# Birth of a Living Ancestor (revised)



## Treesnifer

*Birth of a Living Ancestor. A story I started some years ago as my middle son came of age to play 40K and in his surfing found Heresy. Anfo was his handle, and he wrote quite a bit here, and I think acquitted himself well. Cutting his teeth on Epic 40k, I let him bring out the Chaos army I had against the Orks. It didn't take long for him to find Heresy and get into the gaming and round robin writing found here. From there it was a short trip to modern 40K, and when 8th(?) edition came out, I bought the collector's edition for him. 

As for me, returning and getting ready to field my 40k Squat army - we only played Epic since it was cheaper back in the late eighties/early nineties - was something I was all set for. The rest is history cuz by that time the Squats had been dead for a decade or so. In my time fugued anger, I started Birth of a Living Ancestor and then because Anfo and I had read the Dawn of War trilogy, copied the off-the-reservation style of the last book. I was going to change everything. What a laugh.

As BofLA spiraled out of control, and I disliked the sound and direction more and more, I found I couldn't continue and was unwilling to delete back to something recognizable. The story was shelved and sent down to the locker. Time to time I still think about it and wonder about how I much I'd like to continue it. I long since decided to swallow my pride and simply cut out the portions of the story I did not like, I still have plenty of squatieness to delve into. So I wrote to Dave for his input and will take his advice - that being, restart from scratch with a new thread and rewrite.

This came up as I have gone and touched up some of the posts and rewritten over the parts I didn't care for on my writing blog. Which got me to thinking that my writing blog isn't really read by Warhammer players and maybe I should add it to Heresy. That and get over my foolish embarrassment. Without further ado....*

*Birth of a Living Ancestor (revised)*


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## Treesnifer

*Before the Battle of Today*

Prelude​
In the early days of 745M41, the Enemy came unannounced. It took the Homeworlds of the Dwarven Mining Consortium without mercy or pause. An unstoppable flood that struck the Squats, their homes, their stongholds with such ferocity that within weeks, the military force that had withstood alone the combined aggression's of Orks, Eldar, and the forces of Chaos, was swept from the halls of power and into the dustbins of history. There would be no more conflicts with the Eldar over the ancestral mining rights usurped from the dwarves by the greedy elder race. Grudge matches against the greenskins that every dwarven child dreamed of getting embroiled in. The end of blood feuds between the dwarves who fought with the Emperor and their craven cousins, the Chaos Dwarves. Yet dwarves go not quietly into the night. Though the darkness gathers, a candlelight is carried on. To light other candles? History and the Emperor will be the judge.

*745M41, The Loss of Durnak*

Three meters high, it towered over the hapless Squat warriors that bravely stood in defiance of its charge. Fire discipline was a thing long lost. Great scythes at the ends of its four arms flew with lightning precision and warriors fell, their corpses falling only to be kicked and scattered as if leaves being danced through by a child in the autumn. Missiles streaked harmlessly by while heavy bolter rounds seemed to unable to bring the beast down.

A battle cry, amplified by a speaker on a dwarven berserker's back, cut through the cacophony of explosions and bolter fire. Twenty-five strong, the band scurried towards the great beast. Twenty-five of the Brotherhood's craziest. Twenty-five of the strongest and best fighters, even if they were impossible to deal with after a battle, here in the thick of everything they could be counted upon to pull the Botherhood's fat out of the fire.

The behemoth turned to the screaming band and the music blaring out of their speakers. The crazy fools charged as fast as they could, the towering nightmare, while the few remaining warriors at its feet scurried away, each trying to flee and not get cut down by the incoming rounds of the thunderer squad that had been holding their flank. The berserkers did not share that caution and more than one fell as they ran through the fields of fire in an eager attempt to engage what no one had ever seen, let alone fought.

Veghard pulled his heavy bolter up. The berserkers were engaged. It was time to find a new target. A target of something. His squad was formed up in a line trying to stop the strange creature. It was something new, but everything in the Emperor damned battle was. Even their progress though the terrain was damned. They only went in one direction. Back and away from the enemy. Whatever the enemy was.

"Veg? What's the plan? Where do we go?" Dagmar the radioman looked to him. The lieutenant waited for his decision too. This mess they were in had no solution. Headquarters could not be relied upon. Several times in the past day they had been dispatched on orders only to be called back, repositioned to oppose an empty field, then sent on an emergency dispatch to supply reinforcement, and called off again.

The first time they engaged the enemy, flying creatures the size of men dropped from the sky. They had been cut down quickly enough, but the Sixty-sixth Gilbaldum Brotherhood had been sighted and the artillery had began to rain down. The Grand Battery of thudd guns and mole mortars took the brunt of the first attack. Undeployed, the odd sphere shaped charges of the enemy fell with devastating effect. They also learned that should a round fail to hit a living target, the round would float until an appropriate target came within reach and detonate then. Even more disturbing , the artillery seemed to be able to continue to sight in on the location of unexploded ordinance as it floated aimlessly around the battlefield. Even odder, as they tended the wounded, the exploding rounds weren't even made of metal. Many died as the medics could not identify the shrapnel with their battle kits and had to seek out it by sight and touch. The shrapnel seemed to consist of naught but bone and carapace. 

Then the gene stealers came.

Those at least were known. Veghard had read about them. His family connections gave him some education the average citizen did not even know of. Things that could grant an all expenses paid visit to the Inquisitor. Gene stealers was one of those dark horrors that Veghard had found fascinating as a young boy reading through the Clan's library files. Knowing about them didn't save the rhino compliment that had been brought along to move the Brotherhood. Or the guild force, who had been awaiting orders when the attack began. Robbed of their speed and movement, half the force had been put down before they could get underway and rocket out of the killing field. The combat trikes took the least damage. The motorcycles of the other two platoons came away so heavily mauled, they were no longer viable units. Like the bikes, the Brotherhood would have run, but when the enemy covers ground twice as fast as you, retreat is not feasible.

Veghard was not an officer, but his clan and name were well known in the Brotherhood, and when he spoke, the captain and lieutenant both listened. The warlord who had been formulating a plan to pull back ordered a solid defense and though the gene stealers tore down some deployed robots, they were stopped. They had been stopped long enough for the Two Hundredth Iron Breaker Brotherhood to arrive in their Leviathan. As the battle was reviewed, the Two Hundredth had quite the fun needling the Sixty Sixth for needed a fully supported brotherhood reinforced by a full Guild Force to bring down thirty gene stealers, and still managing to lose half the force and their Grand Battery. Three companies, one with full support. It took some time for the officers to pull the berserkers apart once they began to brawl over the insults.

The void shields of the Leviathan fell quickly and the resulting crater devastated the warrior brotherhoods. One hundred squat warriors were almost wiped out when the enemy tanks arrived and destroyed the great Leviathan in two volleys. Strange creatures with gun protuberances growing out of their backs had come up on the two brotherhoods in the wake of the gene stealers. Supported by dog like infantry that fired spiked rounds a short distance, the mocking stopped as the Leviathan ceased to exist in a devastating explosion as the containment fields on the void generator failed.

Not all was lost. Veghard, along with his thunderer unit, berserkers and squads of brotherhood warriors turned and fled the battlefield. Veghard had the distinction of being the first to break and run. His flight saved the Brotherhood, but not much else. When their flight was done, Veghard could not explain his actions beyond his adamant denial of cowardice and an unshakable feeling of needing to head back to their deployment zone. A claim that would earn the average Imperial trooper a round from a Commissar, but was an acceptable defense in the Squat army. Dwarves, as a rule, do not run.

The day ended with the berserkers dragging down the great four armed creature. One of the berserkers activated a melta bomb, strapped it to his chest and played keep away until it detonated and stopped the rampaging beast. The long night was a forced march that saw the loss of more men and equipment. Dawn found the sad remains of the Sixty Sixth Brotherhood at the edge of the tarmac and being boarded onto a transport along with panicked civilians were rushed into the ships. As the ship shot up towards the safety of space, Veghard watched the undulating mass of the enemy flow over the space port behind them. The paltry forces the Sixty Sixth Brotherhood had engaged was less than a drop of rain compared against the ocean that made up the main body of the enemy.

Only one thing was relevant. This Homeworld was lost. Not Veghard's, but his would face the enemy too. It, like the other Squat Homeworlds would fall, unable to outrun, out-shoot, or outlast the onslaught. Veghard found himself again and again sitting in a seat, peering out the window as the Tyranid Hive consumed world after world. It began to feel as if the bugs sought Veghard out, for he would no sooner arrive at a new world and the Tyranids would be close behind. As each planet fell, Veghard could feel a rope tied to his insides tugging him from one massacre to another, always keeping him just out of reach of the enemy.

Until one day there were no more Tyranids. Only marines. When the fighting began again, it wasn't against the Tyrnaids , but instead a force of Eldar. An odd comfort, Veghard found, to be faced with an enemy so simple.

No battle is as simple as it seems.


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## Myen'Tal

Hey, Treesnifer, this is a solid beginning to your revised story. There's a lot of potential here that I think you'll tap into . Though, I will say that I was a little confused who the factions were. I had forgotten you mentioned it was a squat story. At first I was thinking of Chaos Space Marines when you said Bezerkers, then Imperial Guard when you mentioned some of the troops. You don't really make a mention of squats until much later in your beginning. I would mention them earlier, imo.

Overall, I really like it. Will be following:so_happy:.


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## Treesnifer

*Post 2 edited*

:headbutt: Went back to add a wee bit in. Thanks, Myen' !


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the First: Scattered Clouds pt 1 of 5*

Chapter The First
Scattered Clouds​
White Shield Abelard threw himself down into the dust and grime below the ragged remains of a stone wall, a sharp jab in his shoulder told of a sharp rock he had not seen while scrambling for cover. The report of shots fired and the resulting pinging of ricocheting shuriken let the panicked boy know how close he had been to being shot. Dust caked his mouth and nose and he huddled atop his lazrifle, panting into the ground. Explosions peppered the ground beyond his makeshift cover, and he waited for the ill fated round that would fall on the wrong side of the stacked stone fence that was his lone protection from the Eldar forces arrayed against him.

Forcing his eyes open, he fought to turn his head to the side, looking down the line of the low wall to see how much of his squad made the mad dash. The artillery barrage continued to fall, and Abelard knew it was just a matter of time before he would be under the guns of the bombards that were blindly firing into the coordinates they had been supplied. It had been the sick joke of a common problem back at the barracks, artillery that failed to stay within the proper firing coordinates and troopers dieing by friendly fire. It had been a mad dash across the short field. Mad and bloody, for Abelard watched the men ahead of him, as they charged together, get cut down by the withering fire coming from the Eldar in the tree line ahead. Looking down the wall Abelard could see that he was the only trooper on station at the wall.

A slap to the back of his head caused him to turn to look the other way. There in the dirt along side of him lay Sergeant Michael, Germain, Gregoria, and Damon. The lieutenant was speaking to him, but the concussion from the barrage was still ringing loudly in his ears, there was no sound but an eerie quiet that masked all other sounds. The order was clear though. They were not stopping at this shattered wall. They needed to continue as the barrage tapered off. He was a moment slower than his fellows nearer the center of their platoon and again he was the helpless observer of death as those first brave souls made their last vault over the stones that made up the low wall that sheltered them from the barrage. The lieutenant reached back and grabbed Abelard by his webgear, dragged him out of his stupor and over the stones. Thrusting the boy ahead of him, White Shield Abelard stumbled forward, blindly following his fellows, mouthing prayers of protection to the Emperor that He ward him from the deadly rain of shuriken fire, or at least make sure there were far more guardsmen than Eldar. That and hoping the lieutenant did not shoot him for not being fast enough.

Of all his prayers, he realized as he suddenly found himself flung like an unwanted toy, he forgot to pray for protection from the bombards. With the world spinning crazily, it seemed even the ground reached up to hit him too. Blood was on his hand as he fruitlessly mopped at the side of his head, thinking it was sweat, and a fuzzy realization occurred to him that his helmet was missing too. His arms shook as he tried to lift himself up. Another helmet presented itself to him and as he prepared to put it on his head, in the band he read its previous owner's name; George.

Abelard continued to blindly crawl through the rubble and debris kicked up by the bombard’s barrages. His face was streaked from his tears and the grime of the battlefield. His lazgun was lost, as were his companions. The withering fire of the Eldar wiped out their charge and his companions after splitting him from his troop. Shame and fear were all that kept his body moving. Fear of the Eldar warred within him with the fear that one of the commissars who patrolled the army seeking bad behavior to make examples of would find him and shamed by his cowardice, for he never even fired a shot once from his missing lazgun.

His shaking hands dragged him around great boulders tossed into the air by the massive explosions that continued to pound the ground all about him. Abelard tried to think which way he was supposed to be moving, as well as how he lost his rifle. His last thought was a panicked blur of watching the fastest of his platoon getting cut down by their hidden enemy and a confused view of sky as the concussion of an nearby blast knocked him down. Now he was alone, unarmed, and lost. The One Seventy Seventh in their tan and black were reduced in number to a single white shield who was almost too terrified to even keep moving.


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## Myen'Tal

Good update, Treesnifer, I like your portrayal of the eldar. An elite force capable of hitting hard and mercilessly. So just to clarify, this update focuses on Imperial Guard? Also, there was one sentence that confused me, something about Abelard moving around boulders flying into the air by artillery barrages. But then I looked again and see you must have fixed it, because I cannot seem to find it. 

In any case, good work:victory:.


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the First: Scattered Clouds pt 2 of 5*

Worming his way along the lip of yet another blast crater, he cried out in alarm as a strong hand reached out from behind him and hauled him away from the crater he was attempting to slide into. Abelard was tossed unceremoniously onto his back and found himself staring not at one of the elder, but a man. Abelard continued to whimper as he attempted to crab away from the newcomer. Still mostly deaf from his advance through the artillery barrage, he realized he must be making more noise than he thought, for the man who dragged Abelard into the small defile first clamped a hand of stone over Abelard’s leg, dragging Abelard again to his side and then clamping a gloved hand over his mouth. Bright spots of pain blossomed in Abelard’s teeth and jaw brought on by the punishing grip of his captor.

“Quiet!” though seeming far away, the command and glare that followed it pinned Abelard like a mouse beneath a cat’s paw. After ascertaining Abelard’s compliance, the other peeked around the rim of the debris that formed a tiny battlement. With one hand, the stranger reached over and with a grunt threw a heavy bolter onto his shoulder, and with a practiced hand reset the ammo clip and thumbed off the safety.

As he lay in the mud, Abelard began to regain his senses. The crushing fear receded, and Abelard found himself staring in shock at his savior. Though his uniform was of the tan and black of the One Seventy Seventh and he sported the crossed rifles of Abelard’s company, a third regiment patch was stitched below that. It was a hammer trailing a stream of fire over a green field, with the patch’s rim in silver. Several service hash marks covered the left sleeve, out of compliance with field regulations, but Abelard was unable to count them as he suddenly cringed under a shower of hot brass when the bolter opened fire.

“Veghard. Sixty-First Detatched Thunderers. Get out of my way.”

Veghard shuffled to the other side of the rock he had fired past. He kicked Abelard when he didn’t move fast enough and then bracing himself, fired several quick bursts. White teeth flashed though a coal black beard that was fuller and more meticulously groomed than an officer’s doxy as Veghard grinned down at Abelard. The short stump of an unlit cigar waggled its way from one side of Veghard’s mouth to the other.

Blazoned on the front of his blouse was his name tag, Veghard. An unknown chevron pattern at his lapel gave testimony of some rank beyond Abelard’s own White Shield. Thick gloves the widened out at the wrists covered his hands, but the bit of skin that peeked around the thick beard and from below the strangely billed combat helmet was pale. Arms as thick as Abelard’s legs held the heavy bolter, while legs near as thick as two of his own didn’t show the least bit of strain as Veghard moved back and forth now that Abelard was out of his way. A backpack, a non-reg modified piece of equipment, looked to be packed near to bursting with special pockets holding additional ammo clips. An odd looking lasgun was stowed along the side, within reach of Veghard’s free hand.

Scrambling to his feet, Abelard looked down at Veghard. With the heavy bolter on his shoulder, Veghard came up to Abelard’s chin, and Abelard was far from being the tallest in his platoon. Without the heavy weapon, Veghard would be hard pressed to be much over four and a half feet. Abelard began to giggle at the funny sight of Veghard’s diminutive height wielding a weapon that Abelard would barely be able to carry, let alone fire when a hand shot out into his gut, doubling him over. The loud report of the bolter accompanied by the musical chiming of the falling brass caused him to flatten himself to the ground while he tried to recapture the breath that Veghard had knocked from him.

“Time to move, boy”, Veghard reached down and pulled Abelard up to his knees as he gagged for breath. “On your feet! Shake it off!”

Another two bursts rang out and then Veghard scrambled out of the defile and onto the stretch of ground Abelard had been crawling along.

“On my six, boy. I’d give you a weapon, but I don’t want to lose Gracie quite yet. Keep up, or them scorpions will get you” Veghard laughed as he trotted off.

Veghard began to lope through the debris as if he had some destination in mind, seemingly to be oblivious that somewhere hidden in the tree line hid elder sharpshooters. After a moment’s hesitation, Abelard hurried after Veghard, easily outpacing the smaller man, only to be roughly grabbed and tossed to the ground.

“Keep your head down, or you’ll lose it, boy”, was all the gruff voice had to offer in apology.

“You’re one of them stunties!” blurted Abelard. “Aren’t all of you dead?”

He gulped at the sharp glare that was leveled at him, making him feel more exposed than he had a moment earlier. He waited for some retort or fist to add weight to the glare, but none came. Instead, Veghard turned from him and was looking along the lower portion of a slope Abelard remembered running over earlier in the day.

“Your artillery squads need a lot more training, I though White Shields weren’t used to man auxiliary units. They’ve messed up the lines of this battle” Veghard grumbled, and turned an ear to the sound of several distant explosions. “There they are.”

“Move out, boy.”

Without a glance back to see if Abelard was following, Veghard set off below the crest of the slope with a ground eating trot.


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## Treesnifer

Myen'Tal said:


> Good update, Treesnifer, I like your portrayal of the eldar. An elite force capable of hitting hard and mercilessly. So just to clarify, this update focuses on Imperial Guard? Also, there was one sentence that confused me, something about Abelard moving around boulders flying into the air by artillery barrages. But then I looked again and see you must have fixed it, because I cannot seem to find it


Yep. A failed combined operation against the Eldar. And the rocks will settle to the earth as Abelard matures from a raw recruit into a guardsman. Of course, these are the opening moves of this battle and the war is far from won. At this point in history, there are no more Homeworlds, Hive Fleet Behemoth was defeated, and the remaining squat military units have been absorbed into the main body of the I.G. A vassal race just like rest of the abhumans that fill in the niches in the forces of the Emperor, autonomous allies no longer.


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## Captain_Loken

Hey there!

I just really had to say that I really enjoyed your last bit. I have already grown to like Veghard! 

It's my kind of story, when it is violent and funny at the same time!

Keep up the good work. Can't wait to see the next part!


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## Myen'Tal

Good update, Verghard seems an interesting character. Hopefully, he'll be around for a while .


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## Captain_Loken

One thing I forgot to ask. It seems like Verghard says 'boy' after ending a sentence and awful lot. Was this your intention?

If not, just be careful about repeating yourself too much.


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## Treesnifer

Captain_Loken said:


> One thing I forgot to ask. It seems like Verghard says 'boy' after ending a sentence and awful lot. Was this your intention?
> 
> If not, just be careful about repeating yourself too much.


Thank you for the warning, but yes, it is there intentionally. Veghard does lighten up a bit on Abelard, but right now Abelard is just a fresh recruit and the 'Boy' is supposed to be a denigrating comment meant to motivate Abe to be more than just a frightened boy and act like a man. Just think Drill Sargent.


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## Captain_Loken

Treesnifer said:


> Thank you for the warning, but yes, it is there intentionally. Veghard does lighten up a bit on Abelard, but right now Abelard is just a fresh recruit and the 'Boy' is supposed to be a denigrating comment meant to motivate Abe to be more than just a frightened boy and act like a man. Just think Drill Sargent.


Hah. I know drill sergeant all too well. 

Can't wait to see the next update!


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the First: Scattered Clouds Pt 3 of 5*

As Veghard and Abelard began to move out, not far away a lone warrior was running a race of his own. His armor declared him a space marine of the Ultramarines. The signature color of his armor was blasted away in several places by enemy fire, and though he moved with strength and purpose, obvious battle damage gave testimony that the marine had not arrived unscathed. Running a zigzag pattern, the marine would stop, scan the area around him. Occasionally stooping to examine the ground, and then take off running again. His posture alert and his weapon ready, the marine hunted.

His name was Novarius and he was not a happy man. His squad had been decimated, leaving only him to carry out their mission. The support that had been expected by the guard units had vanished like the dew of the hot mornings on the world they were attempting to defend. The eldar force that had somehow moved onto the world was far greater than Novarius had ever engaged and after a run in against a squad of warp spiders, Novarius found himself alone and deep within enemy territory.

Again, he tapped his helmet. The vicious mono filament strands fired into his squad without warning had damaged his armor, though it had kept him alive. His battle brothers were not so successful at dropping to cover. The warp spiders had appeared and then disappeared, without returning, giving Novarius the indication that the attack had been an attack of opportunity while they were moving elsewhere. Whatever damage had been sustained by his armor, vox and satellite data were both knocked out. He still had the basic tactical data along with his inertial locator detailing where he and his squad had originated from. Doctrine stipulated that he advance, following his inertial locator, until arriving at the deployment zone or he reestablished vox communications, but as he had recovered from the Eldar ambush, the Guard’s artillery began saturating the area that his return path indicated.

The blue of his armor, newly scored by the incoming fire of the vanished aspect troops, still shined bright. The shoulder pauldrons still proudly bore the golden U of the Ultramarines. His bolter clacked as he installed a fresh clip, and after taking a moment to orient himself, Novarius began to move out. The barrage pattern would move over his immediate area and he had no desire to attempt to sit though an artillery barrage fired by his own support. Unable to properly apply battle doctrine, Novarius moved through the forest, attempting to follow the direction the warp spiders had seem to vanish towards.
Moving through the underbrush, Novarius’s progress was masked with the sound of artillery and small arms fire. He had successfully made his way out of the barrage pattern and he had managed to orient himself matching terrain to what was left of his tactical information. He found himself wishing for a tech marine for having only the silence of his thoughts as he made his way through the battle disconcerting, even a scout would be good company. Never in a battle had he been without any vox communication of any kind. Moving around a tight copse of wood, Novarius found himself facing the back of six eldar guardians as they lay suppression fire down before their position.

The report of his bolter echoed in his ears and it jerked and leapt as he began firing into the rear of the guardian squad that seemed to be firing out of the forest at a Guard unit. Two of the elder fell under his first salvo while the other four suddenly looked about for where the shots emanated from. Grinning under his helmet, Novarius turned his fire on the fasted of those remaining. More shots rang out as the hapless guardian jerked and fell back, his armor unable to fend off the multiple hits from Novarius. 

Shuriken whizzing by his head, the last three guardians brought their catapults to bear on the advancing marine. Several ricocheted off his shoulder and legs, while a scant few managed to stick in his chest but were unable to penetrate through. Novarius continued to fire down on the guardians, but their armor was able to deflect the lethal fire of his bolter when, without warning, one of the guardians suddenly burst into a bloody fine mist as the rounds of a heavy bolter ripped through his armor. Another burst followed the first, demolishing a tree next to Novarius, causing him to seek his own cover and a third burst that spun another guardian to the ground. The last eldar, a woman, reached down to grab her wounded partner and began to drag him away. More bursts cut through the foliage seeking the fleeing eldar and kept Novarius down, but fired blindly they were more of a danger to the marine than the retreating eldar.

The heavy bolter fire ceased, and Novarius felt it was safe to get back to his feet. Bringing his bolter up, he gave chase to the remaining two eldar. They had not even escaped his sight, as he trotted up the trail behind them. The woman continued to try and pull her injured compatriot even as Novarius closed on them. Mercilessly he raised his weapon and relished in its kicking strength.

“Xenos scum. Feel the Emperor’s wrath!”

Novarius slapped a new magazine into the receiver of his bolter. Today he was not only unable to save his battle brothers, but he was almost cut down by friendly fire and rather than an entire squad detailed to the objective, there was only himself. Doctrine dictated he reestablish communication and contact, but without vox and hemmed in with misapplied artillery barrages, he would be hard pressed to accomplish either and that would mean a reprimand or even demotion. Novarius was not a happy man.


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## Captain_Loken

Quite entertaining. Some minor details that I would change. 

The biggest one that I notice is that a trained soldier would never call a magazine a 'clip', so just be careful of your wording. 

Other than that, it was a really fun read! Keep it up!


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## Treesnifer

Captain_Loken said:


> Quite entertaining. Some minor details that I would change.
> 
> The biggest one that I notice is that a trained soldier would never call a magazine a 'clip', so just be careful of your wording.
> 
> Other than that, it was a really fun read! Keep it up!


At thirty years out of the military, and that at the end of the peaceful years, I'll admit to my knowledge being pretty rusty. :grin: I went back through and found a typo _(and I can't find it now. bah!)_, a double punctuation, and definitely a description change. Pretty bad for a piece that has been rewritten and proofed at least four times. :blush:

Any faults you come across, don't hesitate to point out. When the money is good, I keep a membership to The Writers Village where it is incumbent that everyone in each class give feedback to each other, so I am used to blind spots being pointed out to me. Anything I like will be followed! In this instance, clip was used to avoid magazine being repeated too quickly. 

Actually, if anyone would like a glimpse into how The Village works, there is a free introductory class that starts twice a year - one being in just a couple weeks - August 26th. F2K3 is a 7 week course, each week's lesson is run by a mentor and all work is graded by peer review. After I took the F2K class a few years back, my writing improved quite a bit and I would suggest that if anyone has the time, sign up for the class. I found the class worth it.


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## Captain_Loken

Treesnifer said:


> clip was used to avoid magazine being repeated too quickly.



I'm glad you said this. You wouldn't believe how many people don't know that this is a bad thing.


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## Myen'Tal

Very nice update, Novarius seems down on his luck, haha. Also, the Writer's Village looks interesting. I may have a look into it.


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the First: Scattered Clouds pt 4 of 5*

Moving with his accustomed purposeful stride, Novarius moved swiftly along the tree line as he attempted to ascertain if the Warp Spiders who ambushed him had indeed traveled in this direction. The lack of tracks or signs of passage frustrated him, and in his heart he knew lacking more marines he was more likely to miss the necessary egress points the Warp Spiders had to use. If speed had not been their need perhaps he would have found some sign of their passage, but their attack and failure to follow up upon it pointed to an urgent need for speed. A flicker of movement caught his eye and his bolter came up to face the danger even as he turned to identify the disturbance.

Beyond the sparse edge of the woods he moved through was the blasted field that had been pounded by the bombard company far back in the distance. Next to an uprooted boulder stood two men, an Imperial Guardsman and a Squat Warrior bearing a heavy bolter. The guardsman was oblivious to Novarius’s presence and location, but the squat looked right at him and sent a nod and sketched a quick salute to him. Once he had done that, he tugged on the guardsman and began to trot along the tree line, though it was soon obvious the two would cross under the trees another few hundred feet away.

Without conscious thought, Novarius abandoned his hopeless attempt to follow the Warp Spiders and began to run an intercept course that would meet him up with the squat and the guardsman. It mattered not if the two had any communications as his forming up with the unlikely pair would begin to satisfy his requirement to reestablish contact with Imperial forces. He continued to scan deeper in the wood as well as ahead of him. The sudden lack of enemy was maddening. The short, deadly attack on his battle brothers had brought up his anger, and his own ambush of the small Guardian squad did little to appease him. Novarius found himself fearing that even with the distant sound of combat that was obviously drawing the other two soldiers towards it, the eldar were long gone. That they had achieved their goal on this flank and had reduced the advancing Imperials to two guardsmen and a single marine.

It was without incident that the three met together at the blasted edge of the wood. Abelard had not even seen the marine until Novarius stopped beside them. Abelard was bent over at the waist with his hands supporting him by bracing his knees. The heavy footfalls of the marine caused him to look up in surprise and almost caused the young man to faint in shock.

“Veghard. Sixty-First Detached Thunderers.”
“Novarius, Fifth Company”

Veghard looked at Abelard who was shocked to be faced with a space marine. Though the marines were not commonly encountered by the average guardsman, many dreamed of getting to meet them. When Abelard still did not speak, Veghard did for him.

“This is Abelard, One Seventy Seventh, White Shields.”

Novarius looked the panting, sweating White Shield over. No backpack, no weapon, no obvious wounds. It all added up to either a deserter or coward. It also explained why he and his battle brothers had not received the support they had been told to expect. If they had known that it was a White Shield force, they would have had more battle brothers accompany them on the mission. White Shields were to prepare an enemy position for attack, not support Astartes in straight up combat. Remorselessly he raised his bolter. This Abelard would pay for his failure now.

Veghard, the squat, batted Novarius’s arm with one of his gloved hands. Novarious found himself battling with being either shocked or angered by the intervention. He had never been touched by anyone who wasn’t a space marine. Within his helmet, he glared down at the abhuman. He could not help but wonder if both of them were not traitors and were trying to desert. With the evidence of Veghard’s attack on the Guardians, Novarious was at odds with himself on whether he should administer the Emperor’s Justice on the two of them or not. Veghard’s gruff voice interrupted his internal debate.

“You don’t want to do that, son. We’ll be needing him soon enough.”

There was no fear in the squat’s face, only an implacable glint in his eye that actually gave Novarious pause, a reaction that gave him a start when he realized that Veghard could elicit such a response from him. Veghard continued to steadily regard him, until something in his body language satisfied the squat and Vegard turned from him. While doing so, Veghard reached to the lasgun that was stowed on the side of his backpack. A quick tug pulled the weapon from its stowed position and he offered it to Abelard.

“This is Gracie”, Veghard said to Abelard. “She’ll do you right if you remember a couple things. One. She’s not your standard issue. She’s my work. So if you’re rough, she won’t fire for you.”

As Abelard took possession of the weapon, Veghard’s hand continued to caress the lasgun as he explained the modifications done.

“Two. Her range is better than that excuse you called a firearm. Use the scope for anything beyond a block or two. Three. She’ll get warm to the touch, so don’t panic. Finally, she cycles faster that what you’re used to. Which means that I don’t want you to waste energy spraying like you were shown in training.”, Veghard explained what he had done to the lasgun, and finished with a cold tone that caused the boy’s face to pale and send a shiver of remembrance down Novarious’s spine.

“You will not lose Gracie. You will not hurt Gracie. You will tend her before you care for yourself. If she touches dirt or water, you will be punished for it and if you do lose her, she will be the last thing you lose. She is your wife now, so treat her as such, but I am still her father and I reserve a father’s right to protect his daughter. Do you understand me?”

While the trooper nodded vigorously, Novarious could hear the echo of the training cadre officers drilling weapon care into him and his fellow aspirants and the punishments dealt to those who failed to maintain weapon discipline and care.


----------



## Myen'Tal

> Originally Posted by Treesnifer View Post
> 
> clip was used to avoid magazine being repeated too quickly.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> I'm glad you said this. You wouldn't believe how many people don't know that this is a bad thing.
Click to expand...

Huh, you learn something new everyday :wink:.

I don't have much criticism to give in this update, there's nothing that really stands out to me. Something does tell me, though, that Abelard has crossed onto a path that he can not turn away from .


----------



## Treesnifer

*Chapter the First: Scattered Clouds pt 5 of 5*

At a time before the Annihilation, the Tyranid Invasion, in the calm before the storm, a dwarven woman stood before a mirror. Fresh and black, rimmed in angry red, two runes newly tattooed across her cheeks stood out, dominating any other aspect that might catch a man's eye. No one would comment upon the luxurious fall of her brunette hair. Brutally short away, it lay in a scattering circle about her feet. The bright blue of her eyes would not bring flirtatious smiles from the more amorous who might cross her path and catch her gaze. Either one of the runes would kill such greetings with utter finality. No man's eye would surreptitiously sink to gaze, however briefly, upon her bosom, or perhaps fall even farther to admire the lay of her day's choice of clothing. Those looks and glances would instead flick from rune to rune and then upward to her hair. Her woman's glory would declare not her pride and beauty, but darkest tradition. Tradition so old that no tale told of its birth. Sickly greens, off whites and colorless grays now stood in lieu of her once brown hair. Lye, in ritual application, now bleached her hair. The lye's presence stiffened the once pliant glory that she had taken such pride in and now brought out such horrid color. Her hair now stood upright and molded into an array of spikes. The days of her existence would no longer be counted in years, but counted in battles. Should there be more than one, other tattoos would join the two on her cheeks, but today there would only be the important ones, Loss and Abandonment.

Battles later, on another planet, at a later time, a Living Ancestor slapped her hard. Though her head snapped back, the Ancestor no longer had the strength anymore to cause real harm. The blow did bring her out of her drunken stupor. She did not remember what had been going on, the grog that had been in her tankard had finally stopped filling and refilling, the damned thing, and she had been staring at the somehow empty tankard. She knew it was empty, but not what she should do about it. There had been quite a commotion in the tent, but Jyn paid it no mind. When the horns would sound, she would take her place with her brothers and sisters to kill and kill and, should the ancestors relent, die. Then the Ancestor slapped her.

With a cry of rage, Jyn hopped to her feet. Her combat dagger shot out in her fist. The silly thing always knew when she would need it, she never even needed to reach to its sheath. It would simply appear in her hand to cut and maim whatever needed it. Strength and determination drove her arm forward to bury the blade deep in the eye of the ancient squat in front of her. Honor demanded the strike be returned and death would be the result of it. Jyn was a berserker. Her hair was dyed purple to red in full spectrum. More battles than colors in life and Jyn was still killing. No one commented to a berserker, but another berserker and no one struck one. Death dealt from a berserker was never prosecuted. Berserkers were already accepted as dead in society, they were simply still breathing.

The knife point stopped inches from the Ancestor. Movement stirred behind the shrunken old squat. Armor clad attendants shifted their weight, preparing to intervene, but Jyn stayed her hand. Berserkers were not struck as a matter of safety, but no one struck an Ancestor. They were the living conduit to all those who had died throughout all the ages. The Living Ancestors were ageless creatures who spoke to and heard counsel from the dead. No one struck an Ancestor, no one. With a sob, Jyn turned from the Ancestor and threw her free arm down on the field table she had been sitting at. With jerking motion, she carved another rune into the flesh of her forearm, cutting across half heal scars of other runes. Marring the angry red and partially healed wounds, she chanted to herself over and over as blood flowed from her and she carved a new rune, “Shame. Shame. Shame.”

The Ancestor stood, impassively watching Jyn cut upon herself. After a few minutes Jyn looked up, surprised to see the Ancestor still waiting.

“Jyn”, the Ancestor said, once she stood before him. Jyn nodded, the blood from the runic wound dripped unnoticed to the ground. The guards behind the Ancestor looked on, disgust apparent on their faces. Berserkers were despised by the average squat for they were individuals who committed a crime or chose to pursue death rather than face whatever problem they encountered in their life. The two runes on Jyn’s cheeks told of a woman abandoned by her husband and who chose to die instead of resolve her problem. 

“I am Desdyn and I have a task that you need to do.”

Another time, a new day, a different battle. Jyn reached up and touched the unit patch on the chest of her flak jacket, it was the flaming hammer of the Sixty-First. She didn’t understand why Desdyn insisted she add the patch to her kit, but it was one of the instructions he told her. Checking a map reader, she compared the time and location. She did not understand why the Ancestor sought her out, there were others in the tent that were the same as her. The route that had been sketched for her in the map reader had taken her in a very circuitous route to the side of a low hill. Her instructions had been explicit. She was not to engage any enemy, unless attacked. That prohibition ended at the hill she had come to at the bottom. She smiled when she heard the sounds of battle. Pulling her pistol and drawing her combat knife, Jyn ran with all her speed towards the conflict ahead of her.


----------



## Treesnifer

*Author's Note*

Here ends Chapter One. 

We have met, albeit briefly, our heroes, or at least the main ones. Don't worry, more faces are on the way. With a bit of luck, this will wrap up within five chapters. Double the original length I outlined sadly.

Thanks again for all the feedback I've received so far. I really do appreciate it. This next post will be an interlude, and there will be a bit of a wait for it. I need to do this next piece from scratch. Chapter 2 will post quickly as it's mostly rewritten.

Till the next post!

---Snif (short for Treesnifer)


----------



## Myen'Tal

Treesnifer said:


> Here ends Chapter One.
> 
> We have met, albeit briefly, our heroes, or at least the main ones. Don't worry, more faces are on the way. With a bit of luck, this will wrap up within five chapters. Double the original length I outlined sadly.
> 
> Thanks again for all the feedback I've received so far. I really do appreciate it. This next post will be an interlude, and there will be a bit of a wait for it. I need to do this next piece from scratch. Chapter 2 will post quickly as it's mostly rewritten.
> 
> Till the next post!
> 
> ---Snif (short for Treesnifer)


Interesting learning the lore of the squats, the berserkers are kind of like Dwarven slayers from fantasy. 

I enjoyed reading the first chapter a lot. A colorful cast of cast of characters with a lot of personality to them. Well done. I think there were one or two missing words from the latest update, I'm on my phone now or else I'd point them out. Doesn't really detract from the story itself, though. Keep it up .


----------



## Treesnifer

*Interlude - Dwarfmoot*

Interlude
The Dwarfmoot​
Deep in normal space between the stars in the endless black, a tear in fabric of reality split the darkness. A maelstrom of color never meant to be witnessed by the unaided eye heralded the arrival a great fleet. Corvettes careened into real space from the anarchy of the Warp, each powering itself away from their egress point to stations ranging far afield. Immense cruisers entered next, gliding in stately disinterest they formed up to escort ships even greater. Kilometers long, with Grand Cruisers in close attendance, the great battleships slipped silently out of the chaos and drove forward. In their wake, the tear seemed to shudder. Its whirlpooled center flexed and spun, yet as the capital ships sailed away, the gate impossibly held itself open. Ripples flowed away, causing the reflected light of stars eons away to shimmer, flex, and wobble in their eternal sentinel duty.

Diving into space, far in the wake of the ships of combat, haphazard and pell mell, tiny ships of commerce fell into existence. Gnats compared to the parade that preceded them, they milled hesitantly about, nearly navigating into one another in their attempt to exit the warp gate. The stately purpose of the proceeding fleet was shattered by the chaotic mess of private vessels, ore carriers, pleasure ships, freight haulers, and the miscellaneous flotsam of interstellar commerce. Yet, inexorably, the mess of ships moved away from the still open gate, making no attempt to disguise that more was yet to come in this parade of star ships.

Great as the ships of battle were, their bulk filling the swirling gate, the final ship through seemed to stretch the unimaginable tear. Rounded and formed like no other ship, the nose dwarfed the cruisers as the battleships did the freight haulers, yet inexplicably the bulk of the ship was still hidden within the warp. Great runes declared the vessel as it squeezed itself through the gate. Blocky and long, the warships of the fleet bore no resemblance to the impossibly immense ship that finally drew itself out of the gate that impatiently snapped closed, as if it wished to bite down and rend the great ship like the mighty bite of a ravenous beast. Resembling nothing so much as an impossibly large egg, its runes held no doubt to its origin or purpose. Perhaps the size of as many as three battleships, the great vessel drove forward. Dwarven script, along with hundreds of clan sigils filling the nose of the hull, named the vessel; The Ark.

Inside, deep within, a debate was coming to a close. A week of controversy had reached its end;

“I, for one, still strongly disagree”, declared Oolong of the Stonehammer Clan.

“Nay, you say? Can you not do anything else?” The angry retort was punctuated by a slammed fist on the table.

“Peace, Y’Mordin. Oolong.”’ A placating tone from a wizened old dwarf forced a nod from the two who then glared at one another. “None here care for your personal quarrel. Put it aside. You are both adults.”

“You would instead have us pick and choose what engagement to embroil ourselves in, like some Eldar Craftworld. By the Ancestors, is that not what we are now? Allow me recess to be fitted with dancing shoes that I might look more Eldar than I live now!”

“Ever the skeptic, Oolong.” Y’Mordin began calmly, though he became more animated as he renewed their argument. "Yet you propose, Nay! Demand! That we fracture what is left of us, just as the Eldar have done, to make some fruitless attempt to propagate and at sometime regain the Homewords? No mind to the future! No consideration of resources! Not a care for any of our allies, or even a thought to our enemies!

"Peace! The two of you!" The placating tone was dropping swiftly and anger replacing it.

"Not a care? Not a care!" Oolong shot to his feet, his chair clattering across the floor behind him. Mirroring him, Y'Mordin stepped away from his chair and the two advanced upon each other. On the other side of the table, the older dwarf pinched his nose and breathed deeply.

"Chaos take you, Cisternwatch! I care! Have I not put aside all claim to restitution for the Ark's design? Guided this counsel in this Exodeus? Not a care?"

The two dwarves glared at each other. Y'Mordin walked up to Oolong and poked him in the chest with his finger.

"Your restitution? You senile old fool! Cisternwatch had pushed this plan for how long?"

"It was only accepted when Stormhammer took up the standard. Hah! Cisternwatch, as ever, has been ineffective in trying to prove any benefit to any proposal." Oolong pushed Y'Mordin back, slapping the braid in Y'Mordin's beard as he fell away.

Y'Mordin franticly brushed his beard back into place and glared at Oolong.

"And now your plan is to disperse all strength we may possess? Emperor above! The Ark has no weapons!"

"Just wait and see, Cisternwatch. You can prance and crow all you care to. The Moot will hearken to Stonehammer long before seeing relief from Cisternwatch. Go back and keep tabs on the depth of your well, waterboy."

"The ever shoddy work of the revered Stonehammers? Tell me, mason. When was the last time any clan came to you or yours for basin work?" Y'Mordin growled back. Oolong's face grew deep purple as he spit at Y'Salnos. "This body seeks not your wisdom, if it could be called such. Stonehammer foresight has ever been flawed. Just like your stone cunning skills."

The two combatants glared at one another. Each waiting for the other to speak. A soft cough from the table claimed their attention. The elder dwarf who had spoken before was sitting back in his chair, seemingly asleep. The other dwarves around the table were quietly waiting for the argument to subside. The two dwarves traded another glare and moved back to their seats. As they reseated the dwarven elder spoke softly.

"By the Book of Grudges you two. That was nigh a thousand years ago. No one cares what was wrong with that bath."

"It was an emergency cistern."

"It was a catch basin, elder."

The two answered reflexively and just as swiftly glared at one another, their ire growing again.

"You will only set them off again, Y'Ressantin. Please." Another of the ancient dwarves at the table groaned only to have Y'Ressantin's wheezing laugh as a response.

"Nay, my friend. Nay." His laugh falling to a soft coughing fit. "At my age, I need something to entertain me. Besides, have we not formed a consensus on the matters before us?"

The heads of the dwarves around the table all nodded and murmured their assent. The soft mutterings of the men was brought to a halt as the doors to the room opened.

"Hail, the Moot." Another wizened old dwarf moved into the room, raising his hand in greeting as he moved to the table.

"Hail, Y'Desdyn. The Moot recognizes you." Y'Ressantin smiled at the newcomer. "Welcome back."

"I have made contact with Titan Slayer Jyn and she has received her commuted sentence." Without preamble Desdyn sat at the table, pulling some cold cuts of meat to him and filling his plate. "I am unsure of the outcome though. I do not relish our paths crossing in the future."

"You alone have dispensed happiness and not death. Should that not be cause for celebration?"

"Do not the Slayers find happiness and celebration in death?" Desdyn frowned at his plate. "Have any of us have even seen a Titan Slayer? I am unsure if she can comprehend anything beyond death and war."

The mutters of other dwarves at the table again filled the room.

"Berserkers aplenty. Those of the criminal class."

"It galls me that these criminals steal the berserker title from our legitimate troops."

"Troll Slayers? Aye. Giant Slayers? Two I recall."

"Only one, myself."

"What is a Titan Slayer?"

"When Stompers are too easy to bring down, these psychopaths turn to gargants as the next challenge to surmount." 

"I have never given the choice to a criminal. What would be the point?"

"It is enough that the first domino has been put in place. We will soon welcome another to our ranks. The promised one who will know the minds of our enemy." Y'Ressantin's reedy voice rose to cut through the soft voices of the other dwarves and silence fell across the room.

"The Tyranid." Oolong grumbled the word.

Desdyn finished building his sandwich and stood. Saluting the assembled dwarves with the sandwich, he spoke his farewell.

"The warlord will be splitting his forces away for the collection effort shortly. Jyn has already been detached to the force and I will be counsel for the warlord. Ancestors willing, we will be able to recollect the bulk of the Sixty-First Brotherhood of Durnak."

The dwarves raised tankards to the departing Desdyn.

"Hail and well met! Victory to the Warlord!"


----------



## Myen'Tal

Treesnifer said:


> Interlude
> The Dwarfmoot​
> Deep in normal space between the stars in the endless black, a tear in fabric of reality split the darkness. A maelstrom of color never meant to be witnessed by the unaided eye heralded the arrival a great fleet. Corvettes careened into real space from the anarchy of the Warp, each powering itself away from their egress point to stations ranging far afield. Immense cruisers entered next, gliding in stately disinterest they formed up to escort ships even greater. Kilometers long, with Grand Cruisers in close attendance, the great battleships slipped silently out of the chaos and drove forward. In their wake, the tear seemed to shudder. Its whirlpooled center flexed and spun, yet as the capital ships sailed away, the gate impossibly held itself open. Ripples flowed away, causing the reflected light of stars eons away to shimmer, flex, and wobble in their eternal sentinel duty.
> 
> Diving into space, far in the wake of the ships of combat, haphazard and pell mell, tiny ships of commerce fell into existence. Gnats compared to the parade that preceded them, they milled hesitantly about, nearly navigating into one another in their attempt to exit the warp gate. The stately purpose of the proceeding fleet was shattered by the chaotic mess of private vessels, ore carriers, pleasure ships, freight haulers, and the miscellaneous flotsam of interstellar commerce. Yet, inexorably, the mess of ships moved away from the still open gate, making no attempt to disguise that more was yet to come in this parade of star ships.
> 
> Great as the ships of battle were, their bulk filling the swirling gate, the final ship through seemed to stretch the unimaginable tear. Rounded and formed like no other ship, the nose dwarfed the cruisers as the battleships did the freight haulers, yet inexplicably the bulk of the ship was still hidden within the warp. Great runes declared the vessel as it squeezed itself through the gate. Blocky and long, the warships of the fleet bore no resemblance to the impossibly immense ship that finally drew itself out of the gate that impatiently snapped closed, as if it wished to bite down and rend the great ship like the mighty bite of a ravenous beast. Resembling nothing so much as an impossibly large egg, its runes held no doubt to its origin or purpose. Perhaps the size of as many as three battleships, the great vessel drove forward. Dwarven script, along with hundreds of clan sigils filling the nose of the hull, named the vessel; The Ark.
> 
> Inside, deep within, a debate was coming to a close. A week of controversy had reached its end;
> 
> “I, for one, still strongly disagree”, declared Oolong of the Stonehammer Clan.
> 
> “Nay, you say? Can you not do anything else?” The angry retort was punctuated by a slammed fist on the table.
> 
> “Peace, Y’Mordin. Oolong.”’ A placating tone from a wizened old dwarf forced a nod from the two who then glared at one another. “None here care for your personal quarrel. Put it aside. You are both adults.”
> 
> “You would instead have us pick and choose what engagement to embroil ourselves in, like some Eldar Craftworld. By the Ancestors, is that not what we are now? Allow me recess to be fitted with dancing shoes that I might look more Eldar than I live now!”
> 
> “Ever the skeptic, Oolong.” Y’Mordin began calmly, though he became more animated as he renewed their argument. "Yet you propose, Nay! Demand! That we fracture what is left of us, just as the Eldar have done, to make some fruitless attempt to propagate and at sometime regain the Homewords? No mind to the future! No consideration of resources! Not a care for any of our allies, or even a thought to our enemies!
> 
> "Peace! The two of you!" The placating tone was dropping swiftly and anger replacing it.
> 
> "Not a care? Not a care!" Oolong shot to his feet, his chair clattering across the floor behind him. Mirroring him, Y'Mordin stepped away from his chair and the two advanced upon each other. On the other side of the table, the older dwarf pinched his nose and breathed deeply.
> 
> "Chaos take you, Cisternwatch! I care! Have I not put aside all claim to restitution for the Ark's design? Guided this counsel in this Exodeus? Not a care?"
> 
> The two dwarves glared at each other. Y'Mordin walked up to Oolong and poked him in the chest with his finger.
> 
> "Your restitution? You senile old fool! Cisternwatch had pushed this plan for how long?"
> 
> "It was only accepted when Stormhammer took up the standard. Hah! Cisternwatch, as ever, has been ineffective in trying to prove any benefit to any proposal." Oolong pushed Y'Mordin back, slapping the braid in Y'Mordin's beard as he fell away.
> 
> Y'Mordin franticly brushed his beard back into place and glared at Oolong.
> 
> "And now your plan is to disperse all strength we may possess? Emperor above! The Ark has no weapons!"
> 
> "Just wait and see, Cisternwatch. You can prance and crow all you care to. The Moot will hearken to Stonehammer long before seeing relief from Cisternwatch. Go back and keep tabs on the depth of your well, waterboy."
> 
> "The ever shoddy work of the revered Stonehammers? Tell me, mason. When was the last time any clan came to you or yours for basin work?" Y'Mordin growled back. Oolong's face grew deep purple as he spit at Y'Salnos. "This body seeks not your wisdom, if it could be called such. Stonehammer foresight has ever been flawed. Just like your stone cunning skills."
> 
> The two combatants glared at one another. Each waiting for the other to speak. A soft cough from the table claimed their attention. The elder dwarf who had spoken before was sitting back in his chair, seemingly asleep. The other dwarves around the table were quietly waiting for the argument to subside. The two dwarves traded another glare and moved back to their seats. As they reseated the dwarven elder spoke softly.
> 
> "By the Book of Grudges you two. That was nigh a thousand years ago. No one cares what was wrong with that bath."
> 
> "It was an emergency cistern."
> 
> "It was a catch basin, elder."
> 
> The two answered reflexively and just as swiftly glared at one another, their ire growing again.
> 
> "You will only set them off again, Y'Ressantin. Please." Another of the ancient dwarves at the table groaned only to have Y'Ressantin's wheezing laugh as a response.
> 
> "Nay, my friend. Nay." His laugh falling to a soft coughing fit. "At my age, I need something to entertain me. Besides, have we not formed a consensus on the matters before us?"
> 
> The heads of the dwarves around the table all nodded and murmured their assent. The soft mutterings of the men was brought to a halt as the doors to the room opened.
> 
> "Hail, the Moot." Another wizened old dwarf moved into the room, raising his hand in greeting as he moved to the table.
> 
> "Hail, Y'Desdyn. The Moot recognizes you." Y'Ressantin smiled at the newcomer. "Welcome back."
> 
> "I have made contact with Titan Slayer Jyn and she has received her commuted sentence." Without preamble Desdyn sat at the table, pulling some cold cuts of meat to him and filling his plate. "I am unsure of the outcome though. I do not relish our paths crossing in the future."
> 
> "You alone have dispensed happiness and not death. Should that not be cause for celebration?"
> 
> "Do not the Slayers find happiness and celebration in death?" Desdyn frowned at his plate. "Have any of us have even seen a Titan Slayer? I am unsure if she can comprehend anything beyond death and war."
> 
> The mutters of other dwarves at the table again filled the room.
> 
> "Berserkers aplenty. Those of the criminal class."
> 
> "It galls me that these criminals steal the berserker title from our legitimate troops."
> 
> "Troll Slayers? Aye. Giant Slayers? Two I recall."
> 
> "Only one, myself."
> 
> "What is a Titan Slayer?"
> 
> "When Stompers are too easy to bring down, these psychopaths turn to gargants as the next challenge to surmount."
> 
> "I have never given the choice to a criminal. What would be the point?"
> 
> "It is enough that the first domino has been put in place. We will soon welcome another to our ranks. The promised one who will know the minds of our enemy." Y'Ressantin's reedy voice rose to cut through the soft voices of the other dwarves and silence fell across the room.
> 
> "The Tyranid." Oolong grumbled the word.
> 
> Desdyn finished building his sandwich and stood. Saluting the assembled dwarves with the sandwich, he spoke his farewell.
> 
> "The warlord will be splitting his forces away for the collection effort shortly. Jyn has already been detached to the force and I will be counsel for the warlord. Ancestors willing, we will be able to recollect the bulk of the Sixty-First Brotherhood of Durnak."
> 
> The dwarves raised tankards to the departing Desdyn.
> 
> "Hail and well met! Victory to the Warlord!"


Nice update, Treesnifer, very interesting to dive deeper into your take of the squat lore. I will say this, though I have been guilty of it myself. When the dwarves are talking about the titan slayer simultaneously, you may find it better if you just left all that in the description of your paragraph. A couple of voices with no owners may detract from the reading. Some might disagree, which is okay, it's just my opinion. See what works for you .


----------



## Treesnifer

Myen'Tal said:


> I will say this, though I have been guilty of it myself. When the dwarves are talking about the titan slayer simultaneously, you may find it better if you just left all that in the description of your paragraph. A couple of voices with no owners may detract from the reading. Some might disagree, which is okay, it's just my opinion. See what works for you


I've been taken to task, and watched others as well, when trying to give some background for creating an 'info dump', and putting the reader to sleep. Of course, I've never tried to write dialog of a room full of overlapping conversations either.

My concern with a paragraph, even a quick one, is that a clinical description would be the result, and I want to illustrate the disdain and revulsion dwarves feel for any slayer. In addition to the simple fact that there isn't anything like a Titan Slayer. The weakest gargant is the Mekboy Gargant, and it would take a either a Warlord detachment, or a full bezerker support card plus it's hearthguard to drag one down. Even with rerolling 1s and 2s as a single successful round of close combat probably wouldn't stop the dang thing.

My eon's old view of the slayers from when we played the WHF RPG, was that the slayer is looked down upon because they are, in a dwarf's view, cowards. Would rather die than deal with/ face their problems, and cloak that fear in death by combat (sorta like suicide by cop).

What about giving faces and emotion to the crowd? Or does that just add to the confusion? There is also doing the description narrated in thought; "So-and-So thought about the slayers and their cowardice. Fallen dwarves who could not face their failures and sought death instead. Blah, blah, blah. Yada yada."

Which would fit best? Omniscient descriptive paragraph, In-Character silent pondering description, or adding emotion and faces to the mumbling of those gathered?


----------



## Myen'Tal

I think adding emotions and faces will work just fine, maybe the in character description to. Hope that helps .


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## Treesnifer

Myen'Tal, your suggestions have been implemented. Things took a bit longer than expected as the wife's business has needed me to be involved more to get the orders out the door. The busy season is upon us.

I hope adding in who is talking alleviates some of the confusion.


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## Myen'Tal

Treesnifer said:


> Myen'Tal, your suggestions have been implemented. Things took a bit longer than expected as the wife's business has needed me to be involved more to get the orders out the door. The busy season is upon us.
> 
> I hope adding in who is talking alleviates some of the confusion.


Treesnifer, the changes implemented make everything much clearer, I get an overall better sense of clarity when I'm reading the Interlude. I can easier tell who is who and their importance in the Elder Council(?). Looking forward to the next update.


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## Treesnifer

*Interlude - The Eldar*

_Interlude
The Eldar_​
As Veghard, Abelard, and Novarious joined together, on the opposite side of the battlefield, a tall lithe figure stood before a silvered pillar that sent a soft white glow up towards the sky. Suspended within that glow, slowly orbiting themselves, floated a gathering of rectangular chits colored the hue of aged bone. After contemplating the flow and dance before it, the figure turned its attention to a map. A delicate hand, encased in armor, deftly touched icons defining troops and their positions and moved them. Elsewhere, troops picked up their gear and began moving.

Turning back to the silvered pillar, the figure gathered the chits and after a moment’s meditation, gracefully scattered the chits back into aura of light to watch their dance. Each chit was etched with a single rune of a geometric design, each different and unique. A oracle of ancient design that had always been the harbinger of good things, and the cry of warning in times of trouble. As the runes spun and the chits slowed their orbits, the figure that initiated the toss froze in disbelief. Another figure, armored and helmed as the first, stepped up to contemplate the rune’s message. Together they observed two additional casts of the runes, both matching the first. 

Another consultation of the map followed by another study of the floating runes. Reaching out a delicate hand, the floating chits were gathered up and placed into a small bag. A soft click gave testimony of others unrevealed within. Reaching inside, a single rune was withdrawn. The figure nodded, satisfied with the draw. Returning the single rune to the bag, the figure rose it's masked face to the sky before bowing its head seemingly in prayer. Reaching again into the bag, three runes were withdrawn and tossed into the light where they were caught and held suspended slowly revolving. The two exchanged a look.

“What is it, Farseer?” the newcomer asked.

“Trouble, my friend”, the farseer reached up to remover the helm. Long tresses of bright golden hair spilt down the back of the farseer. “You may find your service in higher demand than I first divined.”

“How shall we proceed?”

The farseer was silent. He gazed at the cast of three runes, then gathered them to cast out five stones.

“Here, Anfelas, see? These three have come up again. Locked into their place.”

“But you’ve added two dimensions to your cast. That changes it, does it not, Erl’myasdul?

Erl’myasdul nodded absently. Anfelas wasn’t sure if his friend’s mumbled answer was directed to him, or Erl’myasdul talking to himself. “What lies before us. What we cannot see. What we seek. Here is the influence. The outcome. I care not for this outcome.”

Anfelas waited patiently. The farseer would decide the best course of action, and Andelas would implement it, as best he could. Though he tried his best to learn the art of casting, Erl’myasdul walked the path of the farseer. As a warlock, Anfelas strength was of a more direct nature. When he matured a bit more, perhaps he would be able to find where the path of the Farseer started. He just needed to cultivate more patience.

Erl’myasdul tossed the runes again and again. No more orders came from the farseer though and Anfelas found himself growing concerned. Speed and mobility was their strength, and this lull would only benefit the mon-keigh. His thoughts starting to wander, Anfelas started when Erl’myasdul suddenly poured all the stones from the bag into his hand and threw them at the oracle beam.

Several of the chits flew outside of the pillar’s cone of light, but not all. The rest swirlled around and around as Erl’myasdul stood, his eyes closed in concentration. One by one the chits fell from the cone and onto the table, until there was only one rune left floating alone. The farseer stood staring at it, lost in thought. Anfelas frowned when his friend spoke unexpectedly.

“Recall Olirneth. His squad is in trouble and we cannot risk them where they are now.”

Anfelas nodded. He was unfamiliar with the single rune floating before them. “What is that?”

Erl’myasdul gazed at the last rune, an odd smile played on his lips. The rune, a depiction of five vertical parallel lines topped by two horizontal, was a stylized face. “The Dvergr. The Dwarves. Our old allies come, and they are calling their dead to them. Our gift to them, did you know? In their Age of Trade, we guided their psychic growth, but now they are so few. So inconsequential. It never even came to mind that they could even be involved here. Have you ever faced one of their living ancestors, my friend?“

Erl’myasdul removed the chit from the oracle and set it aside. With Anfelas’s aid, he picked up the scattered runes, replacing them into their bag. “I have, and it is good that I am with you today. Many a farseer does not use this rune anymore. It is a rare rune to have in any event, but it does detect their psychic signature and we won’t wonder at the source of the interference with the oracle.”


.


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## Myen'Tal

So nice to see the eldar getting involved, I like your interpretation of them very much . The suspense is mounting, keep it up!


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the Second part 1 of 5*

Chapter the Second

Storm Front on the Horizon​

Back on the battlefield, the three new acquaintances appraised one another. Abelard ran his hands over the modified lazgun Veghard had handed to him, familiarizing himself with the couple different controls. Abelard could feel the anxiety that surrounded him begin to slip away. Whether it was the gigantic presence of Novarious, Veghard’s unflappable calm, or having not only a weapon in his hands again, but what was obviously a superior piece of equipment than his standard issue lazgun, Abelard did not feel as though the sky had closed in around him and trying to force him into the dirt.

Novarious had also given the lazgun an inspection. He was mildly impressed with the weapon, but used the time to surreptitiously observe the other two. Abelard, he could see, was standing straighter, breathing more regularly. Veghard after making sure Abelard understood the differences in his new lazgun, had turned away from the group and was surveying the area around them. Novarious had seen Squat warriors before, but he had never had to interact with them and while he had heard of their stalwart nature, heard how they were as impervious to fear as any Astartes, he had never given the rumors any credit. The few sentences he had traded with the Squat gave some credence to those rumors, for Veghard had not so much as blinked at having to speak to him. An almost unheard of feat in Novarious’s experience. Only commisars seemed to be able to control their fear when addressing one of the Emperor’s marines.

Veghard looked the young boy over. Getting caught in the barrage still had him rattled, but against normal human behavior, Abelard had not broken. Veghard’s concern did not diminish though. He was pleased that Novarius had not kill the boy outright for having obviously lost his unit, his weapon, and his field gear, but he was not sure how long the marine would stay his hand. A mercy that would not survive any failure on the boy’s part Veghard knew. He also knew that they would need the boy, and soon.

Vertigo struck Veghard having him drop to the ground on one knee. His vision blurred and the sound of his own breathing drew to a deafening crescendo. Though their voices were garbled and indistinct, Veghard knew the other two were speaking to him. He was unsure of their concerns as even the tones of their voice were lost between the breath of his lungs and the now thunderous drum of his heart. The streaks of white and tan sloshed about his vision. He could tell that others had joined the three of them. He could feel them moving about him, though they said nothing. Only Novarius and Abelard spoke and Veghard tried to calm their fears and explain what had happened to him. Then as suddenly as it befell him, the world snapped back into focus.

Veghad found himself kneeling before a map drawn in the dirt. Novarius and Abelard were knelt down to either side of him with Abelard speaking to him.

“And once we have rejoined these forces here, in which we will not…” Abelard’s paused, puzzlement creasing his forehead. “How do you know we won’t face any opposition?”

Novarius nodded his agreement and added a comment of his own.

“The white shield is right. This map is incredibly accurate, but we have no updates of enemy movement. These guardians that were stationed here were at best advanced warning of any broken units working the area, which will bring reinforcement, most likely in the form of their rangers.”

Veghard looked at each of his companions. He was still struggling to ascertain how he even drew the map, but he could not shake the feeling of assurance that if he moved and followed the directions of the map he seemed to have drawn that no harm would befall him. Time though was limited. Looking at Abelard, Veghard knew that the man would be crucial in the moments ahead, just as he knew the working of his lasgun. It felt like a half remembered conversation, the actual words and arguments used forgotten, but the gist and outcome remembered. Novarius would not be swayed. He would have to decide for himself if he would follow Veghard and Veghard knew that the likeliness of that was slim. Abhuman as Veghard was, it was a show of extreme will that the marine was even speaking with the two of them.

“Time is not on my side”, Veghard had decided to attempt to explain himself would be a fruitless endeavor. “Elements of the One Seventy Seventh will have been driven along that ditch line.”
Vehard toed a point of the map in the ground. “The Sixty First’s initial orders were to hold to the left and ensure the shields were not flanked. The remainder of the thunderers will still hold that position and that is where I need to be.”

Vehard picked up his heavy bolter and sank his shoulder into its harness.

“Emperor guide you, Astartes”, he saluted the marine and then turned and barked an order to the white shield. “Abe, on my six and stay close.”

The next thing Abelard realized was Veghard trotting down the low ridge he had been illustrating to him and the marine. With a trepidatious look towards Novarius, Abe jumped to his feet and, crouching low, ran after the squat warrior. In a space of a few steps, he overtook the shorter man. Remembering his last chase, Abe made a point of keeping to the rear of Veghard. He cradled Gracie at port arms as they trotted along the draw, fear beginning to gnaw at his gut again. Abe could not control his breathing and found himself panting, almost out of breath, even though Veghard was not pressing forward with any great haste.

As the two ran along, the lack of action or enemy fire, Abe found himself recovering. No whistling shuriken flew by, no explosions from incoming missiles or grenades. The absence of opposition began to bring more of a sense of boredom than fear. A feeling that was shattered when Abelard looked to his right as he scanned the copse of trees that they were passing beneath when the deep marine blue of Novarius’ armor loomed up above him. Abe stumbled, almost losing his footing. He had first thought that the marine would shoot both him and Vegard down when the squat all but ignored the marine’s concerns. Though when they had moved some distance, and no shots rang out, Abe thought that Novarius had decided to go elsewhere. Running almost silently, a shocking feat to Abe, the giant marine had moved up and took position off his right shoulder.

The silence that had fallen over their area, was shattered by a scattering of laser fire and the high pitched whine of some unknown weapon from ahead of them. The draw continued ahead and wound down to their left, chasing the sloping end of a finger from the crest of a hill. Veghard veered up and out of the draw and began climbing the side of the finger, choosing a small outcropping of rock at the midpoint from the top of the hill. The area was clear, for the copse of trees had fallen to their rear. Dry grasses that only came to their knees was the only cover available to them besides the hill they had yet to climb over. The rocks that Veghard was navigating towards formed a military crest along the ridgeline of the hill’s finger. Kneeling down, Veghard looked to the both of them. Abe felt the fear that had receded earlier return with such great force that his bowels almost turned to water.

“Abe. You will lead from here on. I want you charge over the hill at this point, the rocks. You must cross at their peak! Look!” Veghard pointed emphatically at the outcropping. “From there, you will start to lay suppressive fire into the forces that are holding the high ground. Stay focused! Novarius and I will be just above you in the saddle.”

Abe’s face paled as the blood rushed from his face. Veghard swiftly reached out and slapped him hard. Spots flashed in his vision as he tried to clear the ringing in his head.

“If you cannot do this Abe, your usefulness to the Emperor is finished. Novarius will fulfill his duty. Climb the rocks. You are behind the Eldar here. Remember the map? Fire down upon them. Surprise is on your side, and once the shock of your fire is absorbed, we will be set at the saddle. You are free to choose your action after that. Get to cover if you need to. We are not alone. The rest of the 177th is there, pinned in the draw. Only you can save them.”

“But…”, Abe’s voice was weak. “Novarius is astartes! Why can’t he do it?”

“We all have roles to play, Abe. This is one is yours.”

Novarius slammed the bolt carrier on his bolt gun, bringing a fresh clip into the receiver. Abe jumped at the unexpected sound. The expressionless helmet hid his features, but Abe knew the marine would shoot him down if he felt Abe was too frightened to do as he was told. Veghard stared hard at the boy.

“Go!” Veghard said to him, and pulled him around to face the last short yards to the crest of the finger. “Go! Now! They need you to pull the Eldar’s attention away from them!”

Abe did not look back. With what seemed as just three steps, he found himself standing atop the exposed rocks that seemed to form a knuckle in the hill’s finger. A wide low bowl was formed below him. To his left, deep in the draw, was the remainder of the 177th. Just before him though, advancing in rank and fielding suppressing fire, aspect warriors of the Eldar forces closed in on the pinned men below them. Abe brought Gracie up to his shoulder, depressed the firing stud, and with a high pitched whine Gracie threw bolts of light down and into the side of the Fire Dragons that were clearing out the humans from before them.


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the Second part 2 of 5*

Down below Abelard in the bowl, deep in combat and unaware of his presence or its danger, the Fire Dragon Exarch, Vondel, sprayed the make-shift trench before him mercilessly. Left and right, his Dragon’s Breath spat death across the mon-keigh forces. These stragglers had fallen into their fusion guns just as Erl’myasdul had foreseen. Deniilan’s own fusion gun fired, passing through and melting away in a flash the human that had popped out of the trench to fire a futile burst of coherent light from the paltry firearms they carried. In enough numbers the weapons could be lethal, but haphazard shots were more often turned away by the bodysuits the Eldar wore or bounced ineffectively off the reinforcement plates protecting the more vulnerable areas.

Where these troops had originated from in the battle, Vondel did not know. The Farseer had given him explicit instructions on which checkpoints to maintain, and how long. The skirmishes that his unit of Fire Dragons had swept through had culminated in this body of men running headlong into the muzzle fire of his arrayed plasma guns. His own Dragon’s Breath, usually hampered by its shorter range and disdained by the majority of his brethren in the Aspect Temple in favor of a firepike, rained a fiery doom upon those foolish enough to think the trench and rocks would aid in protecting them from the Eldar force they had ran into unexpectedly. The fear that had gripped the humans after the initial salvo that decimated their force had indeed saved the lives of some, who did not go to ground and try and hide from the Eldar’s fire. Haurin, Fellthain, Iyannashi, Tellqui, Lleyyagho, Jaaxisha, and Bispasqu continued unabated fire in the broken human unit. It would be suicide to let up and give the mon-keigh and opportunity to lick its wounds and recover. Like treating any wounded animal, death would be kinder and safer.

More of the humans died in the trench and Vondel knew the few remaining would be eliminated in moments. A gasp and sigh from his left caused him to turn. It was not an unfamiliar sound. A mortal wound had somehow found one of his unit. Tellqui, he saw, fell forward. It was the slow fall made with no effort to catch oneself. Several holes had been burned through the chest piece of his body suit. Another companion lost, another soul caught in the sparkling gem that now came alight with almost a renew purpose. Another task, one of incredible distaste, that Vondel would repeat as he had countless times as his role of Exarch. All around his fallen comrade, more stabs of light sent tiny puffs of smoke up from the dead grasses and duff that covered the ground. Swiftly they traversed the distance between Tellqui’s position in the formation and closed in upon Iyannashi. Vondel barked warning and turned to bring his Dragon’s Breath to bear upon the counter attack that had surprisingly come from a secured sector of control.

Expecting to see perhaps a small squad of mon-keigh, stragglers who escaped notice, Vondel watched a single human fire from over the crest of a knuckle in the low ridgeline. The human, even before Tellqui finished his fall, charged down towards Vondel and his Fire Dragons in a suicidal rush screaming incoherently. More flashes of contained lightning fired out of the muzzle of the human’s lazgun. Almost twice the cycle of fire, Vondel realized as he counted emotionlessly, of a normal human weapon as he raised his own to eliminate the surprise nuisance. With a detached air, Vondel gauged the distance to the human. Iyannashi had delicately moved away from the scattering fire laid blindly down, for Vondel could see now that the human did not even have his eyes open. How Tellqui had succumbed to such a random act as a blindly firing human pained Vondel, and even the knowledge that the act would be avenged was no salve against the wound on Vondel’s own soul.

Thundering staccato broke Vondel’s attention. Iyannashi, who had so deftly moved to bring the silly human to a swift end, exploded in a rain of tiny metal explosions that tore effortlessly through the armor plates and body suit. Haurin, who had continued to deal death to the scattered remains of their original prey, joined Iyannashi in her fate as the merciless fire continued along the end line of the Fire Dragon’s formation. From yet another quarter, though not far enough removed to indicate a new unit, Vondel saw two more individuals moved in from the saddle that ran between the rock knuckle and the crest of the hill. Above and between his troop and their path to safety, the two new figures were now Vondel’s primary concern. The broken humans, including the charging mon-keigh, were of no importance. The presence of the heavy weapon, a heavy bolter Vondel recognized not only by its bulk but by its signature report, was of highest import. To the side of the heavy weapon, and now down the hill, charged one of the constructed menaces of the human empire. Clad in its signature dark azure and argent rune, Vondel knew it was stronger and more resilient than those in his troop and should the human successfully close with them only Vondel could walk away from such a clash easily, if the marine made it all the way to him and his. Another order sent out to the remainder of his troop brought guns to bear on the Ultramarine and his supporting heavy weapon.

Veghard continued to fire down upon the Fire Dragons in the bowl of the hill below him. Novarius charged down the hill, swiftly closing with the Eldar below. Veghard, freed of the marine’s constant observation, began a slow trot that took him down towards the rock knuckle Abe had abandoned. Firing as he moved, he knew such action would be better protection than a good bunker. Most did not worry about a heavy bolter moving from a position. The squats had long since been able to wield heavy weapons that would force the taller humans to stand and brace themselves. Their short stature and life under heavy gravity made the squats stronger than most any appreciated. That coupled with their superior understanding of gyros and anti-recoil technologies brought the standard squat heavy bolter a greater degree of mobility than any other Imperial equipment.

The Fire Dragons turned on Novarius, their plasma weapons locking on the charging figure when Veghard had reached the knuckle. The elimination of the One Seventy Seventh had been averted, but Veghard knew what was coming and he was afraid the Fire Dragons would cause too much damage to the few troops Veghard knew of. Squeezing his trigger again, a hail of spent casings fountained around him and cascaded about the rocks. Starting at the far end of the Eldar line, Veghard watched another of the lithe creatures dance in jerky motion before falling still under the weight of his fire but he knew his effort alone would not be enough to save the lone marine.

Down at the end of the bowl he stood sentinel over, Veghard gave half an eye to the boy, Abe. He had survived his initial rush and had provided the time Veghard had needed to cut down the two Eldar who had been tasked with clearing out the draw the One Seventy Seventh had taken cover in. Novarius had not reached the Eldar and his shots, which were fouling the aim of one Dragon, failed to bring it down. Lasgun fire from Abe completed what the Astartes had not, but what brought a small grin to Veghard’s visage was Abe’s wild gesticulation at the cowering troops in the draw. Up from their hiding places, the remnants of Abe’s troop began to pour lasgun fire into the Dragons. Fired upon from multiple directions, the discipline of the Fire Dragons began to break down. The coordinated fire started to instead be divided between the marine and the recovered humans, none of which hit their mark as the Fire Dragons broke ranks and attempted to retreat back up the bowl. In moments, the rout of the One Seventy Seventh had been turned into the elimination of the unit of Fire Dragons.

.


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the Second part 3 of 5*

As the last Dragon fell, Veghard felt himself stumble back from the rock knuckle. The edges of his vision faded to a foggy grey and a sound like the roar of the ocean filled his ears. Fighting to stay on his feet, Veghard lost the feeling in his legs and he felt himself slide forward into a never ending fall through seemingly infinite fog. 

Grey fog parted as Veghard fell. The ground spun crazily below him, and the browns of grasses blurred with the greens and blacks of the blasted forest. The roar that seemed to have started with the roar of the ocean, he now recognized as the scream of wind as he shot towards the surface of a planet. Veghard, who most considered level headed even for a squat, felt panic tighten his chest. He did not know how or why he was suddenly suspended in the air, or falling from such a height. It would not matter in moments, but that fact did not keep Veghard from flailing his arms in futile panic, trying to somehow stop his meteoric descent.

“Ah! You made it!” A semi-familiar voice announced near him, totally unconcerned with Veghard, or the other’s predicament.

A hand reached out and grabbed Veghard, stopping his flailing. At once, the screaming of the wind stopped, the world righted itself, and Veghard found himself again at the rock knuckle. Shock filled him as he watched the battle unfold itself before him, Novarius falling before disciplined fusion gun fire, while the One Seventy Seventh melted away as Abelard was cut down. No supporting fire came from his position as unlike just moments ago, his heavy bolter was nowhere to be seen. Somehow, his actions had no effect. The battle below him, sliding away as the Dragons moved into the draw, was different that the one he could remember just fighting in. Veghard looked behind the rock knuckle, expecting to see his own body, melted or charred beyond recognition. There were stories of those who had been miraculously resuscitated who spoke of the ancestors coming to guide the fallen. The stories were similar, so most took them as dreams that were half remember and so the dreamer would fall back upon the other instances to copy them for some type of explanation. Dreams made up while the brain slowly died, yet found that life was not quite done with them.

Veghard was as most. Such stories were just that, stories for the gullible. The ancestors were revered, just as the Emperor; unseen, untouched, and unknown. The Emperor would no more stride the battle field, like the Eldar Avatar, than an ancestor would come hold your hand as you died. The dead did not sit in judgment as taught to all squat children, but their achievements and actions were to be emulated. The Living Ancestors were an anomaly, but an anomaly in a universe of anomalies. Veghard gave the Living Ancestors credit that was their due, but in the end they were only psykers. Useless to the Imperium, though revered by the Squats, the Living Ancestors lacked the unbridled power of the sanctioned psykers, the Eldar warlocks, or the magics of the Chaos sorcerers, all of which had been witnessed or experienced by Veghard. The mumblings of a senile squat held little import in Veghard’s eyes.

Rock solid belief was now shaking inside Veghard. He could piece together the destruction of the Eldar, not his Imperial forces. Looking behind the rocks, an almost unconquerable fear was building inside of him. Somewhere he would see his own body and life would be denied him, even as he felt as if he was alive even now. Would seeing his own body end even this? Yet, around the knuckle there was no sign of blood, gore, or even body. Veghard was so engrossed with seeking his fallen body he started with a jolt when the voice he had forgotten about pulled his attention from his search.

“You won’t find anything looking down there, Veghard.” The voice came from another squat. Dressed as Veghard, the squat looked no different from any other Veghard had dealt with.

Veghard found his voice had a quavering note to it, shaming him, but being unable to quell his fear he was unable to force it to his regular timber. “Are…are you an ancestor? Are you one of my ancestors?” 

The other gazed back at him. Veghard knew immediately what the newcomer would say. Something like, “What do you think?” or as evasive. The thought of such a retort made Veghard angry, which loosened the grip the fear had over him at the thought of being dead. Surprisingly, the other simply nodded and Veghard found himself without an angry retort.

“Am I dead?” Another question, but this time the other smiled and shook his head negatively. “Then what am I? What’s going on?”

His anger had found a target, but the gruff tone of his voice had no effect on the other.

“What is your name? You know mine, who are you?” Veghard was not sure what was angering him more, the other’s sudden silence or the mocking smile that refused to leave the man’s face, though the direct question did finally get a response.

“My name? Why it doesn’t matter. Call me what you wish. My name died with me, but my purpose has always held me. I will be your guide, for a short time. There will be others who will need me, and soon you will not. You will find others to counsel you. Come, you don’t have much time. Your strength will wane soon and you must see.”

“See? See what? Everyone was killed”, Veghard gestured to the Dragons that had moved past the draw and were moving up the other side. “My plan failed. I didn’t even fire a shot.”

His guide followed Veghard, watching the Dragons move away and he even chuckled. “Well, that’s different.”

“What’s different?” Veghard was puzzled by the other’s disinterest in the death below them.

“This isn’t what happened. This is was what the Farseer was grasping for. Most Ancestors don’t see options of the past.” He turned to look at Veghard. “Of course, that is why we have been waiting for you. Because you are different, my friend.”

“My friends have names”, snorted Veghard.

“Then give me one”

Veghard paused. Fear began to build in him again. Squats were not by nature susceptible to tendrils of chaos, but strongholds had been subverted. Though not many, such places were hated even more than the greenskins. Veghard felt cold. If he was not dead, this could be some chaos creature that had invaded his mind, if that could happen. How did someone become possessed? If he named this vision, this dream, would it gain access to his soul? Possess him? Or was he already damned and no longer protected by the Emperor? He wanted to turn and run from this unknown squat, but squats did not turn and run. And if this was some chaos spirit, where would he run to? Veghard tried to think of his options but all he could think of what that he was at the mercy of this creature.


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## Myen'Tal

Sorry, I haven't been able to keep up with the last few updates. Classes are coming to an end soon, so I am swamped at the moment. I'll catch up as soon as I get the chance, though .


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the Second part 4 of 5*

Veghard licked his lips, nervousness had a grip on him he could not shake. As a squat, psykers were a phenomenon left to the Imperium. They were not an issue among the Squat worlds, and now he did not know what he should expect or what kind of defense he needed. The spirit, if that was what it was, watched Veghard with a concerned look on his face.

“Time is not a commodity we have much of. I need to guide you, to explain what you might see.”

“What I might see?” Veghard asked.

“Opportunities, Veghard. Opportunities”, the spirit looked about expectantly. “We need to move on from here. You’re strength will not hold out forever. Besides, this never happened. The Farseer tried for this version of history, but he wasn’t able to change what had been chosen. If you don’t listen to me, he will get ahead of you and you will be at his mercy.”

Veghard frowned. This wasn’t making much sense to him. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, trying to separate out what the spirit was talking about while he tried not to think what would happen to him once an inquisitor took custody of him. The spirit’s next comment caused his eyes to open in surprise.

“Perfect! First pull out of the box. You’re a natural, Veghard!” The spirit laughed.

Below them, the bowl had changed. The eldar lay where they had fallen to the combined fire of Novarius and the One Seventy Seventh. Movement at the top of the hill caught Veghard’s eye. Ghostly figures raced along the ridgeline before going to ground. Once in place, on some unseen signal, the figures began firing down upon the Imperial forces celebrating down in the draw. Several of the guardsmen fell beneath the fire of what seemed to be five figures. Down in the draw, Novarius gathered the remaining men of the One Seventy Seventh and had them retreat back to cover among the rocks of the draw they had just exited.

“This, Veghard, has already been chosen. It is a decision that has already been made. You see those rangers there? When you wake, you won’t be able to see them as they are now, but you will know they are there. The Living Ancestor who set this line has already deployed forces to ensure its eventual victory. The rangers are the gambit played by the Farseer once she realized a Living Ancestor had made this decision.”

“What!” Veghard exclaimed. “A Living Ancestor made a decision? A Farseer’s gambit? What in the name of the Emperor are you talking about?”

The spirit turned to look at Veghard.

‘Listen, though you won’t really understand, it will make sense before I go. Farseers always seem a step ahead of their opponents, right? This is not superior planning on the Eldar’s part, but instead based upon the Farseer’s ability to manipulate the information gathered from whatever oracle, be it runes or some other device, they use to scry with. The information they gather is, to be blunt, little more than good news versus bad news, but some inspired actions on the case of a few individuals makes even something as simple as good or bad news into a seemingly unstoppable force.

“The Living Ancestor, by contrast, does not need to interpret a bag of runes. He is instead advised by the spirits of ancestors who are not constrained by time as the living experiences it. The Living Ancestor can, by focusing on what he is shown, reduce the acts of random chance and can, in turn, advise the warlord on the best action for a given engagement.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Veghard exploded. “Aside from not making any sense, that’s simply impossible, besides being flatly absurd!”

“And yet it will become second nature to you”, the spirit seemed unmoved by Veghard’s anger. “Those rangers, what will you do? How will you save your men?”

A sharp pain stabbed Veghard in the back of the head as his head struck a rock. With a jarring thud, his wind was knocked from him and he rolled around on the ground trying to catch his breath. Gaining his feet he looked about for the spirit, but the odd feeling of a dream was missing and so was the spirit. Veghard glanced quickly at the ridge line. Nothing stood out and below he could hear the beginning of a cheer from the surviving troopers. Gripping his binoculars, Veghard surveyed the opposite ridge where he had seen the ghostly figures of the cloaked rangers. It was so quick that if he had not been looking for something, he would have missed it, a shift of grass against the breeze and the flash of metal. Dropping his glasses, Veghard grabbed up his heavy bolter and began to run down the slope to the troopers below, hoping he would be fast enough to get them into cover.

*** ***** ***​
As the action against the Fire Dragons came to a close. Novarius finished the final Dragon, burying his combat knife deep in the chest of his assailant. His thrust, deflected by a chopping block, had become fouled under the Dragon’s arm and Novarius took advantage of a hard to reach vulnerability in the Eldar’s armor. A ventilation vent, set high in the armpit, positioned at the tangent formed by the cuirass served as his entry point. A high pitched grunt was all the Dragon could muster as Novarius’s augmented strength allowed him to drive home his strike. Unceremoniously Novarius dumped the Eldar’s body to the ground, freeing his knife.

Novarius frowned inside his helmet as more damage was assessed and recorded by his armor. By the Emperor’s Blessing, none of the wild shots from the fusion guns of the Dragons had found their mark, though just the passing of the super heated plasma was danger enough. Saved by the virtue of its design, and the diligent care Novarius applied, his armor had kept him alive in what would have cut down any Imperial trooper, but Novarius still paid a price in new aches and burns. Such wounds would have to wait for care, but for now he had the painkillers and stimulants to hold him till an apothecary could be found. Turning about, he watched the troopers who climbed out of the draw that had sheltered the few remaining. Dozens lay in and out of the draw, on both sides, and across the bottom. The flamer the exarch had used left even more as unrecognizable charred remains clinging futilely to insufficient cover. Abelard, who Novarius had anticipated having to execute when the boy almost failed to follow the squat’s order, was now waving forward the paltry remains of the One Seventy Seventh White Shields totally oblivious to the carnage that lay about him. As one of the last troopers climbed to his feet, Abelard brought himself stiffly to attention and saluted the soiled officer

“White Shield Terrence reporting, sir!”

“Abe? By the Emperor, you’re alive!” The officer looked shocked to Abelard, and the others of the unit began to cluster around the boy. The office sketched a quick salute and joined the others who gathered around Abelard and began to pelt him with questions. The men were all talking over each other and no sense could be made of the hubbub, all the while Abelard was trying to recount what had happened and how he had been reunited with them. Frustrated, Novarius moved up to the group of men. As his shadow moved over them, silence fell. After a moment where he said nothing, Abelard broke the tableau.

“Sir, this is Ultramarine Novarius. It was him and the squat I was talking about who brought me here.”

The officer paled as he looked up at the towering marine. A shaking hand attempted to salute, but the gesture failed and the man quailed under the unmoving gaze of the marine. His men shuffled behind the officer quickly and left Abelard to stand between the officer and Novarius alone. Abe looked from the officer to Novarius and back again at the rest of the troopers. When he realized the officer was unable to speak, he turned to face Novarius.

“Novarius, this is Lieutenant Germain, commanding officer of Third Platoon, One Seventy Seventh White Shields”, Abe paused to allow the Lieutenant to speak, but Germain simply stared open mouthed at the Ultramarine who stood before him.

“These are some of my squad. Michael, my sergeant, Gregoria and Damon.”

“We’re all that’s left of your squad,” interjected Gregoia, causing Abe to pause for a moment before continuing.

“I don’t know the rest of you, other than that you’re from second and fourth squads”, Abe turned back to Novarius. “What do you think?”

Novarius was silent for a moment. He contemplated the cowed Lieutenant and the men who had clustered behind him as they had the stones of the draw. Altogether there were not quite thirty troopers, and all of them were on the verge of breaking entirely. Morale was what was at stake and the Lieutenant and the sergeant were both unequipped to pull their platoon together. Novarius glanced at Abelard who was watching the assemble men, a frown on his face. Novarius felt the white shield had changed after his reckless charge down the hill. Even now, rather than feeling flush from his success and crowing about it to his fellow troopers as was usual for the average guardsman, Abelard was more concerned with the subdued air that surrounded his compatriots. That and it was to Novarius that Abelard was looking for a solution.

“You have served the Emperor well today. You alone have blunted the Eldar offensive and I salute you. For the Emperor!” Novarius thrust his bolter into the air above him and repeated the cry again and again. After his second cheer, Abelard joined him and they continued until the remaining men of the One Seventy Seventh joined in.

As the troops chanted for the Emperor’s victory, Abe was the first to lower his voice from their cheering. From rock knuckle he had charged down into the battle was Veghard, his short legs pumping him along as fast as he could go. Abe started to move towards the squat warrior and his motion caught Novarius’s eye. Novarius looked up at Veghard as he ran down the hill and was disquieted by the wide eyed look on his face. Novarius moved up to intercept Veghard and Abe fell in a step behind. The troopers continued the chant and began others as they regained their fighting spirit, their voices covered Veghard’s rushed warning as he came to a halt.

“Ambush! An ambush!” Veghard gasped as he came up to his two compatriots. “On the ridge! Eldar rangers! We need to get the men back into cover!”

.


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## Myen'Tal

I actually felt a little sad to see Exarch Vondel and his squad get obliterated like that, but I'm an elder fan boy, so take that for what you will:grin:. I like the chain of events that are being set into place. I don't see where every storyline is going yet, but I'm sure we'll get to that bridge when you're ready. This is proving to be a really great story, can't wait to see how this ambush plays out!


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the Second, part 5 of 5*

The rushed squat’s warning did not fall on indifferent ears and while Abe looked shocked from Veghard to looking around the crest of the hill surrounding them, Novarius turned to the rabble of Imperial troopers.

“Ah-ten-hutt!” Novarius called out in the trooper’s jargon. Sharply, the milling troopers jumped to attention, awaiting his next order. Scanning the faces, Novarius was frustrated that fear was still too prevalent. Whatever danger was out there, ranger or otherwise, being trapped in a killing field was not what Novarius needed with what was looking like the dregs of the One Seventy Seventh. Rather than the strongest surviving, this white shield unit was survived by the weakest and most craven. It was a theme that often played out in the white shield units, more often than was desired.

Whatever order Novarius was planning to give was too late. Near the rear of the unit, a trooper fell as the crack of a sniper’s rifle echoed through the bowl. In response, Veghard’s heavy bolter began its own staccato report, drowning out other shots. The squat’s uncanny riposte to the initial shot seemed to have fouled the other snipers’ fire as the additional shots went wide, even as the troopers began diving to the ground. Two shots did ricochet off Novarius’s armor, striking burnt pauldrons, but failed to penetrate the heavy plates. Scanning the top of the ridge, Novarius could now see the rangers as their cloaks failed in the frantic movements caused by Veghard’s suppressive fire.

Novarius turned back to the troopers. The lieutenant was lying flat on the ground, trying to make the smallest target possible, while his troops were diligently following his example. Abe alone, once the shock of the initial round of shots was fired, knelt down and was attempting to follow Veghard’s lead, firing blindly up the ridge.

“The scope, Abe!” It was all Novarius could spare the boy, who nodded and pressed his eye to the attachment of Veghard’s modified lasgun. Novarius reached to his utility belt and pulled two blind grenades. The bowl gave all advantage to the rangers, even if they were outnumbered by the Imperial forces. He knew he needed more time to organize what was left of the One Seventy Seventh and how to get it. With deft pulls, Novarius activated the two grenades, and tossed them out between the ambushers and the troopers. It would take seconds for the smoke to rise and provide cover for the troopers and Novarius hoped it would be quick and enough cover to protect the men around him.

The sergeant watched Novarius’s action and turned to the men nearest him. “Blind grenades! Quick, men! Let’s lay down some cover for us!”

Atop the ridge, the rangers had no hesitation as they turned their attention to Veghard. The first shots missed the squat, who seemed quite deft under the weight and bulk of the heavy bolter, even as he fired back at the Eldar. The rangers were quick to adjust their aim, and as Novarius’s blind grenades began to cloak the bowl, two rounds scored hits on the squat. With a guttural cry of pain, Veghard dropped his heavy bolter and fell to the ground. Abe cried out in shock before calling the attention of Novarius.

“Veghard! Veghard! Novarius, Veghard’s been hit!”

Abelard, without thought to his own safety, jumped up from his position and ran to the fallen squat. His back to the Eldar, Abelard grabbed Veghard and struggled to turn him over. Panting from the effort and strain, Abelard checked the wounds. One had gone though the meaty part of Veghard’s thigh, while the other had gone high in the arm. Abelard pulled out two bandages from the first aid kit set in the back of Veghard’s utility belt. His fingers fumbled in their haste to pull the bandages out of their pouches. The first he placed over the thigh wound, it was bleeding the heaviest. Pressing the dressing over the wound, Abe leaned his weight onto the wound. There was the entry as well as the exit wound, and he could not figure out how he would be able to care for both, let alone the arm wound. He could not even tell where the exit wound on the arm was.

The dressing he pressed onto the wound soaked through in moments, and Abe tore the next dressing open. His mind raced as he tried to think what to do and chanted, unaware of himself, the simple training he was given when he was pressed into the White Shield recruitment program.

“Stop the bleeding. Start the breathing. Treat the wound. Check for shock.”

Over and over he repeated himself as he struggled with the heavy squat. Struggling against the weight of his friend, Abe looked up to see lying in the dirt scant feet away from his lay two of his squad mates; Damon and Gregoria. Their eyes were wide as they watched him struggle with the bleeding squat. Anger flared in Abe, anger that the two of them would rather lie in the dirt rather than help another and would even do nothing but watch as someone else struggled while exposed to enemy fire.

“Get over here and help me!” Abelard ordered the two. “Both of you! Now!”

The two troopers were still too scared to move when Novarius arrived. The marine took one look at Abe’s struggle to stem the bleeding of Veghard’s leg wound and with one arm rolled the squat so that Abe could reach both side of the wound. He then looked at the two troopers, freezing their blood with a glare. Both quailed as Novarius raised his bolt gun at the two of them.

“You will move when Abelard commands you to, or I will dispense the Emperor’s Justice.”

The two troopers nodded their acquiescence and scrambled to Abelard’s side. From around the four of them, several more blind grenades popped and spewed forth more white smoke, billowing out from around the bulk of the One Seventy Seventh. Novarius grumbled to himself, the sound coming out more as a growl, the troopers had not tossed the grenades far enough and would find themselves more blinded by the smoke than the rangers above them. Looking away from the fallen squat, his eyes fell upon the heavy bolter. Veghard had somehow managed to drag himself away from the weapon after he had been hit and now the bolter lay beyond the cover of smoke. Realizing they would need the firepower of the heavy weapon and trusting to the strength of his armor, Novarius stood and moved quickly over to the abandoned weapon.

Shots rang out as Novarius emerged from under the smoke’s cover, though he was not hit. As quick as he could, Novarius grabbed the heavy bolter and tossed the weapon up onto his shoulder, fitting himself into the harness. Unexpectedly the heavy bolter pulled him almost over, and only his reflexive putting out of his leg stopped him from falling onto his back, even then he was still forced to take two steps to stop his surprising momentum. Just as his backward momentum was being checked, the heavy bolter jerked Novarius forward, almost with a will of its own. Novarius fought with the sudden reversal of direction when, without warning he was sidestepping to try and keep the heavy bolter settled on his shoulder. He could not seem to get himself into the saddle of the bolter and it was only by virtue of the drunken dance that he was being forced into that kept the ranger’s from landing any hits upon him.

Staggering about, almost in a panic at his inability to stabilize the heavy bolter, Novarius realized the bolter was not adding the appropriate load to the capacity of his armor. His loss of control was more of his over compensation for the expected weight, though the sudden shifts of the bolter had also confused him. The odd dance had brought Novarius back under the cover of the blind grenades, and as realization dawned upon him, Novarius relaxed as he sank into his knees while he attempted to allow himself to simply hold the heavy bolter and not correct, or overcorrect, the motion of the squat’s weapon. As Novarius allowed his momentum to sink into his legs, the bolter settled onto his shoulder and the saddle closed itself over his shoulder, gripping the armor tightly. Hesitantly, Novarius stood upright. The bolter, which should have been a drag against his motion, rode smoothly without hindrance and Novarius marveled at how light the weapon was.

Another modification by the squat, like what he had done to his lasgun, only this modification answered for the diminutive, though heavy, man’s quickness even under what should have been a crushing burden. Novarius stowed his bolt gun and reached out to a curious handle he had seen Veghard grip occasionally while firing. He had originally though the handle was to stabilize the weapon, but he knew now Veghard would have not needed any such device. Several buttons lay within an easy thumbs reach, and Novarius tentatively pressed the most prominent of them. Through the sight, a laser marker appeared and Novarius was disappointed for the mundane targeting aid, but he turned the muzzle of the weapon towards the top of the unseen ridge and fired a quick burst to test the recoil for the oddly weighted bolter. Braced for what he expected to be even more recoil, Novarius was not ready for the odd vibration that shook the heavy bolter. He cut the burst short, afraid that perhaps the weapon was unstable as Veghard had warned Abelard of in the use of the lasgun. He looked through the smoke to the fallen squat, disappointed that he had fallen unconscious. Novarius needed to know just what to expect from the modified weapon. Its power would be needed to clear a path for the troopers and Novarius and he wanted to know the new properties the squat had built into one of the most standard of heavy weapons.

Turning his attention away from the bolter, Novarius took stock of the state of cover they had from the blind grenades. Moving deeper into the smoke, he came back to Abelard and his two squad members. Together they had managed to stem the bleeding wounds the squat had. Stabilized for the moment, Abelard turned his attention to Novarius.

“Do we retreat?” He asked hesitantly. Since the run and the reckless charge into the Eldar, Novarius’s tenor towards him had changed and the marine’s command to Damon and Gregoria to follow Abelard carried more significance than Abe though Novarius was aware of. While Novarius had wrestled with Veghard’s heavy bolter, Michael had come to Abelard’s aid in treating Veghard and once the wounds had been treated, requested Abe’s next order. Even with the change in his attitude, Abe was very leery of addressing the marine directly, except none of the troopers of the One Seventy Seventh would even look directly at the marine.

“Marines do not retreat”, Novarius’s voice turned cold and Abelard felt its bite and shivered. Novarius though did not seem to take true offence at Abelard’s question. His voice seemed distant, as he contemplated a thought. “We will advance in a different direction.”

Novarius patted the heavy bolter. “This will give us the firepower we need to break out of here. Abe, detail a rear guard. We will circle around to the finger we came up. The rear guard needs to keep the smoke up to make the rangers feel that we are too frightened to move and are staying pinned here. Bring Veghard, with the Emperor’s Grace he will come around soon.”

Abelard nodded to Novarius and turned to the lieutenant. “Sir? What is your”, Abe paused as he searched for the right word. “Suggestion?” But the lieutenant shook his head and Abe looked to Sergeant Michael.

“Yes sir. Second Squad will form the rear guard”, the Sergeant answered Abe who nodded.

“I’ll have Gregoria and Damon make a sling for Veghard and carry him. The lieutenant and I will take Fourth Squad with Novarius. Keep an eye on Second Squad, won’t you Sergeant?” Abelard was uncomfortable telling the sergeant what to do, but with Novarius standing over his shoulder, he was afraid that if he did not direct his fellow troopers, Novarius would kill him for cowardice and all the rest of the white shields as well.

Satisfied with the arrangements, Novarius turned and started to move back down the draw towards where he, Abe, and Veghard had come from before they had found the One Seventy Seventh. Behind him, the troopers divided themselves according to Abe and the Sergeant’s orders. More pops of smoke, followed by a few tentative shots around the area of the grenades, as the Fourth Squad attempted to keep the attention of the rangers. The paltry remainder of the Third Squad made a makeshift stretcher for the squat while Fourth Squad trotted to catch up with the departing Novarius.

.


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## Myen'Tal

Another exciting update, I'm surprised that Veghard is down, thought it would take more than rangers to bring that guy down :grin:. But he is only mortal or so I think. Interesting combat scenario, they cleaned up the Dragons and now the Rangers pressing down on them, reminds me that I do not use snipers in my stories enough. They can be very potent weapons, given the situation. As you show very skillfully.


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## Treesnifer

Thanks, Myen.

So ends Chapter Two. The two Interludes are next. Like the last two, these are new writings and so there will be a delay. Though not a month's worth like last time. So be prepared for some insight on the difficulties the Farseer has to handle, while other issues unfold on the Ark.


_Addendum; Well, that was longer than I had intended. Whoops!_


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## Treesnifer

*Interlude - The Dwarfmoot*

Oolong moved down the corridor towards the Stonehammer’s clan hall. He had a meeting to make. The long corridor was lined with the carven statues of ancestors long lost to time. Their names, deeds, kin, and profession recorded in plaques before them. Cleaned by the apprentices, each was a testimony of excellence , resilience, and resourcefulness. Attributes held in highest esteem by the Stonehammers. Oolong’s back itched at the angry stares that bore down upon him, he could feel the disgust that rained down upon him from the inanimate stone figures. He would surpass the efforts and achievements of every single individual in the hallway. He had been promised he would be hailed as the greatest savior ever.

Down through the living quarters and past ancestor’s shrines Oolong hurried. Through his personal sanctuary and, after slipping behind a column, moved through a hidden door. A tiny cubicle held a projection screen and transmission pad. Moving upon the raised dais that housed the transmission pad, the lights dimmed. In the screen stood another squat. Coal black beard and hair framed beady black eyes. A broken nose protruded at an angle from the forest of hair. Anticipation gleamed in the eyes of the man as he acknowledged Oolong’s transmission.

“Hail! And well met, Oolong.”

“Hail and well met, Tarkendon.”

“What news do you bring? Has the success you have been guided to been achieved?”

“Aye! It has. An expedition force comprised of three Brotherhoods, a few contingents from the guild forces that are made up of bikes, ‘copters, and a company of Overlorrds. Two artillery companies have been dispatched as well. A rather standard force, but formidable in its own right”

“You argued quite well then.”

“Hah! You don’t know the half of it. As I had dreamed, antagonizing the Cisternwatch gave the pathetic fool a few sympathy votes, which was enough to put him in charge of the operation! Then, as instructed, I put aside my anger, feigned as it was, to egg Y’Mordin into sending extra troops. With Stonehammer and Cisternwatch in agreement, the other clans fell in line.”

Oolong paused, frowning. He continued his report to Tarkendon.

“There was a discussion between the ancestors about the lack of counsel that they had been able to garner from the deceased. My gifts of what is to come have been well received, so whatever the Dreamer is doing, it is keeping the other ancestors in the dark. All they know is that a new ancestor will be found. They have dispatched one to gather and instruct him. All is happening as I was told.”


Oolong bowed low to the other in the screen.

“Well done. You are to be complemented. Continue to follow your dreams. It is the only way to keep the dead at bay and the ancestors uninformed. They will be unable to come to any decision other than those you present. The Dreamer can manipulate the flow of information only as long as you are compliant and keep to your role.”

Oolong nodded. “I will comply. I want us to have a home as soon as possible. We cannot survive as a convoy traveling without destination.”

“Rest assured, my friend. A place has been set aside for you and all those you bring. The strongholds here have been clamoring for news of your arrival as well. It will be a time of great celebration to have more of our cousins join us! The promise of wives has been especially well received.”

Oolong sank to his hands, grief filled his voice “Well, the Exodus caused us to lose so many men. We have more widows than fighters at this point. Widows and orphans. It is all we are now. There is no hope. None, if you cannot bring us sanctuary soon!”

Tarkendon face filled the screen, his voice gruff with emotion. “You have been elevated as an ancestor! Do not forget that! The Dreamer is there with you, do not lose faith!”

Something off screen caught Tarkendon’s attention and when he turned his gaze back to Oolong he smiled.

“Here, Oolong. A gift for your performance at the Moot. Your success and diligence has brought you another ally. Another patron, who also wishes to reward you.” Tarkendon stepped away from the screen as three young dwarven women moved up to take his place. “Take these three. They will sooth your grief, embolden your resolve, and restore your strength. Your journey will be long, and you cannot falter. Your new friends will sustain you.”

Walking forward, the three girls, instead of vanishing as they walked past Tarkendon’s transmitter, moved into the room as it the screen was not a projection, but a doorway. They stepped up to Oolong, lightly trailing their fingers along his arms and shoulders. They did not speak, and Oolong was unable to do more than gaze at the perfection of each. Their perfume muddled his mind and it was all he could do do not reach out and return their touch. Soft radiant silks rustled and swished with their movements as they moved around him, stroking his beard and hair.

Unnoticed, Tarkendon vanished from the screen after watching Oolong succumb to the ministrations of the three women who attended him. The screen went dark and the room went silent save for the heavy breathing of Oolong Stonehammer.

Tarkendon switched off the transmitter. He was pleased beyond expectation. He had expected to hear of failure, but Oolong’s report was just what he had wanted to hear. A contingent of the dwarven warmachine was being peeled away to rescue another lost unit, which would lead them right into a trap. That action would leave the Ark even more unprotected and would, in the end, be pulled into the Eye and the civilians would be absorbed into the Dwarven worlds held within. New forges would be be fired up and even more weapons would flow out to sustain the armies of Blood God.


.


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## Myen'Tal

Ooh, very interesting revelation, a traitor in the ranks of the Squats! Can't wait to find out what comes next, Treensnifer, keep it up!


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## Treesnifer

Yikes! Can I say that? Or would a more Tolkien, "Nine months passed sleepliy in the Shire" be more appropriate? 

The wife's business, an attempt (and stilll ongoing) to purchase a house and land, and the summer workload of a soda business in the desert sort of consumed my time. So, here's to finishing this! The next chapter is complete, it was just waiting on the Eldar Interlude, and it is ready.

My apologies on the very long break.


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## Treesnifer

*Interlude - The Eldar ll*

Erl’myasdul stood before the oracle. The Ancestor rune floated among the others he had cast. The other warlocks around the command post spoke in whispers, not wishing to disturb his thoughts. His retinue knew him too well. After the short lived pleasure at discovering the presence of the squat Ancestor, the following casts made no sense and they knew he was still displeased. 

Cool lips pressed against the nape of his neck causing him to jerk with surprise and annoyance. Spinning away with a laugh, Yeathana lightly danced across the canopied area. Erl’myasdul frowned and attempted to regain his lost composure and thoughts. 

“You must relax, my love”, Yeathana smiled at him as she began to pirouette, letting her head fall back and bowed her back before flipping to return to spinning on her toes. 

Erl’myasdul scowled. The abandonment of decorum bothered him even more when the oracle failed him. Looking about at those gathered, stoic faces returned his appraisal, but they could not contain the mirth in their eyes. Glowering, he turned back to the oracle. Gnawing fear prevented him from accepting his wife's invitation to dance the trouble away and clear his head. A fear he could not identify.

A note of surprise and pleasure filled his wife's greeting as two more entered the Eldar command pavilion. 

“Farheon! Oh, happy hour! Come dance with me! “

At the sound of his old rival's name, Erl’myasdul turned back to his retinue. Dressed in his mime’s uniform, spinning and cradling Yeathana as they danced around the tables and warlocks, was the other man with whom he had competed against to win Yeathana’s hand. Knowing he had beaten Farheon was little comfort when the other could out-dance him without effort. If Yeathana had a love other than him, it was dancing. During the courtship, when in quiet conversation with his rival, Farheon and he would speculate if she would not find herself on a path that would take her to the Laughing God. A path that had consumed Farheon. 

Erl’myasdul shifted his weight. The pull to join the two he loved most was almost too great to resist, but the knowledge that he would only mar the performance kept him with the others only watching. The two completed their dance of greeting and Yeathana fell into a deep embrace. They held the tableau for a moment before, surprise on his face, Farheon held Yeathana away to scrutinize her face. Shock tinged with annoyance colored his tone when he spoke. 

“You are with child?”

The polite disinterest held among the warlocks evaporated instantly and Yeathana turned away in a pout.

‘You ruin the surprise, Farheon. Away without word and the you steal my thunder the instant you return.”

All eyes turned from Yeathana to Erl’myasdul. His thoughts ran a chaotic maze of emotions and thoughts. His blockage at the oracle vanished before the fear of Yeathana’s deception. Held speechless, everyone turned back to Farheon and Yeathana. Farheon seemed to have Erl’myasdul's loss of tongue after making his initial declaration.

With a defeated sigh, Yeathana sheepishly faced her audience. 

“Yes. I left the warlock’s path before Erl’myasdul received his summons.”

A whispered word filled the pavilion seeming loud in the silence that had fallen.

“Lifegiver.”

Yeathana had the decency to look abashed. 

Farheon passed his hand over Yeathana’s abdomen and chuckled. 

“Here is the spirit heading to the Laughing God! I had so thought it was you, Flower, but the god is more patient than I. You are his herald!“

As Farheon’s comment sunk in, Erl’myasdul felt the sluice of iced fear wash away his doubt, confusion, and anger. Frozen, he could not step towards his wife nor turn away. The calculations he had been using were all wrong. It was no longer a mystery why, even with the presence of the squat psyker, the oracle’s response was mad and useless. His wife’s hedonism had brought her, feigning an abandoned path. He could count in a Lifebringer, but not a faux warlock.

Erl’myasdul forced his gaze to Farheon, and over to his companion. The other newcomer had not spoken. Masked and silent, as tradition demanded, the other mime was every inch a member of the Great Dance. Even in joy, Erl’myasdul had not ever heard of any member of the Laughing God’s troupe to doff their masks in public. Like the exarchs, the path of the Dance consumed it’s travelers. One did not return unchanged from such a journey.

Something was not as it seemed, and Erl’myasdul felt the world beneath his feet tilt as Farheon’s infectious chuckle spread about the retinue. Like trying to find a clear reflection in a smashed mirror while fighting too much wine, the room began to become unjointed, conversation garbled, and his balance near lost. His voice too loud, powered by the fear within, Erl’myasdul cut though the din that was beginning to build.

“Who are you?”

Farheon looked wounded at the accusation and the others looked surprised at Erl’myasdul. All knew and counted Farheon a companion and friend. Before leaving to join the Dance, he had been a warlock in Erl’myasdul’s retinue.

“Who are you?” Again, Erl’myasdul demanded. He leaned heavily on the table. He reached out to the oracle and knocked the runes down.

“It is I, Erl’. Your companion. Farheon.” He cast a confused look to Yeathana. “You are not sounding well, Erl’. Not at all.”

Ignoring the conciliatory tone of Farheon, Erl’myasdul took a stuttering, drunken step towards the other two.

“Who are you?” To emphasis his query, Erl’myasdul rose his hand to point at the other mime standing in Farheon’s shadow.

Farheon turned, looking at the other who accompanied him. Silently, the mime took a deep bow that sank into a deeper curtsy before slowly rising on one set of toes, with the other leg extended behind, Farheon’s mask extended to the him. Nodding, Farheon received the mask and fitted it over his face.

A soft and tortured “No”, escaped Yeathana as her friend’s face vanished beneath his mask.

Her soft comment was lost in the raspy breath of Erl’myasdul as he returned to the oracle. The clink of his runes and louder than usual mumblings had captured everyone’s attention. Reaching out to the deployment screen, he pressed two icons. Pulled a single icon and tossed it into the beam of light. Another followed the first. They orbited each other, slowly rotating. Erl’myasdul sent a third rune into the cone of light. Uncharacteristically it struck one and then ricocheted into the other. The warlocks jumped at his voice when he spoke.

“We are in danger of losing Vondel and Meadowlark! Send word to I’lmalor, he must get his scorpions to their aid.”

Erl’myasdul turned his gaze to the two mimes who stood silently. Watching him.

“I’lmalor will not arrive in time, though he is not far. I cannot detail any here. Can you buy Meadowlark and Vondel time?”

As one the two mimes bowed and left the pavilion. Erl’myasdul watched for a moment, glanced at his wife, and returned his attention to his runes. His hands shook a bit as he made an additional cast. Anfelas looked questioningly at him. Erl’myasdul could feel a surge in a fever he was fighting since Farheon’s unexpected visit. Grasping Anfelas to try and hold himself up, he fought to tell the other the results of the last cast.

Holding the farseer as his strength left him, Anfelas gently laid Erl’myasdul down on the ground and looked up at the group. Satisfaction was in his voice as he relayed what Erl’myasdul had whispered to him before falling unconscious.

“He said, “The Devourer comes.” Good news finally. We will need to place the remaining psychic resonators and the rest of the Nest will follow the call.”

“We have accomplished our goal?” Another warlock asked.

“It seems so. The resonators, combined with the additional troops the mon-keigh have devoted in response to our attack, will give the planet a large enough psychic signature to turn the Hive this way. We will be able to withdraw soon.”

Yeathana looked up from her husband lying asleep on the floor and fitted her helmet to her armor. “Let us get these last few placed. Call a caregiver and let us go. The faster we finish the better.”

Anfelas shook his head.

“No, Yeathana. You will not be joining us. You are no longer part of the retinue.” Anfelas stood and gestured to the other gathered warlocks. “I am sorry Lifegiver, but I cannot allow you to accompany us. It is to you the farseer’s care must fall.”

“Anfelas.” Anger filled Yeathana’s voice. “You cannot leave me here.”

His own anger flared at Yeathana’s. Punching icons on the deployment screen, Anfelas sent orders out to units in the area.

“Do not speak, Lifegiver! You have endangered us all with your lies and presence! You walk a new path and it does not belong here. Yes, you have the authority to use the deployment screen and when Erl’myasdul awakes you can attend him as he needs, but you are no longer a member of this engagement. The calculations the Farseer made in building our force was built on the knowledge of your path. And now we find out you’ve lied? You cannot perform your duties as you once did and we are all the more vulnerable because of it!

Anfelas took a calming breath before continuing.

“Now I have deployed a detachment of guardians to assist in defending the Farseer. Please, accept your new path, follow their directions, and do your duty!” He rubbed his face, trying to make sense of the past few moments. “I never thought I would ever see another lie about their path or like Farheon, break tradition in such a fashion. Something is not as it appears.”

His last words seemed to echo oddly to him and in casting his gaze about the room, his eyes fell upon the oracle. The runes continued to spin and collide with each other. An uncharacteristic urge to pull the runes out of the lighted cone and toss others to replace them filled him. Shaking himself, he locked his helmet down, gestured to his companions and left Yeathana standing silently alone as the rest mounted their bikes and shot away.


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## Myen'Tal

\o/ I'll have to read this from the beginning and catch up! Welcome back, Treesnifer, the forum is a little emptier than before you left. Even I had a hiatus for a little while, but I look forward to coming back to your story:smile2:.


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the Third, part 1 of 5*

Chapter the Third

Cloud Burst​


“Stop the bleeding. Start the breathing. Treat the wound. Check for shock”

Veghard could hear Abelard’s voice, though his eyesight was dark and he could not see. The boy was struggling, he could tell and try as he might, he could not help roll himself or be of any aid. Shock, he was in shock. Veghard felt both numb and drained of strength. His limbs did not respond to his wishes, and even as Abe struggled with him, Veghard felt lighter than the Overlord Airships he had crewed upon prior to his deployment within Sixty First Thunderers.

“Get over here and help me!” Abelard sounded panicked. Veghard hoped Novarius was elsewhere. Last thing they would need would be another dead trooper because some marine thought the trooper was too much of a coward. Novarius’s voice killed that hope, but gave new life to others when, without expectation, he sounded out in Abe’s favor.

“You will move when Abelard commands you to or I will dispense the Emperor’s Justice.”

Veghard was rolled over by Novarius. Veghard knew it by the uncompromising strength of the marine’s hand. As he was moved, Veghard realized his eyes were closed and that he was not blind. Opening them, he glanced around. Novarius had moved away and several troopers were now surrounding him, working on his leg and arm, though he could not see what they were working on. Looking beyond them, Veghard saw the smoke obscuring the bowl they occupied and felt tears well up in his eyes. Just beyond the cover of the smoke screen Veghard watched Novarius struggle with his heavy bolter. When he had been hit, Veghard realized that he must have failed to disable the anti-gravity aspects of his weapon. Some malfunction kept the anti-gravity running and now an Astartes carried the weapon, even if it was obvious he did not know how to wield the modified heavy bolter.

Looking away from the stumbling marine, Veghard’s eye fell on another squat kneeling between and behind two of the troopers who where wrestling bandages onto his arm. When their eyes meet, the new comer nodded, and Veghard realized that it was the spirit guide who had spoken to him just before the mad rush down to the assembled force Novarius and Abelard had managed to save. Veghard frowned at the other’s nod. It was bad enough to have a vision when he was healthy, to be wounded and weak would be unacceptable. The spirit gave him an encouraging smile, moved up between the two troopers, and held out a hand to help Veghard to his feet.

Pulling himself up with the aid of the spirit, Veghard looked back at where he had been lying. Unsurprised, he found himself looking exactly at what he expected to see; himself, still being worked upon by the troopers and Abe. His head lolled to the side, loose and limp. Veghard wondered how long it would be before the men realized they were working on a dead man and what they would do. After gazing at his body, Veghard took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and then let out a great shout of laughter.

“That is a new response, I must admit”, the spirit said as Veghard’s laugh fell to an amused chuckle. “Why the mirth?”

“I can’t be lead astray by you now, spirit. Look at me, I’m dead”, Veghard pointed to his body. “If I’m not yet, I soon will be.”

The spirit followed Veghard’s gesture and shrugged.

“You look alive enough to me.”

The spirit turned back to Veghard and placed a hand on his shoulder. Veghard felt a shudder run though him. Aside from the overly familiar touch, the spirit did not feel insubstantial or cold or anything other than a warm, breathing squat Veghard would expect to meet on any given day. The brotherly grip on him was disconcerting, as was the spirit’s unconcern of the wounds threatening Veghard’s body.

“You are not dying, Veghard. No more than the tiny amount you do every day you’re alive. You have a long road ahead of you and I am your guide for the first few steps on that road. I won’t be around long, and once I’m gone you’ll never see me again. You won’t be alone. Don’t worry on that account, you will have other advisors.”

The guide grinned and turned away from the men working on Veghard’s body. He motioned for Veghard to follow him and the two of them walked away from the smoke filled bowl.

"What guides?" Veghard pressed.

"Those that you will counsel."

"Not much in the way of guides if I'm the one to hand out advise."

The guide nodded in agreement but said nothing, simply moved away to the fingertop, oddly away from the ambushing eldar. With a quick glance back at his companions and a worried frown at Novarius, Veghard turned away and chased after. Coming abreast the guide, shock brought him up short.

"Your next guide," said his companion gesturing with an open hand at three squat warriors standing before them.

The three warriors bore the same markings and unit patches. Veghard shuddered at the sight of them, for each of them bore heinous wounds. Even knowing he was either dreaming or dying did not steel him for the knowledge that these men were dead, yet standing at parade rest waiting for, somehow, for him. One of the men were from his own brotherhood company, the other two were not. The second from a robot platoon, the last was a gyro-copter pilot. Beside him, the guide began to speak.

"Coming soon, a choice will have to be made. That choice will cause a chain reaction of events. Those events will have outcomes that will be the crux of yet more choices, and that will continue to repeat over and over.

"What does this have to do with me? You wan to ask? As a Living Ancestor you are able to look down the cause and effect of decisions in battle. It is for you to choose someone's action that will cascade into a victory, or if that is impossible, a tolerable defeat. That choice will be dictated by what you experience here. These men here are the result of the choices they made in the battle ahead, but only one of these three choices can be made. As what each of these chose effected the options the other's had to choose between. They can tell you what happened and the end result of their choices. Irregardless of who's choice you deem best, the one you choose will be going to their death. You can only get glimpses of the future though the memories of those who have died. They are not bound to time the way you are. Do you understand?"


Veghard grunted. He wasn't sure what he understood beyond he was likely dead, or dying, and deep in shock by now. He felt he was waiting more for these dead men to somehow turn into him and he would be trapped in some macabre nightmare of gruesome death and agonized dying. This talk of choices and predicting outcomes was beyond his ken. Humans may have psychics, witches, and warp-bound heretics, but not squats. Rock solid and more dependable than any Astartes. That described a squat, not a reality bending psyker.

"There is a catch. Each guide you call, each choice you make, drains you. Weakens you. Each subsequent call becomes more difficult that the last. This is a weakness you do not recover from. As time goes on, you will struggle more and more to gaze into choices of the future, and one day you will find that though you feel too worn out, you have the strength to call a guide, to have the future shown to you, and pick the best path forward. Yet once you have accomplished that, you will find that you do not have the strength awaken and your wisdom and counsel will be forever lost.

"Use your time wisely, Ancestor. Our peoples' fate rests upon you."

The guide smiled sadly and Veghard felt fingers of panic worm their way into his heart. He started to ask a question of the spirit, but shock stilled his voice as the spirit vanished, like a soap bubble popping, leaving no evidence of ever existing.

Frowning at the abruptness of the exit, Veghard's eyes turned to the three warriors before him. As one they bowed, then the one furthest left stepped forward. He knelt kissed his fingertips, pressed them to his forehead in benediction, and then pressed his palms together, raising them to Veghard. Feeling a fraud and foolish, Veghard completed the ritual of greeting by pressing his fingertips together and forming a peaked roof that sheltered the squat's upraised hands.

"You are recognized, Thorbjorn, son of Reginald and Matilda. Speak and know you are sheltered within the Hold of your Ancestor's."

The names had popped into Veghard's mouth as he had stood trying to figure out what he was supposed to say. Like any dream, the knowledge had been there as if he had known these three men his entire life. Thorbjorn, Grosstel, and Reese.

"Hail, and well met, Ancestor", Thorbjorn replied. "In my efforts at your behest..."

Thorbjorn's voice faded as the sound of a doomsday cannon engulfed the two of them and Veghard found himself surrounded by some fifty warriors who were formed up in a draw. Thorbjorn stood in formation, healthy and whole, though pale. The echoes of the cannon stopped the hearthguard who had been issuing orders and the entire unit watched as a Landtrain circled a low hill and pulled away. Looking over the troops and then inspecting the Landtrain, Veghard identified the Stronghold; Durnak.

Veghard knew that all arrayed before him was naught but a dream. The Stronghold icon blazoned upon the badge of the men was no more. Veghard himself had been on planet when this Stronghold had fallen. The loss of Durnak to the Tyranid was the falling domino that brought the Sixty First Thunderers into their detached duty with the One Seventy Seventh.

Thorbjorn continued in a monotone, his voice filling the air and sounds of battled fading in response.

"We were to escort the left flank train. Our hearthguard wished to bypass cover and I used my men to extended the line to at least maintain some control over that position. It looked like the situation you told me about."



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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the Third, part 2 of 5*

Thorbjorn:

With a shout, the hearthguard squad forced the warriors to move out. Turning to a flanking position on the Land Train, the warriors dropped into the travel trot. Their pace matched the slow speed of the war machine. Somewhere ahead, Veghard knew the Guild-force; military grade armored bikes matched with the signature trikes mounted with multi-meltas. They would be far ahead, marking the enemy positions for the Mega-Cannons. As the warriors guarded the flank of the Land Train, they were guarded in turn by either a Colossus, or Leviathan, depending on this battles deployment. High above, lost in the clouds, floated the Airships. They kept tabs on whatever armor the enemy had, and in the case of the Eldar, kept the Falcon tanks pinned in a manner they were rarely faced with. Flying command centers, the Airships, deceptively rugged and often seemingly impervious to incoming fire, decimated most mechanized assault forces that could skirt either the Guild-force or the Gyro-copters. Like an onion, the Squat Battleforce was layered with a crisscross of enfilading fire that only increased as the enemy penetrated deeper into its center.

Veghard recognized the terrain the Battle-force covered. It had been a section of land ignored by the Imperial General, and of course, had been the specific spot the Eldar had flanked the Imperial force, taken out the basilisks and bombards, before cutting into the soft underbelly of the Imperial Guard infantry. Their bypassing of the Leman Russ companies that held the vanguard of the army was swift and devastating. Even as the tanks had been recalled, the damage had been irrevocable. To add insult to injury, as the Leman Russ wheeled to engage the enemy to their center, they caused more damage to their own than the enemy that was now scattered into small units hunting the broken units of the Imperial Guard who, now being fired upon by their own tanks, refused to support the armor that was trying to succor them. Losing their infantry support, squadron after squadron fell to the Eldar force.

The Squat army rolled forward. Far from a swift and decisive strike, it came forward with all the inevitability of a changing tide. Distant explosions told the tale of incoming rounds from the mega-cannons, oversized seige cannon that stood some 25 metters high and a barrel an easy 20 meters long, deep, deep in the rear. Their rounds would devastate entrenched troops as easily as crops facing the farmer's thresher, rip apart the heaviest armor and, as Veghard had seen on many an occasion, drive Titans and Gargants to their knees. With the incoming rounds, Veghard knew the advanced units had engaged the Eldar. Whatever he had been brought here to see, or dream, would be swift in revealing itself.

As the warriors moved forward, a stand of trees fell between the Land Train and warrior unit, and Veghard cursed the heartguard who ignored the cover, overrode a sergeant's gesticulating insistence, and ordered the unit towards a stand of rocks littered with the bodies of eldar and guardsmen alike. It took a moment for Veghard to recognize the feature, but his muttered curses changed to shock and then fear, for the goal of the hearthguard was the same stand of rocks that Veghard discovered Abelard, and the stand of trees had held rangers and more when Veghard and pulled the young man out the rear of the rocks and followed a defile away.

Thorbjorn watched the argument between his sergeant and the hearthguard. He knew the stand needed to be mined for possible hostiles, but the hearthguard was intent in taking some exposed rocks to place the Thunderers. The heavy weapons unit that trundled in the wake of the warriors. Frowning he turned to the rest of his squad, quick hand commands and his men slowly peeled away and moved towards the trees, ostensibly to keep 'eyes on' the Land Train, all the while loosely maintaining unit cohesion with the rest of their warrior's unit.

Sterlyn was the first to fall and as swift as it was, the young squat fell signaling enemy contact. Thorbjorn's men did not even flinch as their point man fell, but instead fell into well trained roles. Eberhard and Egon, the twins, the others joked though the only attribute they shared was a first initial and their MPSM mark III missile launcher, fired a wild round into the brush. There was no faster cry for aid than an unexpected high explosive round fired from the midst of the Brotherhood, and caught in the open and vulnerable, not even an overly pompous hearthguard was going to countermand combat protocols while under fire from a hidden foe.

As the men of the warrior's unit fell into a firefight, Veghard was struck by a wave of vertigo. Beside him, Thorbjorn had dropped to a knee and directed his men, but as Veghard watched, a second Thorbjorn stood from the first who stayed knelt to direct fire and orders. It felt to Veghard that he was watching a double exposed film as Thorbjorn's double moved forward, followed by doubles of the rest of his squad, separate and oblivious of the other double who stayed behind. Those, in turn, ignored the four who moved into the stand of trees. A voice cut through din of battle, and it started Veghard as he recognized it as his own.

"Thorbjorn. Your choice will come in the form of tree and scrub. You will know it for the trees will shield the Land Train from your aid. It falls to you to decide. Your ancestors will be with you, and will be there to gather you home."

Charging forward, Thorbjorn and his men raced for the brush that held their assailants. Eberhard fell next, as was expected, and his partner Egon scooped up the launcher and began sending more rounds into Thorbjorn's destination. Explosions scattered the bushes and scrub, while the trees shook under the assault until several fell. As those trees fell, Thorbjorn was close enough to recognize his foe. Warp Spiders. Short range warriors, their range was not hampered as most would expect. The Warp Spiders had the ability to make short, swift, trips via teleportation. They could close with an enemy and never expose themselves to incoming fire, yet that did not account for the incoming rounds that took down Eberhard.

Arnulf and Thorbjorn charged forward under the covering fire of Egon. Firing blind, Egon spaced his rounds as wide as he dared, yet the magazine ran dry with only three pulls of the trigger. It would be forty-five seconds before he would be able to fit the next magazine in place alone. Keeping an eye on the forest as he broke open his pack to prepare the next reload, he did not think he had that much time. A thought that only became a belief as Thorbjorn came over his radio.

"Exarchs! Exarchs! Exarchs!"

The rest of the warrior detachment, strung out to cover the most area, wheeled on Thorbjorn's call. The only safety the warriors had was in numbers. Should the eldar Exarchs decide to close with the warriors, the Exarchs would lose maybe five to the warrior's fifty. More rounds began to pour into the trees, blind or not, it did not matter. Anything to dissuade the Exarchs from moving towards them.

Thorbjorn knew his death was at hand. To far away from the rest of his unit, he was not sure which way to go. Looking through the trees, Thorbjorn realized the engine of the Land Train had pulled beyond the trees. The ground and trees shook as the mammoth tank rolled forward. The train was a standard four car configuration, but what spurred Thorbjorn into action was the realization that the 'Train had no knowledge of the exarchs he was facing and that he now knew why the warp spiders and exarchs were hiding in the trees.

Formidable at a distance, the front of the Land Train carried a doomsday cannon. One of the largest battlefield artillery pieces in either the Imperial or Squat arsenals. Four batteries of battlecannon rode in turrets that swivelled around, seeking targets or dangers to the 'train. Each car behind the engine was a weapons platform in it's own right, but beyond the heavy ordinance the tank carried and thick armors plates, the engine carried a void generator that absorbed incoming fire. Though the energy shields could be overwhelmed with concentrated fire, most eldar forces lacked the numbers needed to easily drag the shields down before they could be regenerated by the engine. Here, against a fully formed Land Train, the eldar had little to stop it.

One thing the eldar did have to combat the Land Train, Thorbjorn knew, were the exarchs. A physical assault by infantry would bypass the void shields. As thick as the armor was on the train, the weapons of the exarchs would swiftly break apart and then destroy the cars, the crews and the engine. The exarchs before him were stationed here to destroy the Land Train, and only Thorbjorn could stop it.

"Exarch! Exarch! Exarch!" Thorbjorn was on the radio, signaling anyone. Turning and running towards the Land Train, he continued to call for aid. From behind him, his unit began to fire upon the trees in earnest. 


.


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the Third, part 3 of 5*

The rearmost car, in its standard position, rode the Dragon Car. A Land Train car that was the size of a barracks. The Berzerker Car, the only troop transport car in the land train arsenal, could hold thirty men in addition to the car's crew compliment. The Dragon Car, by comparison was a flamethrower the same size as the berzerker quarters in the transport. This produced a flamer that could fire a jet of treated fire that could reach out over one hundred meters from its muzzle. Destroying any cover, any enemy, that fell beneath its sights.

As the tail of the Land Train closed in, the Dragon Car's turret effortlessly spun towards the stand of trees and brush that concealed the Warp Spiders and Exarchs. The enemy, recognizing their predicament abandoned the useless cover and began to charge the Land Train. Thorbjorn ran at the enemy, they could not be allowed to reach close quarters with the Train. At his rear, the rest of the brotherhood ran with him, deadly fire raining down on the enemy as they fired upon the flank of the Eldar.

The walls of the Dragon Car loomed over them all and the cannon spewed flaming death on the attacking force, swiveling back and forth. Low on the walls, a score of copula mounted bolters came into action and a hail of rounds filled the air like angry bees protecting the hive. Their attention divided between the uncharacteristic charge of the Brotherhood squad and the belching Dragon Car, the Eldar were swiftly cut down. Thorbjorn closing with one of the Eldar, found himself within the killing field of the Dragon Car and riddled with bolter rounds, he and his men faced the sweep of the flammer cannon. Beneath a sheet of flame and lead, the men of Thorbjorn's warrior squad fell into the arms of their ancestors, each satisfied that the enemy had been stopped and the Land Train saved.

The world melted and shifted. Again Veghard found himself standing before Thorbjorn, his hands sheltering the kneeling dwarf who's death he had just witnessed. Wordlessly, Thorbjorn stood and returned to parade rest. Veghard stepped back and started when his guide from earlier was back to standing at his side.

"Where did you go?" Veghard demanded.

"Your power can only hold one spirit at a time. As you journeyed with Thorbjorn, I could not join you. You can hold me or him, or one of these other two, but not all of us together."

"But I see all four of you."

"Yet, only I can speak to you. Should you call forth one of the others to speak, I will again fade. I am your prisoner in this endeavor. I come and go at your behest." 

Veghard nodded and watched Thorbjorn as he recalled what happened to the young man before him. He remembered seeing two Thorbjorns that had moved apart. He had no recollection of what happened to the second, more vague, Thorbjorn after he followed along with the other in defense of the Land Train. Looking at the guide, he explained what he saw. The other nodded in understanding.

"That is called the Choice. The Thorbjorn who stays behind is his fate should he not follow your counsel."

"My counsel? Excuse me?

"Aye. If Thorbjorn does not charge the eldar, they will reach the Land Train. The Dragon Car will not survive, and without it's main close in support, the rest of the train will quickly fall. Thorbjorn will, on the other hand, live a little bit longer. Thorbjorn's choice will determine that fate. Only you can give him that choice. Without you, Thorbjorn will follow orders and the Land Train will be lost. Quite simple, really."

Veghard looked back nonplused. 

"Actually. It isn't that simple because you haven't spoken to the other two yet, and you are only strong enough to pick one outcome at a time. You're not the Emperor, you know."

"I have to repeat that with the other two?" Disbelief filled Veghard's response.

A heaviness filled Veghard. Tiredly he sank to one knee.

"I'm not sure I can. Watching Thorbjorn was hard enough."

"These Choices are being forced, Veghard. You are coming into power, but you are working cross purpose with another Living Ancestor. On top of that, the eldar have employed a Farseer who is dancing on the possibilities and probabilities of each moment. The Choices you can illuminate close off, limit if you will, the possibilities the Farseer can manipulate, but if the Farseer gets the upper hand, you will find yourself trapped into Choices the Farseer has already put in place.

"Add in that should your counsel be reserved for any one of these three, the Choice given to that one, takes away the opportunity for the other two's Choices as those events will never happen. Do you understand now?"

"How do I tell Thorbjorn how to save the Land Train?"

"You tell him."

"I can communicate with his spirit and he'll know?"

The guide paused and appraised Veghard for a moment. Slowly he nodded.

"Yes. You can. It is not done as a rule though. Remember, I told you that this will tire you, and that you will never recover from it? That eventually you will be too weak to call the spirits to you and you will be unable to return to the living. Speak to Thorbjorn, tell him what to look for. When the Choice is upon him, he will hear you.  In times of darkest need you can do such, but it will cost you more than you are willing to pay. Sometimes though, it is the only way.

"When you reconnect with the Living Ancestor who will be your tutor, you will be told all, but let it be enough that you will likely never again pass a Choice to a warrior without telling him in person. It is easier for the Chosen to face the Choice and be supported by their fellows. Don't forget, you only told Thorbjorn to watch out for the trees, but most of the brotherhood died following him."

Veghard looked hard at his guide.

"So I survive and we win this battle."

"Survival is not winning. You don't get to make the Choice yourself."

Veghard rubbed his eyes. His body ached. His heart pounded in his ears. The terror of the encounter with Thorbjorn had not left him. As a Squat warrior, fear and terror had little hold over him, but it was not as if it did not exist. Looking up he gazed at the other two soldiers before him. A robot technician and a gyro-copter pilot. Whatever horror and death they faced, it was now for him to witness it; Then send one of the three to that end.


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the Third, part 4 of 5*

Jyn’s Attack

Jyn’s run did not stop as she nearer the crest, nor slow to a walk to allow her to take in the lay of the knoll’s top. Her run simply kept her going, each foot falling as lightly as she could, as quickly as she dared. The sounds of fighting were upon her now and she knew hesitation would only hinder her while aiding her enemy. Salvation was waiting for her, right ahead. Forgiveness and celebration together in a glorious duet sang out to her, beckoning her with their siren’s song. Not so great that caution was thrown to the wind for failure would deny her the absolution she had been promised. Though the ancestors’ were fair, they were also adamant.

The first thing to catch Jyn’s eye was the wisps of smoke from blind grenades popped from below the line of ridges, the second was the camouflaged forms of snipers in prone position firing down slope. With their attention away from her, Jyn put her head down and began to sprint into the unsuspecting enemies ahead of her. Now caution was left behind in lieu of speed. In her hands, two pistols steady and silent. The first of those ahead of her to move would be the signal to begin to fire.

As fate would have it, the closest sniper to her was the one to take notice of her approach first. Both of her pistols barked and bucked as the lithe figure first jerked in surprise of approach, and then in response to the slugs that shattered the reactive armor worn under his chameleon cloak. A product of her own tampering, the slow velocity slug throwers that made up her first weapons of opportunity were loaded with self detonating rounds. Most effective against lightly or unarmored targets, they had inadvertently been an even better boon in the way they distracted heavier armored foes, enough of a distraction for her to close and take advantage of her size and strength. Being well short of a meter and a half and still pushing 70 kilos, she was more than even the orcs truly wanted to deal with when her dagger was making short work of their inner thighs. Too many men had looked at her and never saw past her hips or chest, even as they knew she was a squat. Crushed hands were the most common result of such ignorance, but blood and gore had their fair share of testimony to the strength of her and her kind.

The sniper’s neighbor fell, too engrossed in his shot to break his concentration. The next in line was far sharper and leapt to his feet to receive Jyn’s charge. As the first of the pistols fell silent and empty, Jyn simply hurled it at the standing elder who instinctively flinched to block the flying weapon and Jyn took advantage of the distraction to toss a frag grenade over the sniper’s head. The impact of the grenade hitting the ground detonated the explosive, pushing the sniper forward off balance and ruining his shot on the incoming squat.

As the rest of the Eldar rangers found their feet, another fell to the blast of the grenade, crying out in pain as the shrapnel scattered though the leg armor beneath his cloak. Jyn continued to sprint forward, the elder who had stood before her falling upon his back, a combat knife protruding from the gorget that failed to protect his neck. Two more grenades were tossed out by the running squat and the rangers fell to the ground, seeking to dodge the incoming explosions. Oblivious to the danger of the two grenades she threw, Jyn charged in on the prone elder. Another pistol found its way into Jyn’s hand, a more common bolt pistol with conventional ammo that spat and kicked in her hand as she began to fire into the snipers before her. In the moments it took for the elder to realize the grenades had been a ruse, another two lay still in the grass.

The final ranger slid to his feet, his rifle held at the ready. Jyn was already too close to for the eldar to hope for a good shot and prepared to use the weapon to defend himself. Her pistol shots went wide as the ranger attempted to move away and dodge when his rifle exploded in a shower of sparks. The eldar gave a soft, surprised grunt as the monofilament whip Jyn wielded in her other hand destroyed the rifle before being whirled around by a flick of her wrist to slide through the shoulder of the shocked ranger. A fountain of blood heralded the mortal wound, followed by a shower of gore as the ranger slid to the ground. A whir and snap of the monofilament whip's cap closing signaled the weapon returning to a modicum of a safe state, while Jyn slowly turned looking around the now silent battlefield.

Her hands shook with excitement as she slammed a fresh magazine clip into the bolt pistol before she stowed it to hurriedly reload the slug thrower. Her eyes shot back and forth as she scanned the hilltop, while she often and quickly spun about seeking another attacker. Her personal slug thrower, reloaded, was a comforting presence in her hand and her other hand began to slide down to check her combat belt.

At her right hip, the hilt of a straight drawn dagger, its sheath incorporated into the standard holster for her undoctored bolt pistol, which sat unrestrained and also reloaded, waiting for her favorite pistol to run dry. The melta bomb she kept for special occasions was still clipped in its place behind the holster. Her fingers grazed the first aid kit that hung in the center of her. Her last grenade rocked on its clip just before the slug thrower’s holster. The monofilament whip had already been re-stowed in its forearm sheath, both a cunning design she had stumbled across during a tour early in her military career and her hand silently counted the empty loops that had held her full magazines when the unconscious inventory stopped suddenly. Her other slug thrower had been returned to its shoulder holster and her fingers caressed the butt of the grip reassuring her that all her weapons were where and as they should be.

Without cause, Jyn dove to her side to land beside one of the dead rangers. Jyn never questioned whatever feelings she had of danger. She had seen too many fall as they questioned twinges of warning, and the times there was nothing? No squat mocked a berserker lightly. After all, they were considered insane anyway. Behind her, the angry hiss of shuriken sliced through the grass where she had stood. Her slug thrower kicked and bucked as she slid the fire select to full automatic and sprayed the area from where the shots seemed to originate. As the pistol fell silent, Jyn saw the two figures move onto the hilltop with her. Bright checkered uniforms blurred and shifted beneath a roiling holofield. Jyn had experience with the camouflaging devices and knew she was not going to walk away from this fight. Whatever these eldar were, they were not the rank and file warriors she had fought time and time again.


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## Treesnifer

*Chapter the Third, part 5 of 5*

Jyn's Attack, part 2



With a quick yank, she pulled the last grenade free and tossed it to the eldar on her left and without waiting to see the result, bolted away. Within a blink of an eye, the grenade went off, though if it was enough to finish the eldar, Jyn did not know. Her expended slug thrower had been abandoned behind her, and the bolt pistol had replaced it. Firing at the other eldar, Jyn tried to keep her distance from her assailant. Sensing victory, the brightly clothed warrior easily moved away from the wild bolt pistol shots and closed rapidly on the backpedaling squat. In an ungainly mess, Jyn fell heavily to the ground. She had backed over one of the dead rangers that she had just killed. In a haughty pose, the eldar pointed his shuriken pistol at the falling squat, preparing to administer the coup de grace when double explosions lifted the unsuspecting eldar off his feet and left him a tattered ruin.

Jyn dropped the detonation key that had been synced to the unexploded grenades she had distracted the rangers with. Getting quickly to her feet, she found the other eldar warrior was charging down at her. Reaching to her shoulder holster, her other slug thrower leapt into her hand and with a roar, began spitting fire at the dancing eldar.

Jyn had no idea if the charging eldar was mortally wounded, shaken by the single grenade she had tossed its way, or unharmed, but the creature was still advancing. Weaving in an eerily seductive manner, Jyn absently noted the holofield distortion was enhanced by the dancing motion and none of her shots was finding her intended target. With a flick of her wrist, again the monofilament whip snapped into her hand. She thumbed the activation button and with a low hum, the tip of the whip shot out to its full meter length, about twice that of Jyn herself. There was a magnetic charge running the length of the wire with a negative polarity to the metal bead that held the end of the whip straight, taut, and deceptively inflexible.

The use of monofilament weapons was long ago put into the prohibited weapons of war list due to both the inherent danger to the wielder and the unstable nature of the weapons once they were stored. The wires had to be contained in both a material dense enough to withstand the cutting influence of the weapon which eventually would be worn through anyway and a magnetic containment field. Too often, the power sources that maintained the field would fail and the wire would unwind, usually dismembering the unfortunate user. Even assassins distained the use of monofilament weapons. The training time required was too great, and a single mistake would often cost the life of the trainee.

What the Imperium dictated was of little concern to Jyn though. She had stumbled across the monofilament research done by the guild of her birth long before she turned her feet down the road of the Berserker, and had tackled the difficult process of manufacturing a proper monofilament wire. She had stored the wire for the longest time as she tried to fashion a mining implement out of the material. For the majority of her apprenticeship she had pored over the research material of monofilament technology, even requesting archive files of Terra and Mars, a practice very heavily frowned upon in the guild. The ensuing visit by the Inquisition, as well as an inspection team of tech priests, cost Jyn her research and her researcher’s position. The Guild did not permit outsiders to roam its halls and Jyn had been very close to being declared a heretic and pursuer of forbidden technologies for bringing both the Inquisition and Tech Priests to the guild hall. She still remembered reading the declaration of guilt that had been written up for her to sign if the Guild felt either group might need to be bought off with blood and a pound of flesh.

Jyn never found out what both parties were told of her request or her research project. In her interview, she had tried to explain how she was attempting to invent an improved mining device, but had achieved nothing but failure as monofilament was almost lighter than air and any attempt to weight the end of wire defeated its use in mining. Afterword, she had cut her hair and tattooed her cheeks. She returned to the hidden notes she had kept from the guild. The weapon applications she had kept inspired her to fashion the whip she now carried, still worthless for mining, but irreplaceable for hand to hand combat. No other weapon in her arsenal saved her more than the whip.

As the eldar swept up to her, Jyn brought the whip around and disabling the electromagnetic field to let the wire bend under the momentum that had been built up from the beginning of her swing. Standing so close to her opponent, she was able to see that the arm she was targeting held some form of raised forearm weapon. The eldar, instinctively brought this armored arm up to deflect Jyn’s attack. With the ease of diving through water, her whip sliced into the weapon housing that was attached to the wrist of her attacker, the arc of the bead leading the monofilament wire through the armor, the arm and the weapon of her ignorant victim, as the bead completed its arc around the eldar’s arm Jyn activated the magnetic charge that would snap the whip taut and relive the eldar of his arm. The ensuing unexpected explosion threw the two of them apart.

The sky spun in Jyn’s vision, the clouds shifting suddenly back and forth. She knew that if she did not stand, the sky would most likely be the last thing she would see, but her legs would not respond and her lungs burned but would not breathe. The roar in her ears, dull and distant, told her that her luck was still with her. Whatever the weapon was the eldar wielded, it was the same as her own; a monofilament weapon. Should two monofilament wires cross, the energy used to construct the wires would be released in a most explosive manner. The final reason the wire weapons were rare, dangerous and considered irrationally unstable.

Above her, the eldar stood. His arm was a tattered run, the holo-field inoperable, but his armor had saved him from the worst of the explosion. As he raised his pistol a last time, his chest exploded as multiple bolter rounds tattooed his front. The rapid staccato of the heavy bolter cut though the shock of the explosion. As her vision swam, she looked up over her head to see yet another small unit of heavily armored eldar who had moved up behind her, retreat back under the combined fire of a heavy bolter and lasguns.

Jyn heaved a great sigh, as her lungs burned. The pain was so great that the world went grey for a moment. As the pain subsided, her grimace became a smile. Whatever the Ancestor had asked of her, it must be completed. Imperial troops had taken the hill she had been told to find. She had her absolution, her forgiveness. Her debt was paid. Her sin abated; And with the Ancestor’s blessing she was finally able to rest. With a shaking, bloodied hand, Jyn tried to wipe the happy tears from her face before letting her arm fall and eyes close.



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## Myen'Tal

I know now never to underestimate the squats, they're a deadly bunch:wink2:, especially Berserkers like Jyn. I'm curious though, where did you find out all of this information about Mono-filament weapons? You went into great detail about them, and I'm intrigued by eldar weaponry, so it would be cool to read up on it:smile2:. 

Keep up the good work!


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## Treesnifer

Myen'Tal said:


> I'm curious though, where did you find out all of this information about Mono-filament weapons?


Long, long ago, in the early years of the Second Age...or the mid-70's, as the case may be, I read a book called Cestus Dei. A sci-fi book about a universe where the Catholic Church takes over and is the Empire. The main character is a Jesuit priest who goes around and generally kicks butt. If I'm remembering the book right he had two weapons that totally captured my imagination, the first was his walking staff that was essentially his 'MacGyver' tool. It could do everything, but what has always stayed with me was when he was shot at by a laser, the beam would bend up and strike the top of the staff which would recharge the staff. The other, of course this is a book I read as a young boy some forty years ago so my memory could be crossed, was the mono-wire whip.

Not a true mono-filiment weapon, maybe it was three or four molecules wide, as the character could swing the whip and it would wrap about denser materials, or even people, like a weighted rope around a pole. But he could then magnetize the wire, sending the ball tip straight out and away from the base, making almost like a long foil, which would slice into many pieces whatever the wire was wrapped around. Pretty fancy.

Another book I read, more recently, was 'The City Who Fought', from the series of 'The Ship Who Sang'. In it, a young child uses mono-wire, almost invisible, to booby trap a hallway from invading pirates. Too light to use as a weapon, the kid makes a sort of trip-wire in a corridor but has too much so she unwinds the rest and makes almost a web of the wire, then stands on the far side of her trap and taunts the pirates to chase her down the corridor...'nuff said.

For BoaLA I wanted Jyn to have an ace up her sleeve that would be unconventional and nigh overpowering - after all she's supposed to be so dang good that mano y mano fights with Stompers (knight-class weapons, what's the Eldar equivalent?) is blase. Of course, stat wise a squat berserker, even using the old Super Hero stat lines isn't really all that powerful, so what weapons could she have that would push her profile past that old standard? It'd have to be a dirty trick. So, keyed explosives dummy-ed to look like grenades, non-regulation handguns, and a dirty trick to outfit your super-hero.

Take the unweighted nature of mono-filiment and throw in "I'm a miner/scientist/inventor" and a dash of the Eldar Harlequin's Kiss and Voila! One kick-butt weapon. But it has to have a weakness...several weaknesses. BAD weaknesses to explain why every Tom, Dick, and Henry doesn't sport one, after all, so you might lose a foot. Big deal! Hence the long description, the Inquisition, and possible execution.

I hope that makes sense.


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## Myen'Tal

Thanks for the explanation, lots of cool information there. Maybe I'll give those books a read at some point:smile2:. Very badass weapon!


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