Post by thechosenone on Oct 5, 2007 12:30:26 GMT -5
I'll be posting all my narrative and battles reports with little delay hopefully. The Narratives are good to have but I think its important to have some write ups involving our characters prior to their actions here. What follows is an account of my character securing his base of operations, a launching point for all his neferious schemes.
The fields of Belcercis have come to resemble the scarred surface of a dead moon, a moon that bleeds. The blood of the fallen bathes the burnt earth and runs deep into its cracks as if to quench some ancient thirst for death.
The planet is fed not by loyal blood belonging to faithful soldiers of the Imperium but tainted corrupt blood, the blood of traitors. The capital of Belcercis bleeds as well, plumes of smoke rise into the sky after being stabbed by heavy shells and lances of laser light. It returns fire in the form of big guns and columns of monsterous mutations and power armored giants. The defenders of the capital, Ghenna, fight not for loyalty or honor, such concepts are burned from their damned souls, they fight out of fear, desperation and hatred.
The warriors of Ghenna have endured for two years under siege. It was a war that began at their star systems edge where the floating fortress-temples of traitors and heretics clashed and turned the void into a silent graveyard of debris and death.
War them came to the fields, forests and mountains of the world where behemonths clad in power armor the color of gun metal and bearing the scars of 10,000 years of carnage. Like artists whose canvase is the fields of battle and their medium is death they forced their enemy from every crevase and declared that their can be no hiding place.
Finally this masterwork of war came to the gates of Ghenna brought by the hand of a true artisan, Rutabo Gares. A Warsmith of the Iron Warriors.
Rutabo, his name a playfully altered and shortened version of the man he was named after all those centuries ago before the fall, Pertrabo his Primarch. Through all the ages of strife and slaughter the name stuck.
His great work of art is almost completed, a few more bloody brush strokes remain. With Ghenna his he will have a base of operations worthy of him, and the rest of his Legion as well but such far reaching loyalties linger in the back of a traitor's mind
Massive shells rip apart the landscape throwing debris and dull armored figures alike into the air. rock and blood spray up against the massive form of Rutabo.made even more imposing by the teminator armor he's encased in. One of his great clawed gauntlets rises up to shield his uncovered head from teh hail of debris. There is no better way to experience war then with one's own eyes. Life through a visor is dull and filtered air flavourless.
His face is scarred, as should any face be that has witnessed war for so long. Its tanned gruff, sharp and cruel with eyes that reflect the merciless hatred in his ten thousand year old heart.
The cloud and of smoke and burning flesh passes and Rutabo watches his men scramble back into position with no sign of concern for the well placed enemy shell. Those that are dead are left to lie with no particular fanfair.
He thrusts a wicked claw in the direction of Ghenna's walls and screams his orders loud enough that no vox is needed. Spital and rage mix with words
"All guns let fly! Bring death and fire to the base of the western wall!" Rutabo watches as lines of havoks pound the targeted wall with a fussilade of missiles and blinding flickers of Las cannon shot.
"Bring that down!" Rutabo's order is lost in the droning chant of the Iron Warriors war cry. The invaders watch the wall glow red as the lasers heat it and the missiles blow open the softened material. Defenders along the wall begin to fall down into the super heated debris that was once their wall.
Rutabo begins to march toward the gaping death wound in the city his company following. Panic and fear will have claimed everyone inside. This masterpiece is completed and now all the remains is the formality of claiming Ghenna.
The Warsmith takes his helm off his belt clip and places it on, the sound of hissing accompanies the action as it seals his suit completly. The helm makes him appear as a great horned beast of war.
With the helm on he sends a general message to all who can hear, enemy and ally alike.
"Ghenna!, Serve me in life or serve me in death! For those that resist you will become an example to the fate that awaits anyone else who may also show the same lack of vision. But serve me in life and you will know gift of war and oblivion's eternal bliss!"
Ghenna fell and his story begins...
The fields of Belcercis have come to resemble the scarred surface of a dead moon, a moon that bleeds. The blood of the fallen bathes the burnt earth and runs deep into its cracks as if to quench some ancient thirst for death.
The planet is fed not by loyal blood belonging to faithful soldiers of the Imperium but tainted corrupt blood, the blood of traitors. The capital of Belcercis bleeds as well, plumes of smoke rise into the sky after being stabbed by heavy shells and lances of laser light. It returns fire in the form of big guns and columns of monsterous mutations and power armored giants. The defenders of the capital, Ghenna, fight not for loyalty or honor, such concepts are burned from their damned souls, they fight out of fear, desperation and hatred.
The warriors of Ghenna have endured for two years under siege. It was a war that began at their star systems edge where the floating fortress-temples of traitors and heretics clashed and turned the void into a silent graveyard of debris and death.
War them came to the fields, forests and mountains of the world where behemonths clad in power armor the color of gun metal and bearing the scars of 10,000 years of carnage. Like artists whose canvase is the fields of battle and their medium is death they forced their enemy from every crevase and declared that their can be no hiding place.
Finally this masterwork of war came to the gates of Ghenna brought by the hand of a true artisan, Rutabo Gares. A Warsmith of the Iron Warriors.
Rutabo, his name a playfully altered and shortened version of the man he was named after all those centuries ago before the fall, Pertrabo his Primarch. Through all the ages of strife and slaughter the name stuck.
His great work of art is almost completed, a few more bloody brush strokes remain. With Ghenna his he will have a base of operations worthy of him, and the rest of his Legion as well but such far reaching loyalties linger in the back of a traitor's mind
Massive shells rip apart the landscape throwing debris and dull armored figures alike into the air. rock and blood spray up against the massive form of Rutabo.made even more imposing by the teminator armor he's encased in. One of his great clawed gauntlets rises up to shield his uncovered head from teh hail of debris. There is no better way to experience war then with one's own eyes. Life through a visor is dull and filtered air flavourless.
His face is scarred, as should any face be that has witnessed war for so long. Its tanned gruff, sharp and cruel with eyes that reflect the merciless hatred in his ten thousand year old heart.
The cloud and of smoke and burning flesh passes and Rutabo watches his men scramble back into position with no sign of concern for the well placed enemy shell. Those that are dead are left to lie with no particular fanfair.
He thrusts a wicked claw in the direction of Ghenna's walls and screams his orders loud enough that no vox is needed. Spital and rage mix with words
"All guns let fly! Bring death and fire to the base of the western wall!" Rutabo watches as lines of havoks pound the targeted wall with a fussilade of missiles and blinding flickers of Las cannon shot.
"Bring that down!" Rutabo's order is lost in the droning chant of the Iron Warriors war cry. The invaders watch the wall glow red as the lasers heat it and the missiles blow open the softened material. Defenders along the wall begin to fall down into the super heated debris that was once their wall.
Rutabo begins to march toward the gaping death wound in the city his company following. Panic and fear will have claimed everyone inside. This masterpiece is completed and now all the remains is the formality of claiming Ghenna.
The Warsmith takes his helm off his belt clip and places it on, the sound of hissing accompanies the action as it seals his suit completly. The helm makes him appear as a great horned beast of war.
With the helm on he sends a general message to all who can hear, enemy and ally alike.
"Ghenna!, Serve me in life or serve me in death! For those that resist you will become an example to the fate that awaits anyone else who may also show the same lack of vision. But serve me in life and you will know gift of war and oblivion's eternal bliss!"
Ghenna fell and his story begins...