Karl Valten
Sep 17th, 2008, 11:49:30 PM
Seventeen Years Ago
The weak will always be led by the strong.
Where the strong cry out against fate, the weak bow their heads and succumb.
There are many who are weak and many are their temptations.
Despise the weak for they flock to the call of the adept and the renegade.
Pity them not and scorn their cries of innocence-it is better that one hundred innocent’s fall before the wrath of the Inquisitoriate than one kneel before chaos.
-Book of Indoctrinations
Dozens of bodies, white clad warriors bearing sharp insignia of the Galactic and others in a motley collection of black market equipment, clashed in the battered streets. The air cooked with the torrents of fire flaying through flesh and armor and every now and then the staccato barks of repeater-rifles drowned out the whining of blasters. A hideous stench of burning ozone and roasting corpses seeped everywhere, piercing through breath filters with horrifying strength. No escaped the smell of death.
Explosions filled the air as grenades left craters of dismember limbs and arcing missiles blew boulders of marble and granite from crumbling buildings onto the combatants below. Yet despite the detonations, the whine of blasters, and clashing of blades, another sound drowned it out…..Endless screaming rose in a discordant chorus of angels and demons. Screams ringing out from the throats of hundreds, of thousands…cries of pain, cries of despair, and above all…cries of unbridled hatred.
And in the raging firefights, a company of mismatched soldiers takes cover in the crumbling husk of an administration building. Nervously crouching behind the scorched wrecks of burning vehicles, setting up fire points among fallen verandas and webs of plasteel girders from the collapsing ceilings. Entrenched repeater and cannon emplacements peak from rubble barricades while sharp-shooters carrying high powered rifles position themselves is the remains of the building’s upper floors.
Expanding before them lay the shattered remains of the city center, a no-man’s land of town square occupied by blood drench path ways, monofilament wire traps, and countless bodies. And all around, once glorious spires pouring black smoke up into a red atmosphere.
A crimson sky above the bleeding earth. A hopeless last stand against and fanatic foe. Many sob…for dead friends, for tortured loved-ones, for the knowledge that not one of their pitiful lives would make it through the day.
Across the blasted plaza, a phalanx of Imperial troopers holds their end of the stalemate. Soot-stained and weary, the battered aggressors dare not cross the expanse lest they join the piles of the dead. In the rear lines officers scatter maps and holo-grids on hastily prepared forward operation centers.
“If we divert a portion of Gamma Platoon along the street in grid G4 we can get a small team in through here and here.”
One haggard officer, dark hair tussled beyond a mess with armor scorched in several places, emphatically traces a route on the hologram.
A second officer, arm bound tight in a bloody sling, vehemently shakes his head. “No the rebels crashed a LAV at the Charnik Enterprises building. We can’t get anything in and out of there with that blocked off and the engineers can’t get through with that force-damned light artillery.”
As if to emphasize the point a high pitch scream rose above the sporadic fire. Instinctively, nearby stormtroopers dove for cover and the congregating officers flinch. With a hauntingly familiar THUNK-CLICK followed by an earsplitting cacophony and shower of rubble from a mortar shell.
Standing shakily to his feet, the lieutenant in command hauled a fallen trooper back up to his feet. “When in FRAK’S name is that armor getting here?”
Weeks of fighting and graced the warriors of the Imperium with little respite and only a fleeting view of victory. It seemed for every meter of ground gained and every structure taken, the rebels would only make headway elsewhere. Even heavy-combat vehicles could hardly make any through the war blasted streets and repulsor-tanks were easily blown from the skies.
Frustration ran rampant in the ranks of both sides, though something in recent days had happen within the opposition. The scattered troops had become more focused, fighting with some unexplained vigor. In such dark times their hope flourished………….and it earned them the attention of a power that all but the Emperor feared.
It was at this moment that a simple communications officer received a strange message. “Sir, fleet command is…….”
Suddenly the man fell silent, his gaze rising towards the sky. Screaming down from the heavens, drowning out every last sound of war, plummeted a dozen comets wreathed in fire. Like angry demons the objects careened ever close to the earth with plumes of obsidian smoke trailing their passage.
Rebels and Imperials alike squeezed their eyes shut, praying for painless final moments. But in the last seconds, flaring jets exploded from the bottoms of the ‘comets’ and the fire vanished. A dozen red-hot metallic drop pods slammed into the plaza shaking the ground and throwing ferrocrete high into the air.
CLANK
In the rising dust the edges of the pods violently slammed into the ground, giving rise to dark figures in the hazy soot and smoke.
Inquisitor Karl Valten, clad in obsidian robes, calmly stepped from his pod facing the rebel-held structure clad in obsidian robes.
“Bring me one alive, kill the rest.”
The weak will always be led by the strong.
Where the strong cry out against fate, the weak bow their heads and succumb.
There are many who are weak and many are their temptations.
Despise the weak for they flock to the call of the adept and the renegade.
Pity them not and scorn their cries of innocence-it is better that one hundred innocent’s fall before the wrath of the Inquisitoriate than one kneel before chaos.
-Book of Indoctrinations
Dozens of bodies, white clad warriors bearing sharp insignia of the Galactic and others in a motley collection of black market equipment, clashed in the battered streets. The air cooked with the torrents of fire flaying through flesh and armor and every now and then the staccato barks of repeater-rifles drowned out the whining of blasters. A hideous stench of burning ozone and roasting corpses seeped everywhere, piercing through breath filters with horrifying strength. No escaped the smell of death.
Explosions filled the air as grenades left craters of dismember limbs and arcing missiles blew boulders of marble and granite from crumbling buildings onto the combatants below. Yet despite the detonations, the whine of blasters, and clashing of blades, another sound drowned it out…..Endless screaming rose in a discordant chorus of angels and demons. Screams ringing out from the throats of hundreds, of thousands…cries of pain, cries of despair, and above all…cries of unbridled hatred.
And in the raging firefights, a company of mismatched soldiers takes cover in the crumbling husk of an administration building. Nervously crouching behind the scorched wrecks of burning vehicles, setting up fire points among fallen verandas and webs of plasteel girders from the collapsing ceilings. Entrenched repeater and cannon emplacements peak from rubble barricades while sharp-shooters carrying high powered rifles position themselves is the remains of the building’s upper floors.
Expanding before them lay the shattered remains of the city center, a no-man’s land of town square occupied by blood drench path ways, monofilament wire traps, and countless bodies. And all around, once glorious spires pouring black smoke up into a red atmosphere.
A crimson sky above the bleeding earth. A hopeless last stand against and fanatic foe. Many sob…for dead friends, for tortured loved-ones, for the knowledge that not one of their pitiful lives would make it through the day.
Across the blasted plaza, a phalanx of Imperial troopers holds their end of the stalemate. Soot-stained and weary, the battered aggressors dare not cross the expanse lest they join the piles of the dead. In the rear lines officers scatter maps and holo-grids on hastily prepared forward operation centers.
“If we divert a portion of Gamma Platoon along the street in grid G4 we can get a small team in through here and here.”
One haggard officer, dark hair tussled beyond a mess with armor scorched in several places, emphatically traces a route on the hologram.
A second officer, arm bound tight in a bloody sling, vehemently shakes his head. “No the rebels crashed a LAV at the Charnik Enterprises building. We can’t get anything in and out of there with that blocked off and the engineers can’t get through with that force-damned light artillery.”
As if to emphasize the point a high pitch scream rose above the sporadic fire. Instinctively, nearby stormtroopers dove for cover and the congregating officers flinch. With a hauntingly familiar THUNK-CLICK followed by an earsplitting cacophony and shower of rubble from a mortar shell.
Standing shakily to his feet, the lieutenant in command hauled a fallen trooper back up to his feet. “When in FRAK’S name is that armor getting here?”
Weeks of fighting and graced the warriors of the Imperium with little respite and only a fleeting view of victory. It seemed for every meter of ground gained and every structure taken, the rebels would only make headway elsewhere. Even heavy-combat vehicles could hardly make any through the war blasted streets and repulsor-tanks were easily blown from the skies.
Frustration ran rampant in the ranks of both sides, though something in recent days had happen within the opposition. The scattered troops had become more focused, fighting with some unexplained vigor. In such dark times their hope flourished………….and it earned them the attention of a power that all but the Emperor feared.
It was at this moment that a simple communications officer received a strange message. “Sir, fleet command is…….”
Suddenly the man fell silent, his gaze rising towards the sky. Screaming down from the heavens, drowning out every last sound of war, plummeted a dozen comets wreathed in fire. Like angry demons the objects careened ever close to the earth with plumes of obsidian smoke trailing their passage.
Rebels and Imperials alike squeezed their eyes shut, praying for painless final moments. But in the last seconds, flaring jets exploded from the bottoms of the ‘comets’ and the fire vanished. A dozen red-hot metallic drop pods slammed into the plaza shaking the ground and throwing ferrocrete high into the air.
CLANK
In the rising dust the edges of the pods violently slammed into the ground, giving rise to dark figures in the hazy soot and smoke.
Inquisitor Karl Valten, clad in obsidian robes, calmly stepped from his pod facing the rebel-held structure clad in obsidian robes.
“Bring me one alive, kill the rest.”