desk. The armoured giant approached him and retrieved the knife, the Baron blinking blearily at him. "My apologies," the giant rumbled, his voice sounding like a rock-slide, "my sister finds it difficult to avoid playing with those who are inclined to temptation."
"Ah, I see," replied the Baron, the fog slowly lifting from his mind. "That's dangerous," he muttered lamely, his brain not quite functioning.
Arghast had just barely sheathed his weapon when he was violently knocked to the ground by his female companion. "Do not interrupt me!" she shrieked at him. Arghast seemed unfazed by her temper tantrum and got to his feet with a shrug, "you may now resume your explanation sister."
The lady scowled at him and turned back to face the Baron, "I am Akara, the Pale Mistress of Death. This armoured giant, as I've said before, is my brother Arghast. We are the Seekers and we are willing to offer our services as long as you can pay the price."
Rorke nodded and shook his head, trying to clear it in vain, "I-I do have what you seek here." He reached for the drawer on the left side of his writing desk, digging around in it for a glowing purple crystal. This had been a gift from a powerful mage during the war and Rorke had kept it with him as a sort of lucky charm. He was told that it contained powerful magic, but he was obviously unable to use it. "Will this be enough for you m'am?"
"Ah, such a pretty bauble," smiled Akara, as she raised her right hand and waved at it, causing the crystal to leap into the air and soar into her waiting palm. "Oh yes, this will do very nicely. I haven't seen this one yet!"
"Is it one of the memories we seek?" asked Arghast, folding his arms across his chest.
Akara shook her head and pocketed the gem, "I have no way to tell for the moment brother, I will have to examine it with my magic. However, before we can play around with it, I do believe that we owe it to our dear Baron to fulfil his request. After all, he has already paid us a handsome price. Now tell me my dear Baron, what do you wish in exchange for this?"
"An end," said Rorke as the fog that clouded his mind cleared away. "I desire an end to Baron Torval's life, for I know that he intends to attack my lands come spring. I-I cannot afford to lose what I have and though my army could hold him, I would prefer not to have unnecessary casualties on my end. If Baron Torval is killed however, his chiefs will begin to fight amongst themselves and my lands will be safe for a few years to come."
Akara smiled, but it was an expression without warmth. It reflected only her cruelty and her desire to inflict pain, "as it has been requested, so too shall it be done." With a quick swirl of her cloak, a surge of dark magic filled the air and both she and the giant vanished, dissolving away into the taunting shadows. When it was done, Baron Rorke's hair was left standing on end and he felt as though his very soul had been violated. In the end, he wound up sitting in his study until dawn the next day, unable to move, think or sleep. All I needed was a sacrifice right? With this, everything will end and my children will be safe. No more will I need to get anything dirty, no more, no more
If you enjoyed this lovely little fantasy and would like to see more original works like this, don't forget to click the fave button :3.
Author's Comments: As promised ^^ Here is a story release. I'm actually re-writing mercenary, since my writing skills have upgraded a little bit and I am looking to practice more on setting the scene mood and using good imagery. I probably should submit to groups to get more feedback, but this took longer than expected and so nyeeeh >3< I'll do it with the next release xD
Enjoy everyone ^^ and don't forget to thumbs up for original literature (not that there's anything bad with fan fiction but let's try to give some credit to original ideas xD).
“Nileas!” Ausrius bellowed again. He could find no trace of his fellow, even with his enhanced senses, and helmet overlay. No trace of the daemon either. He surveyed the cavern again, slowly re-examining all the corners. He checked the load in his bolter, and advanced, weapon at the ready, continuing to scan in visible light, infrared, and wireframe overlay. The ripples and folds of the tunnel played tricks on the mind, casting odd shadows and concealing entire caverns behind seemingly solid formations of stone. “Nileas,” he voxed again. “Brother, do you copy?” Likewise the dense rock played havoc with the vox net. He had no contact with his squad commander, or Imperial forces on the surface, and, up until a quarter-hour ago, only intermittent contact with his battle brother, and that plagued by static. Now it seemed that too was gone. Something slithered across stone nearby; something massive. Ausrius turned sharply, bringing the bolter up. He couldn’t see it, but it was dangerously close. He moved forward, stalking the hideous presence. Though he and his squad were nominally doing the hunting, he could not shake the feeling of being hunted. He heard the clicking of insectoid limbs and mouthparts; the heavy slithering sound again. Overlapping echoes, reflecting and magnifying sounds in unpredictable ways, made it impossible to tell where the source of the sound was. He slowed, almost shuffling as he came around a shoulder of stone into an entirely new section of the cave. The broad chamber was dome-like, and smooth, the space carved out over millennia by the slow trickle of water. Stalactites depended from the ceiling in eerily organic formations. Stalagmites of formidable stature loomed from the uneven floor. Some were as large around as Ausrius himself. Others were even larger. A damp mineral smell pervaded, but Ausrius’ charmed senses detected notes of other things: Astartes sweat ripe with glanded stimulants and pain suppressants, the burned-metal and melted electrical smell of damaged ceramite armor. Blood. Nileas had passed through here. The scents told him his brother was hard pressed, but gave him some thin hope that his fellow yet lived. There was also an odor of organic decay, rancid meat, ozone and cold – that was the warp beast. The thing lurked here somewhere. Even without the smell, Ausrius could sense its hateful existence. It was like a cold whisper down the back of his neck. A feeling of utter wrongness. But he still could not see it. He saw Nileas first, leaning heavily against a stalagmite formation. His battle brother was sorely wounded, even his gene-hanced physiology laboring under the awful damage he had taken. His beautiful red and gold power armor was dented and sheared apart, splashed with bright blood. His left pauldron had been torn away completely, as well as the lower vambrace and gauntlet. His naked hand, large as it was, seemed tiny and fragile against the bulk of his armor. The chainsword in his right fist snarled at idle. “Nileas.” Ausrius started forward to his brother’s aid. Nileas’ helmet was also gone, but he did not need the vox speaker to amplify his formidable voice; “Keep back!” He threw up his left hand, bloody palm out, to emphasize the command. “It is here.” The thing was on them in that moment. It moved like lightning, like a striking serpent, and a spider, and every terrible thing imagined by human nightmares. It was too big to move that fast! Ausrius unloaded his bolter at it as it dove and surged around the chamber. It had too many limbs and too many joints in those limbs and parts of its body were like smoke or oil, shifting and reforming in ways that made him nauseous to behold. Nileas tried to keep his face toward the thing, his back to the stone, and always the purring chainsword between them. The atrocity suddenly threw itself at the wounded Astartes. Its face – if such a perversion could be said to have a face – split apart, the lower half of the elongated, skull-like head separating into four greedy mandibles. It’s tooth-lined maw was large enough to swallow a Space Marine whole, power armor and all. Nileas braced, holding the chainsword out, ready to meet the thing head on. Ausrius poured bolter fire down its throat. It squealed, shrieked and writhed in on itself in impossible ways. Ausrius shuddered with revulsion, but kept shooting, reloading when the magazine ran empty. One mis-jointed limb shot out and impaled Nileas with a blade-claw more than a meter long. It sheared through his ceramite armor like it was nothing. The Astartes groaned aloud. Ausrius roared his fury. Nileas struck, slashing off the blade-limb even as it was withdrawn with the same uncanny speed. The chainsword bit through hard carapace and fleshy inner parts, the blade snarling and gurgling. Hurt, the daemon wheeled, flailing limbs and loose coils of itself. It threw Nileas to the floor before boiling away into the shadows, into the next chamber down the tunnel. “Nileas!” Ausrius charged to his brother’s side and knelt protectively over him, the bolter still held ready. Nileas groaned again, blood ran from his mouth. He was panting for breath and Ausrius thought he might be relying entirely on the smaller third lung. Blood poured from the wound. Normally Astartes blood clotted quickly, they were fast healers and could weather monstrous amounts of punishment and brutal pain. But Nileas was past all limits. “I’ll get you out of here, Brother,” Ausrius promised. “No, Hellan.” “Fortitude,” Ausrius urged him. He slung his bolter across his back and lifted Nileas’ shoulders, supporting him to ease his breathing. “Fortitude,” Nileas agreed, “and faith. You will need both... for this mission. Take it.” He pointed toward the chainsword. He had dropped it when the monster threw him down and the blade had cut off automatically. Ausrius hesitated. “My brother,” he said, “I don’t understand.” “You must finish it,” Nileas charged him solemnly. “Destroy that abomination. Burn it from existence. In the Emperor’s name. You must not fail in this.” He spoke haltingly, as his breathing labored, but with fierce conviction. Slowly, Ausrius understood. Still cradling his dying battle-brother with one arm, he reached out and grasped the hilt of Nileas’ chainsword and lifted it. The elder Space Marine nodded. “Finish this,” he sighed, at the end of his strength. “I will, Brother.” “Swear.” Blood pooled on the stones beneath them, and dripped from his mouth. Fighting despair at the weight of responsibility hanging over him, Ausrius drew a tight breath. He firmed his grip upon the chainsword, the heft of a ready weapon always a comfort. It was an ancient and venerable piece, marked with a roll of honor stretching back into the far history of Kermodes Squad. Dozens of Howling Griffons heroes had carried this blade into battle for Guilliman and the Imperium, for the Emperor. Drawing his strength from their memory, and their example, he improvised an oath; “Upon this weapon, and by the Throne of Terra, I swear to pursue this mission until I have succeeded, or until I am dead.” Nileas reached up and pressed the bloody palm of his left hand to Ausrius’ cuirass, a make-shift seal to witness and acknowledge the oath. He let the hand fall and his head rolled back. He was failing; this nigh-immortal super soldier, this hero, was sliding rapidly down to death, and Ausrius could not help him. “Brother,” the younger Astartes began. “Go,” Nileas charged him. It was a whisper, but it carried such weight of authority it could not be refused. Ausrius knew every moment he lingered was another moment the warp-beast had to make good its escape. He loathed the thought of abandoning his battle brother to die alone, but he also knew Nileas expected him to place duty foremost. Gently, he lowered Nileas to the ground. “Rest easy, brother.” Nileas could not answer. He clasped his armored right fist across his ruined chest, a warrior’s salute. He closed his eyes against the pain of each shallow, sucking breath. Ausrius steeled himself and turned away, advancing in the direction the monster had gone. As much as he wanted to, he did not look back. His brother would not expect such sentimentality, and the beast could strike again at any moment. He held Nileas’ chainsword right-handed, in a low guard, and drew his bolt pistol with his left hand. The bolter rode by its sling, in reserve. He had also the simple but reliable gladius, and three grenades. It wasn’t much. He hoped it would be enough. The beast had left its scent like spoor and Ausrius followed that, trying not to gag on the stench of corruption. Black, oily fluid pooled on the stones in places, faintly sizzling; the noxious ichor which served the thing as blood. They had hurt it, and if it could be hurt, it could be killed. He paused as he heard it; slithering, chittering to itself. It sounded like it was right beside him, though he could not see it, the acoustics of the cave playing tricks again. He moved steadily forward, ever vigilant. He could smell ozone and felt the unholy chill he associated with psykers and the warp. It almost escaped. He came upon it just as it approached the portal. Ausrius had never seen anything like it. It was a hole in reality. A cold rush of air, and faint mist drifted out of this impossible gateway. The warp daemon sensed his approach and turned its neck inside out to bring its obscene head around to face him. It flared its mouthparts at him. It seethed, limbs and spines and eyes and hungry mouths full of teeth appearing and disappearing across its flesh in a wave that traveled down and around its length. It was taunting him. It made a wet, basso, shuddering, purring sound and rolled like a water serpent in a spiral swimming motion into the portal. It flowed into the unreality as if sinking through the surface of a mirror. Ausrius had seen many terrible things in his decades of service with the Adeptus Astartes. He had weathered them with commendable stoicism, but now he wavered. Astartes do not feel fear, but alone in this dark desolate place, faced with such an unspeakable monstrosity, and the prospect of following it through a warp gate to an unknown destination, Hellan Ausrius came very close. How could he, alone, hope to succeed against this? He controlled his breathing, willed his racing pulse steady. He swallowed the bile which had risen in his throat. He fought down the urge to vomit, conquered the tremor in his limbs. He recalled his oaths, and his debt to Nileas. He had no choice, he had to proceed. He clenched his fist on the grip of the chainsword and thumbed the activation stud. The blade snarled into life. Leading with that august weapon, and with a prayer to the God-Emperor on his lips, he strode forward into the warp gate.
Notes: Guilliman is the Primarch of the Ultramarines Legion, according to my research the Howling Griffons Chapter is derived from the Ultramarines.
For those not familiar, the Space Marines often swear oaths specific to the mission they are about to undertake, these are usually witnessed by their battle brothers and commemorated by an oath paper which is sealed to their armor. images.dakkadakka.com/gallery/…
The description and function of the 'warp gate' is based on similar device found in the Gaunt's Ghosts novel His Last Command by Dan Abnett.
Rough concept art for the warp daemon: and Hellan Ausrius:
A lone Pelican dropship flew westward across barren cliffs. A few wild animals scattered as it approached, intimidated by the roar of its engines. To the north cumulonimbus clouds brewed, but the impending thunderstorm was not Colin's concern.
From the copilot's seat, Colin-Z957 could see the silhouettes amongst the clouds: UNSC frigates and Covenant cruisers, engaged in battle high above the plains. The air between the conflicting craft was filled with 50mm high-explosive rounds and bolts of contained plasma. While no lightning had yet struck, the skies already flashed as the storm of war covered the planet.
Such was the scene all over Reach. The defending force of the United Nations Space Command was stretched thin, both across the planet's surface and in its orbit, trying desperately to fend off the alien invaders.
It had all happened so quickly. A massive Covenant armada dropped out of slipspace at the edge of the system, then immediately advanced, picking off the orbital defenses and deploying innumerable ground forces. Reach may have been the greatest military stronghold in UNSC space, but they still weren't prepared for such an enormous hostile fleet. Now, considering the most recent reports, it seemed clear that Reach was doomed to fall.
However, that did not yet mean that the fight was over.
"Just a few more klicks, sir," the Pelican's pilot replied, her voice slightly muffled by her tobacco gum.
The Spartan, satisfied with the answer, went over the mission details in his head. His Team Scimitar, along with Team Whirlwind, was on its way to the Sinoviet ship-breaking facility nicknamed "Boneyard." It was built in a shelf in the cliffs of the Solleret Mountains, and was the current location of the UNSC Commonwealth, a decommissioned frigate in the process of being dismantled.
That made it a prime target for the invading Covenant. Like any other UNSC ship, the Commonwealth housed a data core containing the navigational data of all UNSC space. Without one, a navy ship had little chance of returning home.
With one, the Covenant would learn the locations of every human colony... and the human homeworld. If Earth fell, humanity would be guaranteed to lose the war.
The Spartans' mission was to recover the Commonwealth's navigational core. The engineers at the Boneyard had neither the technical skill nor the explosive force to permanently erase the data. CENTCOM had originally planned to send in a regular Army squad to pick up the package, hoping the relatively small facility would go unnoticed.
It hadn't. The Covenant had found the Boneyard and sent in an Elite task force to infiltrate the facility.
So it was that CENTCOM sent the Spartans. Several teams had been assigned to this mission. Some responded faster than others, but not enough to organize a firm defense. One by one, teams of supersoldiers were overwhelmed, outnumbered and outflanked by Covenant Elites. The last brief transmission, received and relayed by the orbiting Portcullis, seemed to confirm that only Echo Team remained on site, and Scimitar and Whirlwind were the only two teams left to deploy.
"Destination in sight, Captain," the pilot stated.
Colin unstrapped from his seat and walked to the front of the cockpit. He could see the facility: a tinker-toy assemblage of cranes, scaffolds, and ship parts. The partially-dissembled Commonwealth sat in the middle of all this, with a mass of scaffolding attached to its starboard side. A conveyer belt attached this to the main refinery. He could see three Spartans at the end of it, what he guessed was the remnant of Echo Team.
"LZ is clear for the moment," the pilot said. "Setting down." To their starboard he could see the Pelican containing the Army fire team as it approached the facility.
Colin turned and entered the Pelican's bay. Inside stood eleven of his fellow Spartans, all armed and ready. Whirlwind-One's voice crackled over TEAMCOM. "We there?"
"Affirmative," Colin replied, pulling an assault rifle off the overhead rack. "Team Scimitar, ready to move out," he radioed the pilot.
"Team Whirlwind, ready to move out," Whirlwind-One radioed.
"Alright, Spartans," the pilot said back. "See you after hell breaks loose."
The Pelican's hatch opened, and the twelve armed-to-the-teeth supersoldiers jumped out. From the helipad Colin could see Echo Team crossing the conveyer bridge.
He could also see a hulking blue-purple Wraith tank passing beneath the elevated hull of the Commonwealth and closing on their position. Before he could react, the Wraith opened fire. The electric blue plasma mortar arced toward the second Pelican as it tried to offload its troops. It banked to evade the shot, but several plasma bolts launched from the scaffold and stuck to the right rear engine of the dropship. A second later they exploded, and the craft spun out, smashing into the conveyor and falling crumpled to the ground.
As the bridge started to collapse, a second mortar impacted the scaffold-end of the structure, and the conveyor fell apart. Colin could see two of the Spartans of Echo Team as they were buried by the debris. The third landed atop the rubble, right onto a spike of torn metal which pierced his thigh.
"Scimitar-Two, Scimitar-Three, you're with me." Colin sprinted toward the fallen conveyor with Zach-G128 and Samantha-S294 close behind. The Wraith took notice and started realigning its shot, but a bright red laser tore through it and blew the engine, causing the vehicle to explode. "Thanks for the assist, Four."
"Just be more careful," Steven-W467 radioed back, "I only have so many shots."
The trio of Scimitars made it to the fallen Spartan. His helmet was in his left hand, its visor breached. Despite the impaled limb, there was a smirk on his burnt face. "What took you so long?" he cracked.
"Uh, One?" Robert-R113 radioed. "You might want to hurry up. Two Banshees inbound."
"Thanks for the heads-up, Five," Colin replied, then turned back to the injured Spartan.
"Sierra 652, reporting for duty, sir," he saluted.
Colin nodded to Sammy, who removed her pack and started rifling through her medical supplies. Colin and Zach lifted 652 off the spike. To his credit, he barely groaned.
Unfortunately, the Banshees arrived sooner than expected. Colin looked up and saw the fliers barreling down on their position. The pair made a bombing run on them, and the explosives launched the Scimitars away from the rubble. Sierra 652 tumbled in the other direction, toward an approaching Elite. The alien ignited its energy sword and moved in for the kill on the fallen Spartan. Colin was about to order Steven to take him out, but suddenly the rubble shifted.
Another Spartan burst from beneath the wreckage of the conveyer, wielding only his combat knife. Shoulder forward, he tackled the Elite, but the warrior threw him off.
The two soldiers squared off, blades in hand. For several seconds they stood, staring each other down. Then the Elite lunged, but the Spartan was more agile. He grabbed the Elite's sword-arm with his free hand and stabbed its elbow. The blade-tip poked through the other side of its arm. The Spartan then spun beneath the alien's arm, switched hands on the knife, and sliced it up into his foe's underarm, piercing its lung with the twenty-centimeter blade.
The Elite roared in agony, falling to its knees. The Spartan stepped behind the proud warrior, took hold of its neck, and violently jerked it to the side. Even from several yards away, Colin could hear the Elite's neck snap.
The Scimitars sprinted over to the victor, who had sheathed his knife and holstered his opponent's energy sword.
"Nice kill," Zach remarked.
The other Spartan looked up at him and held up two fingers in a "V" in front of his visor, the signature Spartan "smile" gesture. "What can I say?" he quipped. "I'm a good dancer."
Colin shook his hand. "Colin-Z957, Scimitar-One," he said. "We're here to help."
"Ryan-R292, Master Sergeant. Echo Team," the other Spartan replied, following up with a salute. Colin returned the salute
Just as they lowered their hands, the rubble shifted again, and yet another Spartan emerged, staggered, stood, and saluted. "First Lieutenant Alison-A289, reporting for duty."
Colin saluted again. Then he remembered: "Sierra 652!"
The Spartans came across Sierra 652's unmoving body. The Elite's ambush distracted them for too long, and the impaled leg had bled out.
"Gunny...," Ryan muttered. He and Alison knelt beside the corpse. Just a few minutes ago he had been smirking, laughing despite his injury. Now he was dead.
"One, you might want to fall back!" Robert radioed. "Phantoms inbound!"
"Copy that, Five." Colin turned to Ryan and Alison. "We have to fall back. I'll carry the body. Two, Three, eyes up."
Colin picked up 652's corpse, and Zach and Sammy unholstered their designated marksman rifles. The Spartans started moving back to the refinery, Zach and Sammy watching their six. They made it inside before the Phantoms arrived. Steven and Robert held their position at the loading bay doors as the others passed inside.
Inside, the few surviving Army troops and Team Whirlwind were setting up what defenses they could around the data core. Colin put the body down in the back of the room with those of the other fallen soldiers.
Scimitar Six, Eryn-M157, walked up to him frowning. "CENTCOM called," she muttered. "The bombers got intercepted. There's another wave en route, but it'll take them twelve minutes."
"Understood," Colin replied, then switched to TEAMCOM. "Alright, Spartans. We're going to be here a little longer than we planned, and we've got more Covenant on our doorstep. You know the plan: defend the navigation core at all costs. Whirlwind, stay inside and support the troops in case they get inside. We don't know how long the security barriers will hold."
He turned to Ryan and Alison. "Echo Team, you're with me and Scimitar. We'll hold the perimeter as long as we can."
A full bank of green acknowledgment lights glowed green inside his visor, and everyone moved to their positions. Before exiting the refinery, Colin looked back to the bodies along the back wall.
The Covenant have invaded Reach, the greatest military stronghold of the United Nations Space Command. Battles rage all across the planet, but despite their resolve the heroic soldiers of humanity are outmatched.
In an obscure region of the planet, Covenant forces are fighting for a valuable prize: a UNSC navigational data core. With it, they could locate every human colony... and Earth.
However, a brave group of Spartan supersoldiers is not about to let that happen.
For Forerunner's sake, I hope this is okay. It took me a bloody long time to get this out, and now I'm freaking out about whether it's any good or not. Well, only one way to figure out.
Read on, and please feel free to leave brutally honest comments. I hope the story makes sense! @_@
His girlfriend just dumped him some freshmen just jumped him his lifes got him stumped and hes so depressed so now he wears makeup to hide all his screwups he says life is pain were not impressed
same pain, different poem .
CHORUS: Were all being whiners lets put on eyeliner your lifes on a timer in Emo 101 her converse, his girl pants My Chemical Romance so many depressed bands in Emo 101
mood: apathetic hes feeling poetic but all those cosmetics cant help him write hes drinking and cutting with boys now hes smutting the world doesnt get him so he cries all night
same pain, different poem
Were all being whiners lets put on eyeliner your lifes on a timer in Emo 101 her converse, his girl pants My Chemical Romance so many depressed bands in Emo 101
dont forget to scream out on the very last note .
later that school year hes not glad to be here hes pouting cause someone called him feminine the storys just begun, hes not the only one Like Chester and Mike, theyre all CRAWLING IN THEIR SKIN
(I feel like tacos.) I said
Were all being whiners lets put on eyeliner your lifes on a timer in Emo 101 her converse, his girl pants My Chemical Romance so many depressed bands in Emo 101
(chorus again once)
her converse, his girl pants (same pain, different poem) My Chemical Romance (same pain, different poem) so many depressed bands in Emo 101 Dont be such a whiner (same pain, different poem) take off that eyeliner (same pain, different poem) youre all shitty rhymers in Emo 101
Okay, so I looooove Bowling for Soup... especially the song Punk Rock 101. Sooooo.... I was bored and procrastinating and wrote a parody.
NOOOOTE!!1 I actually have nothing against emos... seriously I don't. I just... had to. ...um, sorry if I offended you? But I was making a joke. I make fun of things I like (including myself, quite often) so please don't take it personally...
And I know I make a comment about their rhyming skillz... I like emo poetry, okay? I only put that in there because it was one of the few sensible words that rhymed with timer. (yeah, so... iiiii'd be the shitty rhymer in this scenario. XD) It's from the point of view of someone who hates emos. AKA not me exactly. XD
Punk Rock 101 (and thus, the tune for this song) (C) Bowling for Soup. Go listen to it. NOW.