KreepingSpawn

'unburied and forgotten' Leaving the house where they were quartered, Lukas stepped out into the street and began to walk. He did not approach the town center, where there was bound to be plenty of activity, but went the other way, out to the end of the street. There were cleared fields there — poorly tended in wartime — and beyond that a dark body of trees and the river. After three days of rain the ground was soft. He picked his way carefully, avoiding the boggy places. It was already late evening. Among the trees he had to slow down further to avoid tripping in the low light. It was in this gloaming that Lukas spotted another soldier. It shocked him still and set his heart pounding. He stayed as he was a long while, until he registered that the figure was not moving. The stranger lounged against a tree as though resting. Even in the long shadows his Wehrmacht uniform was unmistakable. His helmet was pushed low over his eyes. There was something wrong about his face. Lukas

The Angel of the Blood from Baal came His wings as Eagle’s pinions; eyes as flame “All hail,” said he, “The Emperor of All Mankind,” And “Glory unto Terra.” Gloria The Legion Revenant are all his sons. Most beautiful and deadly, every one. They held the ramparts at the Siege, for all Mankind, And Glory unto Terra; Gloria The Angel and his Sanguine all took flight As bolts of argent lightning; joined the fight, To pierce the heart of Lupercal, for all Mankind, And glory unto Terra; Gloria In shadow and in sun they hunt their prey, Once dear beloved brothers, here betrayed. Now merciless they strike and kill, for all Mankind, The enemies of Terra. Gloria False monarch crowned in Chaos sought the Throne. Against him stood the Angel all alone. His sacrifice reverberates through all of time; The Champion of Terra. Gloria The Angels of the Blood forever more suffer the pain their noble father bore, Their strength and their unmaking both, for all their kind, Forever and for

“Are you weeping, brothers? No, it cannot be. You are brave men, all. Warriors, proven in blood. It is the cold wind off the fjord that stings the eyes. It is the smoke from the fire. Aye, that is all. “Are you not hungry, brothers? Here is hot meat, and fresh bread, and good food of all sorts that our women have prepared. There is beer and honey wine. Here, I will begin. Fill my cup. “A toast: To the fallen. “Remember, brothers, he died in battle, as is right. With a weapon in hand, he met his fate. Unafraid! Smiling! I should be so fortunate! When my time is upon me, I am like to piss myself. “Will you not laugh, brothers? “I am no skald. I am a poor storyteller. But I have a good memory. Remember. Our brother earned his name in a stand-up fight with the Redbeards, in the stony land where three rivers come down to the sea. You were there, aye. And you. He split the air with his howling. He split their skulls with his axe. And the waves were red as their beards. “He bought his