They're set in the previous story. On page 3, I think.
Not sure I can quite capture his goodness in SM form, as there's no axes available. Which does give me a idea from the next picture.
Mattathias' Tale (Pt 7.)
Moderator: LadyTevar
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Elheru Aran
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 13073
- Joined: 2004-03-04 01:15am
- Location: Georgia
Well, Matti doesn't necessarily use an axe-- he's got a bolter tooVanas wrote:They're set in the previous story. On page 3, I think.
Not sure I can quite capture his goodness in SM form, as there's no axes available. Which does give me a idea from the next picture.
As for set in the previous story-- which part specifically? Just wondering...
It's a strange world. Let's keep it that way.
-
Vanas
- Jedi Council Member
- Posts: 1808
- Joined: 2005-03-12 05:31pm
- Location: Surfing the Moho
- Contact:
Depends on mood. That one, perhaps, near the Iron Warrior fortress. There's that spiky bridge in the background afterall.
I just wonder who took the photo. I have a mental image of a Grey Knight setting up a Polariod camera on a tripod.
I just wonder who took the photo. I have a mental image of a Grey Knight setting up a Polariod camera on a tripod.
According to wikipedia, "the Mohorovičić discontinuity is the boundary between the Earth's crust and the mantle."
According to Starbound, it's a problem solvable with enough combat drugs to turn you into the Incredible Hulk.
According to Starbound, it's a problem solvable with enough combat drugs to turn you into the Incredible Hulk.
-
Elheru Aran
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 13073
- Joined: 2004-03-04 01:15am
- Location: Georgia
Moment of truth.
++++++++++++
A human captive, hands bound, blinded, staggers forward from the orkish line as the greenskins chant; he croaks out, “Great lord? The Warlord Magoko Rage-Lord Krshniska Chakka, Waaagh-Master, makes greeting, and says to you, ‘Humie, ya is dam’ good fighta’. Ya kilt many good boyz, but I gots plenty a’ boyz still. Ya dam’ good fighta’, but ya ain’t gonna kill all my boyz. ‘Cause ya dam’ good, I fink ya maybe good ‘nuff to let live. Go back, humie, an’ we’ll fight agin when we gets dere!’ Do you wish to respond, lord?”
I shout down to him, “Tell the greenskin scum that here stands Mattathias Istheyanu, and in the name of the Emperor of Man and the Warmaster Horus, I shall give not an inch of ground. If he wants me to, he can come and make me!”
The prisoner trembles; but he turns and staggers back into the press, which parts for him. Moments later, an enormous bass bellow resounds, and the prisoner’s body is flung onto the battlefield as the orks part hastily. I hear the hissing of steam, and the Warlord emerges into the red moonlight…
I speak on the commbead back to the capital. “To all Imperial military of Lepidoptera IV. This is Lieutenant Mattathias Istheyanu of the Luna Wolves. Tell the Warmaster to avenge us. I shall do my duty, and fight to the last. Ave Imperator!”
Switching the commbead to the data-recorder built into my armour, I whisper a few last words. “To Captain Korai ar-Gaidiar of the Indefatigable. I’m sorry. I won’t be coming back. Forgive me. I love you. Tell the children…” My voice breaks. I clear my throat and continue, “Tell the children, I shall always be with them. Korai… te amo.”
Unable to say more, I pull the commbead out of my ear, and fling it away as it begins to squawk—undoubtedly that colonel from the capital trying to persuade me to retreat one last time. Pulling away my throat-mike, I throw that aside also. Resting the axe-head upon the bodies before me, I cross my hands upon my chest in the aquila and murmur a short prayer to the gods of Iskandar, and the Dagda of Bran Redmaw, he who gave me my silver hand and named me Llaw Eraint.
Taking up my axe, I am at peace. My end is near. I have done my duty. But my heart aches as I think of Korai, and her grief… No matter; I must do what I must. Fight on for her. Fight on for these men that have given their life in doing their duty, all about me. Fight on for the Emperor, for the light of Mankind.
The warlord bellows and hefts his power-claw, raising also the weapons in his other hand and firing into the air; I recognize a challenge when I see one, and raise Orkbane in response. His armour hisses as he begins stepping forward, his pace quickening. I shift my feet to a more stable posture, and clasp the axe with both hands, the silver fist glimmering darkly in the moonlight.
The greenskins’ chanting increases in volume, resounding across the battlefield. Too late, rockets arch across the sky and crash into their ranks, gouging out bloody craters; they ignore the dead and wounded, and close ranks, never breaking the chant. I can see the warlord’s face; enormous, with massive tusks as long as a child’s arm, bellowing harshly. His claw shines redly with blood in the moonlight.
Orkbane slowly begins shimmering blue as I thumb the power rune, and crackling arcs of electricity start running across its blade. The power hisses; and I raise the axe into a ready posture.
The warlord’s feet move faster, power plant upon his back beginning to chug nastily as his armour draws even more steam. He breaks into a trot, bellowing maledictions in his orkish tongue. The claw rises high; it seems he desires to finish it, once and for all, in one blow.
His foot splashes bloody mud; my muscles bunch, running all the way up from my hips through my shoulders and arms, and my back arches as my shoulders go back. The axe rises high above my head and back.
A last massive roar, and the claw begins to descend as, impossibly, he leaps upward, his armour apparently light as a feather…
Electric blue bisects the night in a shattering arc as my entire body clenches tight, my feet lifting off the ground.
My blow is true. With a jar that runs through my arms and shakes my chest, Orkbane sinks deep into the greenskin’s skull. Crude power lines running into the warlord’s head spark and explode as they are severed.
Time ends. I step back, letting go of the axe shaft; I know it shall never come out of the ork’s skull. Spreading my arms, I stand and close my eyes, letting my head roll back as I look upward. A star flames across the sky; merely a meteorite, but I watch it nonetheless.
The warlord’s corpse, arm still raised high, crashes to the pile of bodies and rubble I stand upon in the breach of Fort Seventeen’s walls. Orkbane spits and hisses still as it burns in the greenskin’s skull.
I begin to turn away. A last look over my shoulder—and incredibly, a light flares forth in the ork’s remaining eye. The power-claw at last falls.
I feel a tug at my middle. The rubble of the walls and the stinking greenskin bodies shake under my fall. I cannot feel my legs. An impact nearby—the ork’s claw finally comes under the inexorable hold of gravity.
I am sorely hurt, as the telltales inside the collar of my armour tell me. I needed no sensors to inform me. But I have done my duty. Why then do I feel as though the worse hurt was dealt days ago, when I left Korai weeping…? I am hollow inside, burnt out, a suit of armour with a face.
Slowly I realize the greenskins have halted their chanting. I can hear them creeping about the battlefield. What are they doing? I let my head fall back onto a stone and let my breath out slowly. Against my will, my body breathes back in. I close my eyes and let the blackness close in.
++++++++++++
A human captive, hands bound, blinded, staggers forward from the orkish line as the greenskins chant; he croaks out, “Great lord? The Warlord Magoko Rage-Lord Krshniska Chakka, Waaagh-Master, makes greeting, and says to you, ‘Humie, ya is dam’ good fighta’. Ya kilt many good boyz, but I gots plenty a’ boyz still. Ya dam’ good fighta’, but ya ain’t gonna kill all my boyz. ‘Cause ya dam’ good, I fink ya maybe good ‘nuff to let live. Go back, humie, an’ we’ll fight agin when we gets dere!’ Do you wish to respond, lord?”
I shout down to him, “Tell the greenskin scum that here stands Mattathias Istheyanu, and in the name of the Emperor of Man and the Warmaster Horus, I shall give not an inch of ground. If he wants me to, he can come and make me!”
The prisoner trembles; but he turns and staggers back into the press, which parts for him. Moments later, an enormous bass bellow resounds, and the prisoner’s body is flung onto the battlefield as the orks part hastily. I hear the hissing of steam, and the Warlord emerges into the red moonlight…
I speak on the commbead back to the capital. “To all Imperial military of Lepidoptera IV. This is Lieutenant Mattathias Istheyanu of the Luna Wolves. Tell the Warmaster to avenge us. I shall do my duty, and fight to the last. Ave Imperator!”
Switching the commbead to the data-recorder built into my armour, I whisper a few last words. “To Captain Korai ar-Gaidiar of the Indefatigable. I’m sorry. I won’t be coming back. Forgive me. I love you. Tell the children…” My voice breaks. I clear my throat and continue, “Tell the children, I shall always be with them. Korai… te amo.”
Unable to say more, I pull the commbead out of my ear, and fling it away as it begins to squawk—undoubtedly that colonel from the capital trying to persuade me to retreat one last time. Pulling away my throat-mike, I throw that aside also. Resting the axe-head upon the bodies before me, I cross my hands upon my chest in the aquila and murmur a short prayer to the gods of Iskandar, and the Dagda of Bran Redmaw, he who gave me my silver hand and named me Llaw Eraint.
Taking up my axe, I am at peace. My end is near. I have done my duty. But my heart aches as I think of Korai, and her grief… No matter; I must do what I must. Fight on for her. Fight on for these men that have given their life in doing their duty, all about me. Fight on for the Emperor, for the light of Mankind.
The warlord bellows and hefts his power-claw, raising also the weapons in his other hand and firing into the air; I recognize a challenge when I see one, and raise Orkbane in response. His armour hisses as he begins stepping forward, his pace quickening. I shift my feet to a more stable posture, and clasp the axe with both hands, the silver fist glimmering darkly in the moonlight.
The greenskins’ chanting increases in volume, resounding across the battlefield. Too late, rockets arch across the sky and crash into their ranks, gouging out bloody craters; they ignore the dead and wounded, and close ranks, never breaking the chant. I can see the warlord’s face; enormous, with massive tusks as long as a child’s arm, bellowing harshly. His claw shines redly with blood in the moonlight.
Orkbane slowly begins shimmering blue as I thumb the power rune, and crackling arcs of electricity start running across its blade. The power hisses; and I raise the axe into a ready posture.
The warlord’s feet move faster, power plant upon his back beginning to chug nastily as his armour draws even more steam. He breaks into a trot, bellowing maledictions in his orkish tongue. The claw rises high; it seems he desires to finish it, once and for all, in one blow.
His foot splashes bloody mud; my muscles bunch, running all the way up from my hips through my shoulders and arms, and my back arches as my shoulders go back. The axe rises high above my head and back.
A last massive roar, and the claw begins to descend as, impossibly, he leaps upward, his armour apparently light as a feather…
Electric blue bisects the night in a shattering arc as my entire body clenches tight, my feet lifting off the ground.
My blow is true. With a jar that runs through my arms and shakes my chest, Orkbane sinks deep into the greenskin’s skull. Crude power lines running into the warlord’s head spark and explode as they are severed.
Time ends. I step back, letting go of the axe shaft; I know it shall never come out of the ork’s skull. Spreading my arms, I stand and close my eyes, letting my head roll back as I look upward. A star flames across the sky; merely a meteorite, but I watch it nonetheless.
The warlord’s corpse, arm still raised high, crashes to the pile of bodies and rubble I stand upon in the breach of Fort Seventeen’s walls. Orkbane spits and hisses still as it burns in the greenskin’s skull.
I begin to turn away. A last look over my shoulder—and incredibly, a light flares forth in the ork’s remaining eye. The power-claw at last falls.
I feel a tug at my middle. The rubble of the walls and the stinking greenskin bodies shake under my fall. I cannot feel my legs. An impact nearby—the ork’s claw finally comes under the inexorable hold of gravity.
I am sorely hurt, as the telltales inside the collar of my armour tell me. I needed no sensors to inform me. But I have done my duty. Why then do I feel as though the worse hurt was dealt days ago, when I left Korai weeping…? I am hollow inside, burnt out, a suit of armour with a face.
Slowly I realize the greenskins have halted their chanting. I can hear them creeping about the battlefield. What are they doing? I let my head fall back onto a stone and let my breath out slowly. Against my will, my body breathes back in. I close my eyes and let the blackness close in.
It's a strange world. Let's keep it that way.
-
Elheru Aran
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 13073
- Joined: 2004-03-04 01:15am
- Location: Georgia
I hope that wasn't too much for you guys?
Comments appreciated as always...
++++++++++++++++++++++
Glaring sunlight wakes me. I can feel the slow trickle of adrenaline running through me—my suit’s automedicae systems striving to keep me alive. My legs tingle oddly—I reach down, but they are not there. Looking at my fingers before my face, I see only blood on them.
I let my hand fall and close my eyes again. Unbidden, I see Korai once more. No! I shout mentally, and crash my fist down into a stone; it shatters, broken by my armour. The eldar’s voice trickles through my skull-- …one thing I shall tell you; if you go to Lepidoptera, you die. Heed your woman…
My face pulls taut; and I let my breath out in a slow sob. The sun shines unmercifully above, and the stink of corpses rises about me.
Night falls. The creeping of greenskins grows closer. They are collecting the bodies of their fallen brethren, loading them on war-buggies. The noise goes on all night.
Another morning. My lips crack; the water bladder in my armour was finished long ago. My eyes burn like hot coals under my eyelids; and the power supply on my back is dying. The automedicae has run out of stimulants to keep me awake.
Another night. Orkish war-buggies have been chugging by through the darkness for a long time now. I do not know where they are going, merely that it is away. I can hear, in the distance, militiamen moving about in the trenches, and farther away, the explosions of artillery. Occasionally, a rocket will arch through the sky to explode randomly somewhere in the distance; it seems the militia are trying to hinder the war-buggies.
Sun rises once more. My power has finally expired; the lights inside the collar of my armour are all dead. I bake. The heat is overpowering, as is the stench and decay of corpses about me. I do not think; I merely suffer. What can I do? Weighted down by armour without power, bisected and without legs, I am near death as it is.
I begin to hallucinate. Eldar flit about me, the harlequins dancing and laughing. Banshees spiral in a ballet of death as seers send forth multicoloured gyres of fireworks. Space Wolves, their heads and eyes lupine, chase them off. Some shamble upon all four limbs; others, more human, bare massive fangs and brandish the distinctive Fenrisian frost-blades. Leman Russ towers above them and salutes me, lifting his massive chainsword high.
The Angel Sanguinius hovers high in the sky, golden-armoured, gleaming as a demigod. He furls his wings as a massive black beast towers behind him, face obscured by a red glow, and strikes the son of the Emperor down. But another rises—a black-armoured figure with the face of a skull and the voice of an avenger, and the wings of Sanguinius. He turns in the air and looks at me, red eyepieces glittering in the sunlight, and glows brightly as his wings fall away, trailing feathers—but he hovers still…
Stones fall about me; the moon is high in the sky. I hear the babble of greenskin voices nearby.
“Oi, Boss! We gots da Warlord ‘ere, wot do ya wanna do?”
A deeper voice, nearby—“Stuff it, Durga. ‘E’s dead, ain’t ‘e? Da humie did for ‘im but good. Dat was a fight, f’r sure!”
Rocks rustle as greenskin bodies are lifted away; I smell live ork nearby. One speaks up—“Boss! ‘E’s alive! Looky ‘ere!”
“Wotsadat? Da ‘ell ya sez!” and the leader of this band pops his head above the warlord’s hulk. Stepping closer, it bares its teeth in a grin and remarks cheerfully, “Wal, wouldn’t ya know it! ‘E’s alive awright!”
I raise my hand, and make an ancient gesture of invective; it laughs harshly and addresses me, “Humie, we ain’t gonna touch ya, mate. Youse done good big fight, an’ da weird-boyz say we ain’t touchin’ ya, gonna let youse mates collect ya an’ stick ya in a box, wot’eva dey do fer big guyz like ya after all da fightin’ done.”
Bending close, he whispered with difficulty through his massive jaw, “An’ the weirdboyz, an’ the nobz, an’ all the boyz, an’ me, we says, ya done fought like one o’ da boyz, eh? I fink we remember ya long time, mate. Real dam’ long time…”
Rough greenskin hands lift me up and move me to another part of the ruined walls, under an overhang; they withdraw, taking their bodies with them. Later in the night, they return with a squiggoth and tow away the warlord’s corpse, its armour clanking over the stones; they leave its bosspole and trophies stuck into the rubble heap. I look dimly over to the inside of the fort; they laid out the bodies of my Marines, not looting them where they laid as they normally do. My chainsword and bolter have been laid beside me; they were unable to extricate Orkbane from the warlord’s skull, even with their massive strength.
I look upward; a new star has appeared, moving slowly over the sky. I know it is a ship.
As gold fills the sky from the western horizon, streamers of flame lance down from above. The dull concussion of their impacts resounds about me, and dust rises into the sky. With a banshee wail Stormbirds flash across the sky; one wheels about, rising upon its wing in a circle to skid to a halt upon the bloody field.
I hear the familiar clatter of ceramite-clad feet charging along the ruined walls; the amplified voices of sergeants directing their men about the empty defense lines. They knock down orkish standards and bosspoles as they run towards the ruins of Fort Seventeen, where I lay.
The grey and gold of the Luna Wolves shines before me. I close my eyes as I hear voices exclaiming that I am still alive, how did I manage that, get him to the Stormbird now now now!!! Armoured hands lift me up, bearing me towards the transport; once within, a white-armoured apothecary begins working upon me, grumbling to himself as I feel the plane’s engines rumbling and we lift off.
White walls flash before me—medicae surround me, sawing through my armour, pulling it off, sticking needles into me. The chatter of their voices slowly descends into a formless babble as my eyes roll back and the darkness closes in.
Comments appreciated as always...
++++++++++++++++++++++
Glaring sunlight wakes me. I can feel the slow trickle of adrenaline running through me—my suit’s automedicae systems striving to keep me alive. My legs tingle oddly—I reach down, but they are not there. Looking at my fingers before my face, I see only blood on them.
I let my hand fall and close my eyes again. Unbidden, I see Korai once more. No! I shout mentally, and crash my fist down into a stone; it shatters, broken by my armour. The eldar’s voice trickles through my skull-- …one thing I shall tell you; if you go to Lepidoptera, you die. Heed your woman…
My face pulls taut; and I let my breath out in a slow sob. The sun shines unmercifully above, and the stink of corpses rises about me.
Night falls. The creeping of greenskins grows closer. They are collecting the bodies of their fallen brethren, loading them on war-buggies. The noise goes on all night.
Another morning. My lips crack; the water bladder in my armour was finished long ago. My eyes burn like hot coals under my eyelids; and the power supply on my back is dying. The automedicae has run out of stimulants to keep me awake.
Another night. Orkish war-buggies have been chugging by through the darkness for a long time now. I do not know where they are going, merely that it is away. I can hear, in the distance, militiamen moving about in the trenches, and farther away, the explosions of artillery. Occasionally, a rocket will arch through the sky to explode randomly somewhere in the distance; it seems the militia are trying to hinder the war-buggies.
Sun rises once more. My power has finally expired; the lights inside the collar of my armour are all dead. I bake. The heat is overpowering, as is the stench and decay of corpses about me. I do not think; I merely suffer. What can I do? Weighted down by armour without power, bisected and without legs, I am near death as it is.
I begin to hallucinate. Eldar flit about me, the harlequins dancing and laughing. Banshees spiral in a ballet of death as seers send forth multicoloured gyres of fireworks. Space Wolves, their heads and eyes lupine, chase them off. Some shamble upon all four limbs; others, more human, bare massive fangs and brandish the distinctive Fenrisian frost-blades. Leman Russ towers above them and salutes me, lifting his massive chainsword high.
The Angel Sanguinius hovers high in the sky, golden-armoured, gleaming as a demigod. He furls his wings as a massive black beast towers behind him, face obscured by a red glow, and strikes the son of the Emperor down. But another rises—a black-armoured figure with the face of a skull and the voice of an avenger, and the wings of Sanguinius. He turns in the air and looks at me, red eyepieces glittering in the sunlight, and glows brightly as his wings fall away, trailing feathers—but he hovers still…
Stones fall about me; the moon is high in the sky. I hear the babble of greenskin voices nearby.
“Oi, Boss! We gots da Warlord ‘ere, wot do ya wanna do?”
A deeper voice, nearby—“Stuff it, Durga. ‘E’s dead, ain’t ‘e? Da humie did for ‘im but good. Dat was a fight, f’r sure!”
Rocks rustle as greenskin bodies are lifted away; I smell live ork nearby. One speaks up—“Boss! ‘E’s alive! Looky ‘ere!”
“Wotsadat? Da ‘ell ya sez!” and the leader of this band pops his head above the warlord’s hulk. Stepping closer, it bares its teeth in a grin and remarks cheerfully, “Wal, wouldn’t ya know it! ‘E’s alive awright!”
I raise my hand, and make an ancient gesture of invective; it laughs harshly and addresses me, “Humie, we ain’t gonna touch ya, mate. Youse done good big fight, an’ da weird-boyz say we ain’t touchin’ ya, gonna let youse mates collect ya an’ stick ya in a box, wot’eva dey do fer big guyz like ya after all da fightin’ done.”
Bending close, he whispered with difficulty through his massive jaw, “An’ the weirdboyz, an’ the nobz, an’ all the boyz, an’ me, we says, ya done fought like one o’ da boyz, eh? I fink we remember ya long time, mate. Real dam’ long time…”
Rough greenskin hands lift me up and move me to another part of the ruined walls, under an overhang; they withdraw, taking their bodies with them. Later in the night, they return with a squiggoth and tow away the warlord’s corpse, its armour clanking over the stones; they leave its bosspole and trophies stuck into the rubble heap. I look dimly over to the inside of the fort; they laid out the bodies of my Marines, not looting them where they laid as they normally do. My chainsword and bolter have been laid beside me; they were unable to extricate Orkbane from the warlord’s skull, even with their massive strength.
I look upward; a new star has appeared, moving slowly over the sky. I know it is a ship.
As gold fills the sky from the western horizon, streamers of flame lance down from above. The dull concussion of their impacts resounds about me, and dust rises into the sky. With a banshee wail Stormbirds flash across the sky; one wheels about, rising upon its wing in a circle to skid to a halt upon the bloody field.
I hear the familiar clatter of ceramite-clad feet charging along the ruined walls; the amplified voices of sergeants directing their men about the empty defense lines. They knock down orkish standards and bosspoles as they run towards the ruins of Fort Seventeen, where I lay.
The grey and gold of the Luna Wolves shines before me. I close my eyes as I hear voices exclaiming that I am still alive, how did I manage that, get him to the Stormbird now now now!!! Armoured hands lift me up, bearing me towards the transport; once within, a white-armoured apothecary begins working upon me, grumbling to himself as I feel the plane’s engines rumbling and we lift off.
White walls flash before me—medicae surround me, sawing through my armour, pulling it off, sticking needles into me. The chatter of their voices slowly descends into a formless babble as my eyes roll back and the darkness closes in.
It's a strange world. Let's keep it that way.
-
Vanas
- Jedi Council Member
- Posts: 1808
- Joined: 2005-03-12 05:31pm
- Location: Surfing the Moho
- Contact:
The problem I have with dear Matta is doing him justice within the confines of Dawn of War. Still, i think I got the mood about right here.
According to wikipedia, "the Mohorovičić discontinuity is the boundary between the Earth's crust and the mantle."
According to Starbound, it's a problem solvable with enough combat drugs to turn you into the Incredible Hulk.
According to Starbound, it's a problem solvable with enough combat drugs to turn you into the Incredible Hulk.
-
Ford Prefect
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 8254
- Joined: 2005-05-16 04:08am
- Location: The real number domain
-
Elheru Aran
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 13073
- Joined: 2004-03-04 01:15am
- Location: Georgia
You think that's the ending?Ford Prefect wrote:That was awesome. What and ending. Damn good.
Here it is...
++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I open my eyes; I can breathe. A torrent of information assails my senses; infrared, ultraviolet, other spectra. I look about; my arm is gone, plugged into the side of this box I am within. The other is filled with input jacks, wires leading through various blinking cogitators about me. I look; I am standing, higher above the ground than I ever did, but my two feet are firmly upon the deck. I clench my hand; and I hear servo-motors humming quietly as metal clanks. Raising my arm, I look; and the holographic viewer within the sarcophagus shows me a massive power fist, intricately decorated and gilded with silver. The internal auspex shows me all systems functional, grip strength three point six metric tons.
I am within a machine. I have been entombed in a Dreadnought sarcophagus for the magnitude of my achievements. I… live. I did not die on Lepidoptera.
But at what cost? Can I call myself human any longer? Am I merely this clanking battle-machine, this Venerable Brother?
And then my newly enhanced binaural sensors pick up weeping…
My eyes scan across the chamber I am within—cool purples and blues, but a shimmer of red and orange pops up, a human figure, female. With a thought, I see in green night-vision tones.
Korai… Sitting there before me, crying. Hot tears prick my eyes. I want to reach out to her, to touch her, tell her that I came back, that I’m not dead, that I love her…
But I do nothing. I remain immobile. My external speakers are still yet inactive, and the power-supply cords maintaining my Dreadnought suit have only enough energy for keeping my life support running and various sensors.
Within my sarcophagus, my living tomb, I whisper her name as she stands and steps back, then turns about and walks away. I see the warm teardrop she leaves on the deck and the hot print of her hand after she leans upon the doorjamb, before she steps out entirely.
I close my eyes. I whisper her name again, and fall silent.
I serve the Emperor and the Warmaster faithfully for two centuries. On Holy Terra is a mighty palace being built for Him; He desires detachments from each Legion to attend.
We board the Sagittar. The Marines I am with are young; they have heard of me, though, albeit not the full story. I have been silent upon my history; any wishing to know further may inspect the archives of the Luna Wolves.
I say no more; my tale is finished here. The warp-storm is severe, and we are to enter the old ship’s hibernation capsules, rigged from the Magos Explorators’ stasis tubes for xenos specimens. By some fortune there was one large enough to bear my sarcophagus. My Dreadnought suit and the Marines’ power armour will be placed in preservation fluid until such a time as we are revived.
I hope I do not dream while I sleep, for if I do, it shall be of Korai…
It's a strange world. Let's keep it that way.
-
Ford Prefect
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 8254
- Joined: 2005-05-16 04:08am
- Location: The real number domain
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
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Comosicus
- Keeper of the Lore
- Posts: 1991
- Joined: 2003-11-23 06:33pm
- Location: on the battlements of Sarmizegetusa
- Contact:
It is interesting to see that Mattathias has become a Dreadnought just before entering the stasis sleep and being lost into warp. I always presumed that he did some ass-kicking in that form before that point.
Nevertheless it is a touching story and, in my opinion, pretty much fitted into the universe.
Nevertheless it is a touching story and, in my opinion, pretty much fitted into the universe.
Not all Dacians died at Sarmizegetusa
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Singular Quartet
- Sith Marauder
- Posts: 3896
- Joined: 2002-07-04 05:33pm
- Location: This is sky. It is made of FUCKING and LIMIT.
Not so sure of that, with that statement "I serve the Emperor and the Warmaster faithfully for two centuries. On Holy Terra is a mighty palace being built for Him; He desires detachments from each Legion to attend."Comosicus wrote:It is interesting to see that Mattathias has become a Dreadnought just before entering the stasis sleep and being lost into warp. I always presumed that he did some ass-kicking in that form before that point.
I think he got another two centuries of ass kicking in there as a dreadnaught before going into stasis.
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Elheru Aran
- Emperor's Hand
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Quite correct. My focus here wasn't upon Mattathias the Dreadnought; it was Mattathias the man. We got plenty of Dreadnought action in the original fic, after all; it was time, I felt, to show us who really Matti is...Singular Quartet wrote:Not so sure of that, with that statement "I serve the Emperor and the Warmaster faithfully for two centuries. On Holy Terra is a mighty palace being built for Him; He desires detachments from each Legion to attend."Comosicus wrote:It is interesting to see that Mattathias has become a Dreadnought just before entering the stasis sleep and being lost into warp. I always presumed that he did some ass-kicking in that form before that point.
I think he got another two centuries of ass kicking in there as a dreadnaught before going into stasis.
EDIT: Stupid 'submit' button putting itself under my pointer...
In any case-- I submit the question; did I succeed? Did this fic fulfill thy expectations, O Faithful Readers?
It's a strange world. Let's keep it that way.
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Ford Prefect
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Comosicus
- Keeper of the Lore
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I took that paragraph to be directly connected to the one before, presuming that he has served as a 'human' Space Marine for two centuries and that as soon as he was operational as a Dreadnought, he was sent to Terra. Might be my poor knowledge of the universe, or the fact that I'm not a native English speaker, as a reason for that mistake.Elheru Aran wrote:Quite correct. My focus here wasn't upon Mattathias the Dreadnought; it was Mattathias the man. We got plenty of Dreadnought action in the original fic, after all; it was time, I felt, to show us who really Matti is...Singular Quartet wrote:Not so sure of that, with that statement "I serve the Emperor and the Warmaster faithfully for two centuries. On Holy Terra is a mighty palace being built for Him; He desires detachments from each Legion to attend."Comosicus wrote:It is interesting to see that Mattathias has become a Dreadnought just before entering the stasis sleep and being lost into warp. I always presumed that he did some ass-kicking in that form before that point.
I think he got another two centuries of ass kicking in there as a dreadnaught before going into stasis.
EDIT: Stupid 'submit' button putting itself under my pointer...
In any case-- I submit the question; did I succeed? Did this fic fulfill thy expectations, O Faithful Readers?
Regarding your question, I think you did a wonderful job, by portraying the Marines not just as superhuman-bad-ass-killing-machines, but also being capable of deep emotions, like love.
Not all Dacians died at Sarmizegetusa