The Emperor's Retribution.
Smoke gusted over the horizon, the ghostly remains of artillery bombardments and orbital strikes. Weary columns of black-clad troopers traipsed under the scorched sky, weapons hanging slack in tired arms, their spirit eroded by days of hard fighting. Drop-ships buzzed across the sky, accompanied by the sleek darts of escorts and interceptors.
Corin and his squad were the last to quit the field. None were unblemished by battle, each bleeding from dozens of cuts and grazes, their fatigues reduced to tattered rags, almost unrecognisable as uniforms. Corin's armour had been rent open by an explosion, the majority of it cut away by a thermal torch leaving his abdomen exposed. Knotted burn scars clawed their way up under the remaining portions of the armour, the old wound contrasting against the brazen vitality of the new cuts crossing his battered torso.
The Ritter had lost his rifle, left only with his knife and sidearm which were still grasped tightly in his hands, almost as if he was unwilling to relinquish them until the battle was finally done. Beside him, a pale woman ghosted through the ruins, her eyes sweeping the ground ahead for targets, despite being well inside friendly lines.
?Where was our support, Ritter? They promised us gunship support.? A weary voice called out, causing Corin to pause, his expressionless blue eyes darting back over his shoulder at the troopers strung out behind him. The remark had come from August, the barrel of his machine-gun still glowing through it's protective housing.
?He hung us out to dry.? Corin spat back, his twisted larynx coating every syllable with an ashen rasp. ?I'll make sure he doesn't get away with it.? A small smile split the Knight's deformed face, colourless lips cracking like old rock. He would enjoy this.
?Hauptsturmfuhrer Arnheim?!? The desk officer started as Corin entered, still dressed in the remains of his combat gear, sidearm holstered at his waist. ?We didn't think you'd make it back. The Generaloberst thought the enemy had got the better of you.? The small, waspish man shrank back in his seat, away from the palpable menace radiating off the Ritter like heat from a starship drive.
?The Generaloberst thought wrong. All but one of us made it back.? There was a note of pride in Corin's mangled intonation, his back straightening on reflex as he thought of the noble deeds committed by his command in the Emperor's name. ?Where is the general? I need to debreif.?
?Generaloberst Hanzer did not take the field. He has been overseeing the battle from the Vassal.? Pushing his spectacles back up his nose, the desk officer lifted his gaze to meet Corin's flint-hard gaze. ?The next shuttle leaves in two hours.?
For hours afterwards, the desk officer couldn't shake the image of the tiny smile breaking the scar tissue on the Ritter's face and the sudden emotion spiking in his dead eyes.
The Imperial Vassal's command and control centre was a warren of hastily erected computer stations and holo-terminals depicting various topographic maps in neon wireframe, the idents of thousands of combat troops crawling across them. The centrepiece of this madness was a giant holo-projector, displaying the entire planet crawling with yellow and black icons.
Arrayed in front of it, standing rigidly to attention were Corin and his team arrayed in their dress uniforms. Hundreds of medals glinted on their breasts, ribbons sprays of colour against the black fabric. Corin was in the centre, flanked by his sergeants Nessa and August, the former bearing a newly issued Steel Triad at his throat.
The Knight's eyes were fixed on the languid form of Generaloberst Dieter Hanzel, stuffed into a once well tailored Landwachter number two uniform, the beginnings of a paunch straining against the silver buttons on his jacket. At some point, he had been at the peak of physical perfection, but years of campaigning aboard starships, barking orders to beetle-browed desk officers had taken it's toll. ?Belka is honoured by your success, Ritter.? He murmured, the passion leeched from his once brazen voice.
Corin inclined his head in a bow, clicking the heels of his knee-high boots together. ?Thank you, Herr General. Me and my command--? He gestured brusquely to the ramrod-straight rank of troopers beside him. ?Are honoured by your commendations.?
The general nodded, raising his arm in a swift salute. ?Dis-missed!?
Turning in unison, the squad moved towards the bulkhead at the far end of the long room. Corin lingered, his fingertips caressing the knife sheathed at his waist. ?One moment, general?? The knight muttered, turning once again to face the superior officer.
The general looked up from a sheaf of papers, his eyes tired and burdened. ?Yes, Ritter??
?Where was the support we were promised?? Corin's tone had changed from one of deference to a harsh growl, laden with menace.
Hanzel smiled, easing forward in his chair to rest his elbows on the metal desktop, fingers steepled. ?The tactical situation changed. Our air assets were needed by the sixth armoured to clear the city.?
?We all know that's not true.? Corin turned to address the rest of the command centre, his squad fanning out around the fringes of the bustling room. ?You sent us to our deaths. Because of petty jealously. Because of this.? The Ritter's fingers tapped against the cold metal of the Knight's Triad at his throat.
The general's hand reflexively rose to his throat, to the open collar, almost in reflection of the officer before him. ?I will not stand for this in my command centre.? He growled, trying to inject a note of command into his cracked, broken voice as he got to his feet.
?How did it feel when they stripped you of your Triad, Generaloberst?? Corin replied, circling the desk, one hand on his sidearm. ?You were like us. Must be hard to watch our ascension while you're set for nothing greater than a ceremonial posting in the NHA.?
?You go too far!? The impact of the general's hand on the metal tabletop caused the hololith to jump and stutter, jagged waves flashing across the continents. ?I will not stand for this slander. Markus??
A broad-shouldered Feldwebel in the general's personal heraldry leapt to his feet, a grin flashing across his pockmarked face. ?Ja, Herr General??
?Second me.? The general barked, unbuttoning his jacket and casting it over the pile of data-slates and papers on his desk. ?Ritter Arnheim, under the customs of Old Scatter, I challenge you to a duel. Have you a second?? His voice was reinvigorated by the prospect of violence, elevated back to its old strength.
?Feldwebel Cordula will second me.? Corin growled, shrugging off his own jacket to reveal a ribbed vest. His meaty arms flexed as he shook out his shoulders, highlighting the array of totenkopf kill marking inked into his pale flesh. The scar tissue over his chest and shoulder bunched and contracted, flushed and angry.
Hanzel nodded, cracking the knuckles of his long, ink-stained fingers. ?As the challenged party, you shall have choice of weapon.?
A pause fell over the command centre, every officer away from his station to watch the confrontation unfolding before them. They saw the smile flit across the battle-scarred Ritter's face, and the hand drop to his knife hilt.
?Knives.?
Turning to his second, Hanzel grabbed the serrated combat knife from the sergeant's belt, striding out into the pathway that ran straight to the bulkhead. He dropped into a low guard, confidence oozing from him.
Corin drew his own blade in a slow, languid movement savouring the dull grate of the blade on the clasp of his scabbard. His knife was a twelve inch double-edged blade with a leather wrapped grip, a totenkopf carved into the tang. He turned to face the general, the blade held loosely in his scarred hand.
Without warning the general bellowed, starting forward into a flying charge with his knife extended.
The Knight didn't even flinch, flicking his blade forward with a deft hand movement. The steel sang as it sliced the air, ending Hanzel's last charge with a loud thunk.
Corin turned back to the room, spreading his arms wide to display his powerful physique, and the discrete ?V? tattooed where neck met collar bone. ?This man was a traitor to the Emperor.?
Backed by the ghost-white sniper, her Steel Triad blazing at her throat, Corin strode over to the body, plucking the fighting knife from the generaloberst's throat in a fountain of vibrant blood. ?He misused his power for petty jealousy.? His voice echoed around the deathly silence of the command centre, his expressionless eyes drinking in the fear of the young officers.
?There is no escape from the Emperor's retribution.?
Can you hear the voices too?
?Can you hear the voices too??
?Shut up.? Corin turned away from the figure crouched at the back of the lander, pulling his leather trench coat closer about his armoured body.
?What is it that unnerves you so, Herr Ritter? I am simply a tool, one that you have used countless times in your service to the God Emperor.?
Scowling, Corin resisted the urge to draw the pistol on his thigh and relieve the thing of it's head. ?Because you chose to give up your freedom, a God-given right, to serve a... machine.?
The thing in the corner laughed softly, it's voice oddly tinny in the confined cabin. ?You speak to the construct as if it has individual will. I have assimilated its knowledge, for the greater good. Its death was not in vain.?
The thing's voice sent shivers down Corin's spine. It was a perversion of nature, an abomination to be destroyed. ?No true Scatteran would surrender himself willingly. Every death not given in true service to the God Emperor is a life wasted.?
?Your command of the devotional is astounding, Herr Ritter. Is this one of the 'facets of command' the academies harp on about??
?Shut up.? Corin growled, hauling himself to his feet, smoothing down the tails of his coat. ?Just because you've been assigned to my command doesn't mean I'll tolerate you more than I would an incompetent officer.?
The thing in the corner got to it's feet, stepping lightly into the dull glow of the small lamp mounted in the ceiling. At some point, it had been female, with glossy full lips, and perfectly sculpted cheekbones. Only the slightest vestige of these remained, as a desiccated husk of a face, shrunken by age to reveal the cybernetics beneath. It's eyes glowed a dull blue, the light seeming to permeate the almost translucent membrane that barely hid the knots of circuitry that covered the drone's cybernetic skeleton.
?Base threats, Herr Ritter? I thought the nobility were supposed to be refined.?
Within a second, Corin had turned on his heel, drawing his sidearm with an improbable grace for a man of his size. The blued-steel of the barrel rested just below the space where the thing's nose would have been. ?I warned you.? Corin's snarl was normally enough to make junior officers loose control of their bowels, but in this case, it was met with a steely calm, the thing's eyes fixed on his own.
?Six feet nine inches... Around two hundred and fifty pounds... High muscle density... Fit and agile...? The machine spoke almost to itself, it's voice losing any human quality, becoming flat and toneless, and as menacing as anything Corin could conjure with his mangled vocal cords. ?If we are issuing threats, Herr Ritter, I would like to inform you that the construct you are engaging could kill you in approximately tw--?
The shot completely eviscerated the machine's head, the tungsten cored round reducing it to a pile of scrap metal and circuitry. The body remained standing, the loss of its primary control centre sending it into total shutdown.
Corin holstered his pistol, triggering the comm-link mounted at his throat. ?Tell Command that we'll need another drone. This one was... defective.?
Initiation
The chapel was almost pitch black, the high vaulted ceiling giving the small room a touch of the grandiose. In the center, a single candle burned, the red wax filling the space with a flickering red glow. Around it, stood a group of Belkan marines stripped to the waist, their frames seeming impossibly huge in the candle light.
Corin stepped forward. He too, was stripped to the waist, revealing the hideous knots of twisted flesh and burn scars that covered his left arm and shoulder, insidiously creeping up his face and over on eye, the left corner of his mouth twisted up permanently in a horrific smile. His bare chest also showed his power. Muscles developed by years of fierce combat, limbs covered in bullet and blade scars, and over a hundred tiny totenkopfs each one signifying a life Corin had personally snuffed out.
His face showed no emotion as he moved forward to join the circle, his eyes colder than polar ice, his every movement precise and calculated. The marines beside him took an almost unconscious pace back, as if every fiber of their being wanted to be away from the burned man with the dead eyes.
?Good of you to join us, Ritter.?
The Belkan directly ahead of Corin spoke, his voice harsh in the flickering blackness. Even in the shadows, it was clear to see that he was taller than Corin, and heavier set, hundreds of ritual scars criss-crossing his torso, culminating in a large Landwachter symbol that traced his pale flesh from sternum to belly button. He raised one hand into the light, the dim candle flickering off the edge of the combat knife.
?Come to renew your bond with the blood??
Corin nodded, extending his hand and reverently taking the combat knife, applying the point to the ridges of a long-healed scar across his chest. Without even a wince of pain, he pushed the knife into his flesh, renewing the circle, and then the triangle within it. His chest became slick with blood as flowed from the the old wound, running down to pool in the centre of the circle.
?Now the Ritter has renewed his tie, we shall renew our own.?
The knife was passed around the circle, and every scar was reopened, and the blood flowed, pooling around the candle, running towards the large trough shrouded in the chapel's smoky gloom.
?Das Blut flie?t in uns allen, und durch sie wachsen wir stark.? The priest intoned, as the knife was returned to him, the silver blade wet with the circle's blood. ?Now, we must bathe. Jorg, bring forth the sacrifice!?
A marine to Corin's left snapped to attention, smashing his blunt fist into the dripping wound on his chest. The leader took up the candle, using it's flame to light a series of scented braziers set in wrought iron sconces shaped into praying skeletons. Soon the air was filled with a heady scent of blood and iron, the smell of a fresh battlefield, scattered with the dead and the dying.
Inhaling deeply, Corin followed the priest, and his entourage of marines to the back of the small chapel, taking up position on one side of the long, rune-inscribed trough. Above it hung a meat hook, swaying lightly in the artificial breeze that swept the incense-heavy air through the chapel.
Jorg returned, his hand on the tattooed shoulder of another Belkan, covered in battle-scars, the remnants of a ritual scar similar to Corin's own on his chest. He came willingly, with Jorg shadowing his footsteps.
The priest stood at the head of the trough, spreading his arms wide. ?Brothers, this soldier of the Reich comes to us willingly, to give his life for our strength in battle. Honour him.?
As one, those around the trough slammed their fists into their chests, the words ?Honour in death!? echoing around the vault. As Corin's bloody fist returned to his side, the Marine had drawn a pistol, and the sacrifice was on his knees, hands together in prayer.
?Give him a clean death, brother.? The priest intoned, stepping forward to draw a triad in blood on the Belkan's forehead.
The shot rang out, the sharp cough reverberating off the metal plating of the chapel. The round severed the brain-stem, and exited through the Belkan's teeth, spraying a fine mist of blood over the priest's feet. Before the shattered head could hit the ground, the priest and a pair of marines lifted him up, stabbing the hanging meat-hook into his Achilles tendon, dropping it so that it swung over the trough.
?Blood for blood.? Whispered the priest, the combat knife in his hands once again, and he went about slitting the corpse's veins and arteries, starting at the neck and moving upwards, letting the marine's vital fluid drain into the trough.
The group of Belkans stood there for some minutes, as the corpse drained like a stuck pig, the bath slowly filling to the brim with it's blood. The room was now heady with incense, and the iron-tang of fresh blood.
The priest quickly dis-robed, slipping in to the trough of blood with a sigh. Soon, every trooper was covered from head to toe in warm, sticky blood, covering scars and tattoos, rendering them equal. They dressed in silence, as the priest intoned a blessing, filing out of the chapel, still bloody.
Corin lingered behind for a second, allowing the priest to mark a triad on his forehead, before returning to his bunk to meditate.
Source: http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/RolePlayGateway/~3/roYuGroFG44/viewtopic.php
private practice deion sanders creutzfeldt jakob disease the lone ranger yu darvish mad cow pennsylvania primary
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.