Gerah Arterius
Oct 16th, 2010, 09:45:25 PM
"Push forward!", Gerah called into his buy'ce's comlink. He advanced on the field of battle, dodging stray energy bolts and returning fire.
Arterius spared a glance around. He saw bodies of troops from his company and of the enemies intermingled on the ground. He didn't allow himself the luxury of grimacing, he just continued to hold the trigger of his dual WESTAR-34 blaster pistols. The two pistols shot fire with a distinctive wane of combat, and the steady fire turned into a rhythm for him.
Dodge, fire, roll, fire, dodge.
The cycle continued, pushing forward and issuing orders as necessary. His company had been ambushed but it was a naive attack. "Di'kuts..." he thought to himself. The soldiers fighting them had been underarmed and undertrained, but their desperation had made them formidable for casualties. His thoughts continued uninterrupted in the ebb and flow of battle until he was jolted backwards.
Gerah glanced over at his shoulder; a new dent had appeared. "Good old beskar'gam..." he mused to himself. If not his arm would have been blow off; fun stuff. He performed a perfect barrel roll, moving before he could be picked off by a lucky shooter. He jumped to his feet but was drilled again in the chest. His left pistol flew from his hand and he swore to himself repeatedly. "Shab, shab, Gerah, it's not time to die yet..." A unnamed and uniform looking stormtrooper stood over him, his E-11 pointed directly at the Mando'ade's face.
Gerah was not resigned to death. He brought his leg up as powerfully as he could, straight into the underprotected groin of the trooper. He flipped onto his feet, and punched the trooper straight in the nose of his helmet. He drew an evil looking knife from a shoulder holster and slashed with all the might he could muster along the soldier's neck area. Blood spurted from the open wound, coating his blue Mando armor with a distinctive smell and color. He blocked it out. Blood and death were all sideeffects of war, and ones he had decided he could stand. He glanced back and saw his second WESTAR laying in the dust about 20 feet back. "Not worth it..." he sighed to himself. He pulled his formidable EE-3 carbine from his back where it had been strapped and searched for a suitable position of cover. He saw a pile of three bodies. "Nothing better for cover than the armor of your enemies."
He made a run for the cover, ducking and jumping to avoid a grim death. He reached the corpses and dropped, positioning his gun and firing. He dropped three soldiers before he distinctively noticed in the precision scope the enemy troops turning and running. A grin grew on his face. "Forward! Beat them out!" His men advanced on the retreating cowards, picking them off as best as he could while keeping up a sprint. The outlook was good until a familiar sound buzzed in his ears.
"All hands, take cover, enemy air support inbound! Repeat, take cover!" His eyes searched the skies but did not find the distinctive trails of missiles or laser fire. They had time, but not much, if any. He hit the floor, crawling along the muddied ground. He could feel the crunch of bones as he slid as fast as possible over shortly dead bodies. His heavy beskar armor crushed all underneath and left him still perfectly climate controlled.
He reached what looked like a suitable pit in the ground. He crawled down beneath, concealing himself with nearby bodies. His muzzle and scope poked out of the mound as he searched for his own troops and the enemy. They appeared to still be beating a quick retreat, and Arterius couldn't make out his forces. "Hope they made it..." he thought.
"This is Arterius, report?" He waited. No response. "Company, respond!?" Nothing, again. Worry gained. In fact, he couldn't see anything around him, or feel any-
Arterius jerked himself out of his slumber. Sweat drenched his overshirt and neck, and he stood up and stretched his tired muscles. "Fierfek, it was just a dream..." He glanced around the dim room. It was sparse, to say the most. His weapons and beskar'gam lay ready to be assembled in the corner. He decided that, still off-duty, he would grab a bite to eat a little bit earlier than usual. He slipped out of his sweaty underclothes into a civilian uniform. His only indication of rank was his captain's army insignia which he stuck to his breast area. He attached his holster to his belt and slipped his customary WESTAR-34 in it. "Better to be prepared," was his motto, and he always was.
Gerah exited the apartment and headed for the Rebel cantina.
Arterius spared a glance around. He saw bodies of troops from his company and of the enemies intermingled on the ground. He didn't allow himself the luxury of grimacing, he just continued to hold the trigger of his dual WESTAR-34 blaster pistols. The two pistols shot fire with a distinctive wane of combat, and the steady fire turned into a rhythm for him.
Dodge, fire, roll, fire, dodge.
The cycle continued, pushing forward and issuing orders as necessary. His company had been ambushed but it was a naive attack. "Di'kuts..." he thought to himself. The soldiers fighting them had been underarmed and undertrained, but their desperation had made them formidable for casualties. His thoughts continued uninterrupted in the ebb and flow of battle until he was jolted backwards.
Gerah glanced over at his shoulder; a new dent had appeared. "Good old beskar'gam..." he mused to himself. If not his arm would have been blow off; fun stuff. He performed a perfect barrel roll, moving before he could be picked off by a lucky shooter. He jumped to his feet but was drilled again in the chest. His left pistol flew from his hand and he swore to himself repeatedly. "Shab, shab, Gerah, it's not time to die yet..." A unnamed and uniform looking stormtrooper stood over him, his E-11 pointed directly at the Mando'ade's face.
Gerah was not resigned to death. He brought his leg up as powerfully as he could, straight into the underprotected groin of the trooper. He flipped onto his feet, and punched the trooper straight in the nose of his helmet. He drew an evil looking knife from a shoulder holster and slashed with all the might he could muster along the soldier's neck area. Blood spurted from the open wound, coating his blue Mando armor with a distinctive smell and color. He blocked it out. Blood and death were all sideeffects of war, and ones he had decided he could stand. He glanced back and saw his second WESTAR laying in the dust about 20 feet back. "Not worth it..." he sighed to himself. He pulled his formidable EE-3 carbine from his back where it had been strapped and searched for a suitable position of cover. He saw a pile of three bodies. "Nothing better for cover than the armor of your enemies."
He made a run for the cover, ducking and jumping to avoid a grim death. He reached the corpses and dropped, positioning his gun and firing. He dropped three soldiers before he distinctively noticed in the precision scope the enemy troops turning and running. A grin grew on his face. "Forward! Beat them out!" His men advanced on the retreating cowards, picking them off as best as he could while keeping up a sprint. The outlook was good until a familiar sound buzzed in his ears.
"All hands, take cover, enemy air support inbound! Repeat, take cover!" His eyes searched the skies but did not find the distinctive trails of missiles or laser fire. They had time, but not much, if any. He hit the floor, crawling along the muddied ground. He could feel the crunch of bones as he slid as fast as possible over shortly dead bodies. His heavy beskar armor crushed all underneath and left him still perfectly climate controlled.
He reached what looked like a suitable pit in the ground. He crawled down beneath, concealing himself with nearby bodies. His muzzle and scope poked out of the mound as he searched for his own troops and the enemy. They appeared to still be beating a quick retreat, and Arterius couldn't make out his forces. "Hope they made it..." he thought.
"This is Arterius, report?" He waited. No response. "Company, respond!?" Nothing, again. Worry gained. In fact, he couldn't see anything around him, or feel any-
Arterius jerked himself out of his slumber. Sweat drenched his overshirt and neck, and he stood up and stretched his tired muscles. "Fierfek, it was just a dream..." He glanced around the dim room. It was sparse, to say the most. His weapons and beskar'gam lay ready to be assembled in the corner. He decided that, still off-duty, he would grab a bite to eat a little bit earlier than usual. He slipped out of his sweaty underclothes into a civilian uniform. His only indication of rank was his captain's army insignia which he stuck to his breast area. He attached his holster to his belt and slipped his customary WESTAR-34 in it. "Better to be prepared," was his motto, and he always was.
Gerah exited the apartment and headed for the Rebel cantina.