Into the Night

[r4wr89]

There was darkness everywhere, only a solitary shaft of white light penetrating to where Augustine sat. A dull, eerie scraping noise filled the air, and he glanced at his right arm. Four blades grew slowly, haltingly out of his armored fist.
Just the way he liked it.

He continued the familiar ritual with his left arm, four more blades groaning as they slowly left their sheaths. There was a pause, and with a quiet hum the blades glowed, a deep purple light mixing with the purity of the white.

He was ready.

Beside him lay an ancient helmet, given him while he was only a sergeant, so many decades ago. He stroked it lovingly, his ceramite fingers skimming the area where a chaos melta gun had so nearly taken him...taken him to the Emperor. A subtle grin spread across his face as he remembered the green flash of the plasma pistol he shot into the marine’s helmet, the melting of his enemy’s face, and the glorious victory over the traitors that day.

Augustine stretched him arms, forcing himself to snap out of the past. He was the chapter master now, the proud leader of one thousand of his beloved battle brothers.

The darkness was broken by a creaking door, a yellowed shaft of light creeping up the blackness of the floor. Chaplain Antonus Krath stepped in swiftly, his Crozius Arcanum dangling from the side of his flowing robes. The Skull of Krath, his trademark helmet, was wedged under his left arm. Few knew the secret, but in the times of greatest need, Krath’s helmet would erupt in a halo of flame, the strength and wrath of the Emperor manifesting itself through Krath’s own hotheaded personality.

“We will be in range of the Alpha Legion fleet weaponry within the hour, commander,” Krath said, to which Augustine nodded slightly. He was a leader of few words.
“They have tracked our position since we left the Eastern Fringe, hoping to lay their treacherous hands on our cargo,” Krath added, eager to hear a command for battle-preparation. The Night Hunt chapter had been called to defend a pair of barges, The Courtier and The Historian, as part of a supply line to Medusa V. Fully half of the one thousand Night Hunters were garrisoned between the two barges now, personally led by Augustine and Krath, ready to defend the barges against boarding parties.
Augustine nodded again, this time with a command.
“Make ready the defenses…” were the only words heard from him. Krath smirked, his blood beginning to boil. There was nothing he loved more than stirring up the fiery judgment dormant within his stealthy battle brothers. He followed Augustine as he left the room, both entering the cramped corridors of The Courtier silently.

Very, very promising. IT flows nicely, and dosen't give away too much too fast. Also potrays marines in their.... or in whats left of their humanity. The only things I could think of were some spots throughout (none specific) where you could expand, depending on your writing style. I tend to write in an exspansive, detailed style, so it may just be me. I can only assume we will see some more soon?

[r4wr89]

as for the holes, either they were unintentional [as i had some trouble finding the words to illustrate with the feel i had intended] or i plan to expand on them in future installments...hey! like this one :]


Augustine paced the catwalk, overlooking the two hundred Space Marines assembled in the cargo bay of The Courtier. Below, twenty rows of black armor stood before a raging Krath. The Chaplain’s words were unintelligible from the distance, but Augustine was confident in his Brother’s ability to fuel the silent anger that burned within their hearts. There was no doubt that the same ritual was being performed by two of Krath’s apprentices in The Historian. The same fiery litanies would be recited, the same anger awakened, and the same victory claimed.

The barges were remarkably agile for their class, but there was no chance of escape from the nimble Alpha Legion cruisers. Augustine and Krath had concluded that the only hope of protecting the supplies would be a boarding battle. Augustine intended to use his enemy’s desire to take the cargo to minimize external damage to the barges, and to lure the Legionnaires into boarding.

Below, on the deck, Krath lectured two hundred battle-brothers, his charisma and confidence echoing through the vast store room.
“Have you a fear of the darkness? A doubt of our calling?” Krath asked of his brothers. “Who are we but Night herself, the shadows that haunt the dreams of traitors? Close your eyes and know the dark judgment of the Emperor’s divine wrath!” He paused momentarily, making eye contact with as many battle-brothers as he could.
“Consider the bolter,” he continued, softer now. “Polished to a glowing sheen, it reflects our hatred of their evil. What reason do we have to remove the flash suppresors? So that the last thing a traitor might see is the Emperor's light! Whom have we to fear? We are the incarnation of fear itself! Embrace the blackness, and follow me! Arise, brothers, and follow me! Into the Night!”

Howls of courage permeated the room, the walls quaking with the shouts of men and the buzzing of chainswords. Instantaneously, the sergeants began yelling orders, squads moving into their assigned corridors. Augustine smiled approvingly at the ordered chaos, resting his arms on the guardrail of the catwalk. He rarely needed to command his brothers, having instilled within each squad a spirit of both unity and independence, allowing his sergeants the freedom to make tactical decisions in the heat of battle.

Augustine, however, did oversee the interior defense preparations of both barges, and had issued specific orders to a select few squads. All that was left to do was wait for the traitors to board.

[r4wr89]

Augustine stood at the helm of The Courtier, patiently waiting for the inevitable engagement with the Alpha Legion. Beside him, Captain Uriah stared fearfully into space, possibly at Medusa V, which was just coming into sight.
A man well advanced in his years, Uriah had been many things in his life. He was a trader, a businessman, a nobleman, even a father, but never a soldier. His lanky stature reflected his nervous personality, and Uriah feared death above all else. Now he was left commanding a ship destined for war, a bolt pistol strapped on his belt next to a gleaming combat knife. Never had he been more afraid.

Augustine lay what he thought was a comforting hand on Uriah’s shoulder, sensing the man’s discomfort, but his armored fist only served to increase the burden the Captain felt. The Space Marine then turned to issue orders to the crew, allowing time for Uriah to compose himself.
“Make every effort to appear that we are surrendering,� Augustine began. The Legionnaires were only minutes away now, their cruisers in sight. “Maintain a low speed towards Medusa V; and find a way to minimize damage to the barges. They know our barges will be defended, but they have yet to know of our presence. Draw them in…and I pray the Emperor will deliver us this day...�

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

Not bad at all! I look forward to hearing more of the story!

[r4wr89]

Originally Posted by Inquisitor Rosenadel

Not bad at all! I look forward to hearing more of the story!

why thank you :] umm, i'm not sure when i'll be able to post an installment of significant length. i have some written but i have yet to edit/revise/expand/add to it. soon though, soon.

:]
-ant

[r4wr89]

In the leading cruiser, Lord Terris was preparing for battle, his own rituals being performed with utmost care and attention. He laid a huge, chaos infested arm affectionately on his left shoulder pad, his only shoulder pad. The armor plate was a dirtied blue, a relic he tore off of an Ultramarine in his first years as a Legionnaire. He heard rumors once of Roboute Guilliman’s argument with Alpharius circulating, Guilliman claiming that the Legionnaires could never hope to compete with the strength and power of the Ultramarines.

By nature, Terris took the historic argument personally. He took everything personally. The loss of the Legion was his fault alone. Alpha Legion tradition kept leadership divided between a number of distinguished commanders, but Terris oversaw the army. The Legion’s loss was his loss, his victory theirs as well.

As the war over Medusa V raged on, Terris had begun a number of piratical raids. Keeping the Legion’s cruisers near the Medusa system, he ordered the pursuit of almost every Imperial ship that came within their range, easily taking entire shipments of supplies with little resistance.

Beside him lay a scroll, dwarfed by the size of his corrupted arm. His nails, now mutated into evil looking sickles, brushed against the scroll, and a scream, almost inaudible, pierced the room’s air. He smirked, satisfied. The scroll having taken its place beside an ancient bolt pistol on the belt, Terris strolled towards the edge of the commander’s quarters. On the wall, hanging by a rusted, twisted bolt, was his power sword. Taking it out of its sheath, just for a moment, he glimpsed a reflection of himself in it, one organic eye working alongside an emotionless red orb. He sheathed the weapon, returned it to its place on the wall, and headed towards the door. Yes, this would be an easy raid…another easy raid.

[r4wr89]

Lord Terris stood now in the bridge of the lead cruiser, overseeing the half dozen cultist and traitor crew commanding the ship and dispatching pre-engagement orders to the two other Alpha Legion cruisers. Terris would lead the boarding assault, while the other two cruisers would standby with weapons ready, should either of the targets suddenly break away from the combat.

Terris had led more than a dozen small raids on ships already, decimating the ship's defenses and taking supplies for legionnaire use. Already, there was a “raiding hierarchy,” unspoken procedure for boarding parties, the order in which troops were to enter the attacked ship. The number of ships already attacked, and the number of imperial crewmen captured served only to feed the number of men under Terris’ command. The cultists on board performed forbidden rituals unceasingly, overpowering the will of prisoners and replacing their sanity with only a laspistol and a knife.

Lord Terris left the bridge and headed towards the “barracks,” the belly of the cruiser in which the newly converted cultists were held. Scaling a flight of narrow, cold steps and strolling through a corridor bathed in a red, bloodthirsty light, Terris soon found himself in an violent asylum. He entered a vast chamber, a wide but low-ceilinged room resounding with screams and their lonely echoes. Blood was smeared wildly on each of the grey walls, forming some perverted design, a chaotic symbol not even Terris understood. Hundreds of converts were crowded haphazardly on the floor, some lying down, others rocking violently in place. Occasionally, one of the converts would shout some unintelligible phrase, shred the already tattered remains of their imperial uniforms and tear out tufts of their hair.

Terris stepped between the wild men, scanning the tragic scene with both his organic and his bionic eye. One of the men, a former captain by the look of his uniform, grabbed at Terris’ power armored leg, eyes searching frantically for Terris' attention. Terris matched the lunatic’s gaze coldly, noting that the prisoner’s eyes were not quite working in tandem. The former captain’s mouth was moving, trying to speak, but only air and minute whispers left his mouth. He struggled to stand, then took hold of Terris’ daemon arm. Hoisting himself up to stare directly into Terris’ bionic eye, he mumbled faster now, and with a last spurt of energy, whispered into Terris’ ear. The captain’s sweat covered face clung to the cold metal of Terris’ bionic jawbone momentarily, until Terris, disgusted, shoved the broken man’s body back onto the ground. Hair disheveled and captain’s uniform half undone, the broken captain shuddered on the ground, then his back arched wildly and he lay still. More and more converts began grabbing at his legs, then his arms, each whispering tirelessly. Though unfazed, Terris was unable to support the weight of the onslaught, and fell under the wave of bodies. Believing a mutiny from the converts impossible, Terris abstained from fighting back, still listening to the droves of whispering voices, trying to pick out a coherent sentence while under the flurry of body parts. Suddenly, unexpectedly, a broken and twisted smirk crossed Terris’ face, as the meaning of the endless mumblings became clear to him. Halfhearted whispers of “for the emperor!” were intertwining in the spacious room, and Terris soon recognized the familiar Alpha Legion battle cry. He knew, somewhere, dead or alive, Alpharius was smiling upon him…

[r4wr89]

Six scouts scampered noiselessly through the cargo bay of The Courtier, weaving between crates and chests arranged in a large semicircle, curving away from the bay doors. The scouts moved without hesitation, taking strategic positions to maximize the effectiveness of their sniper rifles. Draping a dark cloth over their white shoulder pads, they arranged themselves evenly throughout the huge cargo bay. Silently, three more scout squads moved into position, the polished sheen of their silver bolters contrasting eerily with the chapter’s dark carapace armor in the bay’s bright white light.

Sergeant Jansen, the appointed “coordinator” for the bay’s defense entered the storeroom after the scouts had already found their places. With a cloak of a deep purple flowing behind him, a bolter flapping nonchalantly at his side, and a swift, purposeful walk, Jansen perfectly exhibited the quiet confidence that the Night Hunters were becoming known for. Jansen had just left Augustine’s Assembly, the leadership gathering Augustine called together minutes before each battle. Augustine’s orders had been relayed to those on The Historian, and battle preparation began immediately afterwards.

Behind the scouts, two long corridors ran the length of the ship, connected by perpendicular hallways at each end of the ship, as well as in the exact middle. Each of the corridors was now lined with cargo, the once precious crates now demoted to the status of cover. All along the hallways, marines were finding their way into place, checking ammunition and then polishing their weapons, a tradition long observed by the entire chapter. The marines were ready, waiting, hungering for battle. And to them the battle came.



Terris couldn’t remember what happened afterwards. Sorting his body parts out of the piles of converts, he pulled himself to his feet. After his strange abduction, the converts had suddenly crawled back into their former posts, silent and motionless, save for their hampered breathing.

None of this, however, was noticed by Lord Terris. He was struck, in the sea of bodies, by an epiphany that clouded all thought and vision. Now stumbling out of the barracks, he clambered up a flight of stairs and thrust himself back into the bridge. Grasping violently at his eyes, which had not yet regained their sight, he finally pointed somewhere in the distance, off towards the barges. “Eradicate…there is no need for the second barge…we take the first. Only the first.” He never spoke of it again, but he had had a vision, that some presence or entity on the first barge was a part of his destiny, his calling. Even as watched the white hot blast of a full salvo's impact, even as The Historian exploded into oblivion, its heavy shields shattered by the barrage, he couldn’t grasp the meaning of the vision, only a hint, a whispering, a vague sense of…vengeance.

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

Keep it going! Don't worry about taking a while. It takes time to write good fluff.

[r4wr89]

“God-Emperor… damnation has found us…” Uriah whispered, sprawled on the floor, stunned from the quaking of the barge. Around him, the barge’s crew was still recovering, regaining their senses as the lighting flickered back to life. The explosion had rocked the barge violently, and as Uriah regained his footing he noticed the disappearance of the second ship on the tracking systems. Momentarily, his eyes widened. The Historian was gone, no longer appearing on the reading. Despite his shock, he couldn’t help but notice the space between the barge and the cruiser. The traitors were on his doorstep.

He took another worried glance at the dim screen, and then threw himself out of the command room, impatiently slamming the door as it hissed out of his way. Finding his way to the lower level, he searched frantically for Augustine. The black and purple armored giants in the corridors did nothing to aid him in his desperate search, becoming elephantine obstacles for the miniscule man. All around him, curious red lenses inspected him as the captain darted through the maze of bodies and crates.

“Augustine…Augustine!” he cried fruitlessly, collapsing from the trauma. Beside him, a marine took Uriah’s feeble body into his arms, cradling his head while searching Uriah’s expression for the origin of the captain’s distress. Augustine, having heard the captain’s cry, broke through the crowd of marines gathering around the scene. Finally kneeling beside Uriah, Augustine took off his helmet and swept his unkempt black hair behind him.
He leaned in to listen to Uriah, the man’s hoarse voice crackling into muffled sobs.
“The Historian is no more…the enemy is on our doorstep, prepare for boarding...” Uriah managed to say. The commander was taken aback, unable to imagine the destruction of the titanic barge, unable to comprehend the loss of a quarter of the entire chapter. Fury welled up inside of him just as Krath swept into the gathering of onlookers. Intrigued at his commander's kneeling on the cold tile, the chaplain stepped toward the huddle on the floor. Having seen the distressed Uriah in ceramite arms, a wave of understanding and suffering rippled across Krath’s face as he realized what had happened.

Augustine turned to the marine holding Uriah, and instructed him to take Uriah back to his quarters. Hardly able to restrain his bitter anger, he stormed out of the gathering, howling madly like a wounded beast. Krath, removing his skull helm and placing it on the ground, turned to face the marines.
“A prayer, brothers…for our fallen comrades…” The sterile light of the corridor streaked strangely across Krath’s saddened expression, long shadows creeping from his furrowed brow. Around him, helmets were removed and knees bowed, a disturbing wave of grief spreading across the corridor as the chapter realized its loss.
“Emperor, Father…”



Boarding had already begun. The first of three sets of bay doors were opened, inviting the chaos army into the barge. The boarding bridge was in place, viciously locking its mechanical teeth around the mouth of the bay doors. Cultists were gathering in the bridge, shepherding their converts towards the victim. At the end of the bridge, the somber shuffle of the converts became a dazed climb, as the converts and cultists scrambled up the smooth bay doors of The Courtier, becoming a mountain of flailing limbs. The converts groped at the massive entrance, struggling to find their way inside.

Behind the chaotic scrambling, Alpha Legionnaires were arranging themselves into their squads. Terris was at the end of the boarding party, no longer intending to lead from the front. No, he had a higher calling, a purpose even truer than stealing from the Imperium. Personal gain.



Augustine, in a raging fit, careened into the command room, knocking an unwary crewman to his feet. Too blinded by his rage to notice the surprised crewman, Augustine rushed towards the bay locks. He wanted retribution for the murder of his brothers. He needed retribution. Without hesitation, he threw the door locks open, then stormed right out of the helm. No force would keep him from facing the vile traitors.

[Killermoose]

Looking good! Just one thing that might need changing:

'Surprised at his commander kneeling on the cold tile of the floor, the chaplain stepped toward the huddle on the floor. Having seen the distressed Uriah on the floor, a wave of understanding and suffering rippled across Krath’s face as he realized what had happened.'

Too much use of the word floor there for my liking, perhaps you could find another word in its place.

Great job!

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

Originally Posted by Killermoose

Looking good! Just one thing that might need changing:

'Surprised at his commander kneeling on the cold tile of the floor, the chaplain stepped toward the huddle on the floor. Having seen the distressed Uriah on the floor, a wave of understanding and suffering rippled across Krath’s face as he realized what had happened.'

Too much use of the word floor there for my liking, perhaps you could find another word in its place.

Great job!

I would agree: great job! Instead of floor, you could say

'Surprised to see his commander on one knee ("on the floor" would be implied), the chaplain stepped toward the huddle on the floor. Having seen the distressed Uriah at the feet of the gathered Space Marines, a wave of undertanding and suffering rippled across Krath's face as he realized what had happened.'

Keep it coming!

[Killermoose]

Inquisitor, there is so much we can all learn from you...

[r4wr89]

Originally Posted by Killermoose

Inquisitor, there is so much we can all learn from you...

haha this is true, this is true...i didn't catch it in my edits for some reason, i'll fix it up as soon as i can.

:]
-ant

[r4wr89]

*edits made* thanks Killermoose & Inquisitor Rosenadel!
:]
-ant

[Inquisitor Rosenadel]

Originally Posted by r4wr89

*edits made* thanks Killermoose & Inquisitor Rosenadel!
:]
-ant

No problem! Glad to help. In fact, if you would like your stories to have a quick once-over before you post them, you can send them to me via e-mail at rosenadel@gmail.com.

[r4wr89]

more than a year ago, i stopped posting here. and, here, in the greatest form of thread necromancy in the history of mankind, is a continuation.
please note that in the year between posts, i HAVE filled out massive amounts of the fluff. all that's left is simply to type it...edit, and finally, share it with you.


‘Let’s get rollin’!” she said, flashing her dazzling smile before tightening her shoulder rig. She extracted a pair of muscular auto-revolvers from an untidy pile of clothing on her cot, spinning the chambers to check that their contents were full. They were beautiful specimens, hand forged and customized for her long, elegant fingers, with delicate ivory laced into the grip and muzzle. Her name was intricately carved into the side of each gun housing, “Anya Wrenworth,” intertwined with a Bosphorus vine from our shared home world of Pelossus. She threw her brown hair into a hasty hairtie and turned to speak to her partner.
Across the room was, as far as I knew, her closest companion, Lydeah Gerhardt. The two were an unlikely team, Lydeah as closed and unfeeling as Anya was amiable and entertaining, but they worked well together and represented an indispensable part of my staff.
Lydeah grunted a nonverbal response to her friend’s remark, and strapped her plasmagun over her shoulder, wiggling the feed to her backpack to check it one last time.
I stood in the doorway, looking in on their preparations. I had come to announce our impending departure off the gunship Nocturne, perhaps more affectionately known as my “mobile office.” It served as transportation for my staff and a comfortable housing en route, but I still had to rely on true spacecraft for off-world journeys.
And this certainly counted as off-world.

Shipmaster Uriah had patched a warning to us via our shared vox-link just a few minutes ago. The news of the second decoy’s destruction was unexpected and quite difficult news to swallow. Two hundred of the legendary Astartes were already lost, as was an old friend and colleague of mine, Inquisitor Kasimir Volrath, who had opted to oversee and coordinate this mission with me. He would be missed, but it wasn’t yet an appropriate time for mourning. Having heard the news, I immediately set to alerting my staff. In a moment I would need to retire to my own quarters to prepare myself for the next phase of the mission, and so I took a quick swig of water from the canteen I was holding, and turned to leave. The door slid shut behind me, hissing as the airlock kicked in. I fumbled around with my cloak until I found my rosette, hanging on its thick golden chain. I stowed it in a more accessible pocket and strode confidently back towards my room.

I am inquisitor Barbaris Kasparov of the Ordo Xenos, and I know my duty well. I was to bring holy judgment upon a sworn enemy, the warp-abomination chaos lord Alastare Terris.



-------------------------------------
It seems strange that an Ordo Xenos inquisitor might be dabbling in the work of the Ordo Malleus, but this task was close enough to my destination, and extra inquisitorial support was required for a mission of such magnitude.
Lord Terris’ piratical raids on the imperial support ships had gone on for far too long, and Inquisitor Volrath had requested additional help to stop him and his twisted followers. We were each to join a detachment of Astartes, taken off their course to Medusa V, the largest planetary battle many of us had ever had the honor of serving in, to form a pair of traps for Terris’ cultist forces. It involved a grueling amount of planning and still held great risk, but it was our holy duty, and well worth the effort.
Down the hall, I palmed a key reader that opened the door to a study that doubled as my sleeping quarters. It wasn’t large, but it housed several rows of literature I deemed useful for fieldwork or interesting enough to bring for longer journeys. Across from the shelves was my bed, a simple cushion about fifteen centimeters thick, piled high with pillows and sheets I rarely tidied. Aside from the sparse shelves and bed, the only other notable features were a reading alcove, carved directly out of the side of the ship, and a desk whose hue and texture perfectly matched the shelves and the hardwood floors.
The Nocturne’s wood floor, glowing a beautiful mahogany color in the warm rays of the ship lighting, was warm under my feet as I changed out of my robes. Throne, it would be a long day.