As the Galaxy Burns

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

Prologue
A Billion Souls/Cirakians/The Galaxy

“The indomitable spirit and will of humanity, scholars have oft said that that is what we were given credit for as our greatest strength in ages past. No matter what challenge was faced, humanity would persevere. But times have changed, and the unshakable spirit of humanity has given way to a more tangible strength: numbers. Look below us, Marshal, and see our greatest strength.” The speaker gestured with a simple tip of a tumbler filled with ruby red whisky, the lip of the glass tilted toward the six meter windows that looked out at the parade ground below.

Rank upon rank of soldiers marched along the grounds, a hundred across and a thousand deep. The uniforms of each soldier were immaculate, fresh off the line and still shining from lack of use. “A billion men and women sent off to die for the glory of humanity – a billion souls who will be sacrificed in the name of our ever expanding progress, a glorious sight, is it not?” Eyes of hard grey spent a few more moments watching the procession of fodder march toward the waiting shuttles before turning away. Edward placed his back to the windows, those same hard eyes locking on the Marshal.

Edward lifted the tumbler of whisky, taking a small sip of the fiery liquid as he took in the appearance of his counter-part. Marshal Donovan Blake was a grim specter for an imperial hero, never had he been the stereotypical image of a legend, and two-hundred years of life and war had only widened that divide.

Standing at seven feet in height, Donovan was rail thin and haggard, carrying the scars of the endless wars that raged through the galaxy across the entirety of his form. His right hand, one of blackened metal, cruelly spiked and heavy, gently held a tumbler of its own, the whisky within having gone untouched. The barbed metal of his replacement extended all the way up the right side of his face where the flesh, and most of the skeleton there, had been replaced with the harsh metal. The greatcoat, breastplate, slacks and jackboots the Marshal wore obscured the rest of the extensive replacements made to his form, though Edward knew well that very little was left of the Marshal’s original body.

“A dark sight, but glorious nonetheless, yes,” the words were perfectly enunciated and spoken in a deep, rasping baritone. Marshal Blake set his still full tumbler down onto a richly appointed table of some alien-wood, never breaking eye-contact with the Trade Baron.

Edward coughed, turning away; the unblinking gaze of the Marshal always unnerved him. Even now he could feel a small trickle of sweat trailing its way down his spine. The Baron lifted a plump soft hand, smoothing his oiled grey hair, “How, ah… how goes the campaign against the Kun’an, Marshal?”

“This new batch of soldiers will be the final push we need to remove the alien scum from the heart of their empire. After that we can scour them from the galaxy at our leisure.” Blake flexed his metallic hand, clawed fingertips grating against his metal palm, deepening the furrows already carved into it. “Once the throne-planet is subjugated we can begin or campaign against the Vektorri, at your own request. Marshal Catan will be arriving after my departure. I trust she will not be kept too long while the next regiments are risen?”

“Of course, Marshal Blake, the penal regiments are almost through being outfitted, and the conscripts will finish their training within the year,” Edward took a large drink from his whisky to hide the nervous twitch that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I trust this is acceptable?”

He glanced into the window, seeing the ghostly reflection of the Marshal. “Quite,” Blake clicked the heels of his boots together and gave a stiff bow, “Until next Culling, Trade Baron Edward.” Turning on his heel, Blake strode from the room, his mechanical left foot coming down more solidly and with a resounding thud as he retreated from the Baron’s office.

Edward let out a long, drawn out sigh and visibly deflated after the departure of Blake. “Bastard marshals, no respect given to their betters,” he sniffed and raised his tumbler to finish the last of his whisky. “I’ll personally sign the dissolution order once the last alien corpse is used to feed the crops of an imperial world, this I vow.”

~~~

It had been as the Marshal predicted, within the year the Kun’an Empire was wiped from existence, scattered to a few pitiful worlds in the hinterlands of their former empire. And yet still the men and women of humanity waged a long and bloody war on the surface of T’kasar, the throne-world of the Kun’an. It had not been humanity that had delivered the fatal blow against their former foes, but the Cirakians, a vile and violent extragalactic race of conquerors.

A war on all fronts, on every planet humanity had claimed within the Kun'an sector. It now forced all additional troops to divert to the sector just to hold on to the territories claimed.

~~~

It is the year 3579, and humanity has been spreading far across the galaxy for the past eleven-hundred years. Lead by the fearless Saints, admirals and generals born from the Line of Lords Martial, the vast armies of humanity march from system to system to vanquish the hostile alien threat wherever it is encountered. Armed and armoured like warriors of old, humanity has begun its galaxy-spanning crusade. Though what may have started as a quest for peace and stability has been twisted. The Trade Barons are the shadowed hand behind the Lord-Regent of humanity. The orchestrators of war and death, it is with an uneasy reliance upon the Lords Martial that they wage their unceasing war of profit across the stars.

Amongst the historians, there are those who wonder at what would have been had the Miershan never descended upon us, and brought death and ruin to our simple solar empire. But this is a line of thinking that has no need to be followed; the Miershan did invade, and were nearly wiped out for their attempt at extermination. The fleeting remnants of their once vast empire scattered to the stars to die a slow and torturous death, only appearing to strike at both humans and the dreaded Cirakians.

It is these last aliens that are the true fear for humanity. A powerful species of alien conquerors whose origins are all but unknown, the Cirakians have appeared in great force across the Milky Way from both the far galactic north to the galactic east. These creatures have proven time and again that they are more than capable of battling we humans to a stalemate, with numbers rivaling our own it has troubled logisticians how they can sustain themselves and how they can hide despite how far we’ve advanced.

A few doomsayers amongst humanity claim that the Cirakian home world is not in our galaxy. That they have come from further than even we can imagine, and in the darkest parts of more logical minds it leads to wonder: if they’ve arrived here in such vast numbers, how many more are left?

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

Chapter 1
A Meeting of Enemies/Holocaust

Blake scowled at the latest frontline reports, “Divert the 201^st and the 92^nd to the western front. Bring in the 54^th armoured up to pound away at the Cirakian advance to the east. Order bombers and gunships into the air, I want the 87th to have cover for a hard advance to try and split the offensive in half.” Even as these orders were relayed, more vox-officers rushed to deliver him confirmations and new information that forced him to countermand orders. “Have the 64^th and the 467^th diverted to the western front as well, I don’t want to lose anymore ground there. Bring up the 77^th and 698^th cavalry to charge into the eastern advance, the 54^th will be alone without them. Belay the order to launch air support and have the officers at the northern front hold the line until the east collapses.”

He read and spoke as he strode through the massive hallways of the command fort, the great bastion growling like some feral beast as it was kept eternally running should an advance or retreat be needed. Two-hundred cracking booms sounded from the outside, shaking the hallway as the fort fired its broadside mortars into the air to crash down into the Cirakian lines. “How far away is Marshal Dynara with our reinforcements?” Blake barked the words, his patience short at this point. Five years wasted on a planet that had long since become a hellhole of mud and corpses.

“She’s delayed at the east of the sector; the Cirakian fleet has formed a cordon. She’s lost two battleships that tried to bull their way through and open a gap. She reports that both the Vengeance and Chivalry, heavy Dreadnoughts piloted by two Lord Captains, have advanced to force a stalemate with the Cirakian fleet. She reported that Fleet Trinity will be arriving, Archduchess Amerast and her two sons are going to bring the might of their fleet against the underbelly of the Cirakian fleet.” Every word was spoken quickly and urgently, the vox-officer seeing and fearing the foul mood the Marshal was in.

“Blasted muck-dwellers… I’d almost give them the damn sector at this point!” still snarling his hate for the Cirakians, Marshal Blake strode onto the bridge of the mobile fort and began barking orders to increase the rate of mortar fire and to bring other emplacements online.

“Lord Marshal, sir! We’re being hailed by… uh…” the vox-officer stammered as his computer deciphered the language on his screen.

“Well? Spit it out or pick up a gun and get to the frontlines!”

“We’re being hailed by the Cirakian general, sir,” the man looked up, nervous of Blake’s reaction. The one robotic eye within his skull began to hum as it turned a bright and violent red. “Should I reject the-“

“Bring him on screen; I’ll talk to the slimy bastard.” Blake leant heavily on the railing in front of him, glaring up at the massive display screen as the vox-officer furiously typed in commands. There was a fizzing hum before a static distortion of the enemy general appeared. After a few more flickering and static-filled moments the picture cleared to a mono-chromatic image of a truly disgusting creature.

Scaled skin reflected the light of its command base, turning the general a puke yellow in color. Deep-set eyes that were completely subsumed by pupil glared from beneath thick, bony ridges across its brow. Its face was almost completely flat, its nose barely protruding from its skull. The lipless maw of the alien was pulled back in a fierce grin showing the conical upper teeth and the razor-like front row of lower ones.

But most disturbingly of all was its armor. No one piece ever remained still for long, black and brown carapaces would open to allow diaphanous wings to buzz briefly before folding again. Heads shifted causing compound eyes to reflect the light of the base back as a devilish red. Massive, crushing jaws opened and closed almost lazily, the pincers more than capable of powdering the bones of any unlucky human they catch. This living panoply of armour unnerved even the stalwart Marshal on the most base of levels.

“Ah, if it isn’t the fearless leader of the scrabbling mammals,” the words were a digitized translation of the snarling, hissing Cirakian language, and the movements of the mouth of the alien general were out of sync with even the sounds it made. “It seems you have more spine than my second thought, it was predicted you wouldn’t bother to answer. “

“If you’ve contacted us to hurl insults then you’ll need to try better. Speak plainly or get off my vid-screen,” Blake’s remaining eye narrowed, the red glow of his right eye maintaining its brilliant crimson hue.

The general just smiled, showing his sharpened fangs, “Very well, Lord Marshal. It may or may not surprise you to know that your feats have long been known to us. I myself have followed your career with some interest and a modicum of respect. As a sign of my respect I give you one chance to withdraw your forces from our sector, I promise you shall not be fired upon as you leave. What say you?”

Now it was Blake’s turn to smile, a grim and fatalistic sneer as the metallic half of his face refused to contort to such an expression. “Am I hearing correctly? A Cirakian is offering a race mercy?”

“An uncommon gesture to be sure, but one reserved for those who have impressed us in the theatre of war. Especially used when one side would prefer not to wipe out the other entirely.”

Blake continued to smile, a rasping, bubbling sound emerging from his chest as the Marshal let out a low laugh. “I say no, general. I doubt you truly believe you can defeat us, and are instead trying to get us to leave to not cost you a victory on your undoubtedly unblemished career. But I will never flee a fight with such disgusting aliens as your kind. I will be the demon that haunts your dreams at night; I will be the monster your soldiers whisper of in the trenches. And I’ll be damned if I were to ever accept mercy from any alien. I will die before I retreat; I will personally drive my fort through your lines and detonate it within your camp just to cost you a perfect victory.

“Now get the hell off my vid-screen or so help me we will be having another discussion with my sword buried deep into your stinking intestines.” Turning away, he chopped his hand sharply across his throat, the screen cutting out before the Cirakian could respond. “A new course of action, one I had wished to withhold until the final stand. Unleash the Holocaust.”

~~~

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

~~~

Erik looked worse than hell. His face was covered in a thick coating of grime; he was standing knee deep in a thick sludge: a vile stew of dirt, blood, corpses and their seeping juices. He could feel the trench rot eating at his feet, his leg bumping against the body of the woman that was supposed to check on his feet each day. Acid had eaten face, bone and organs in a matter of seconds.

The few moments of fevered sleep he had were broken by the screams of the dying and the violent explosions of mortars. His eyes felt raw, circles black as the void bruising the skin around each orb. He just wanted to sink below the churning muck and let oblivion overtake him.

He heard the screaming again. He didn’t even care what new horror was to be visited upon the beleaguered 87^th. Erik just wanted the endless grind to end one way or another. As his eyes began to close he felt his mind rebel. It urged him to listen to the screaming, it wanted to torture him with the sounds of death. But he was too weak to resist, his eyes opening and looking toward the sounds – then he saw it. The men and women weren’t screaming in the throes of torturous death, it was cheering in rapturous joy.

Erik pushed up from the river of death, straining to see the cause of this change. New life filled his pained eyes, thick tears forming at the corners and slipping down to cut through the grit caking his cheeks. He raised his own hoarse voice to accompany the growing cheer.

The frontline parted to allow the first block through. Their reinforcements marched in perfect synchronicity. Their bodies were thickly armoured, the blended metallic mesh that made up the coats of regular soldiers fused into a dull skin. Cyclopean gazes peered through the smog of war, eyes of a vibrant green piercing gloom and smoke.

The Holocaust, steel-skins, no matter what they were called, one thing was assured: they were death incarnate. Massive batteries were situated on each robot’s back. A soft hum crooned from the packs, an imperceptible glow casting the front of each robot into silhouette as their fusion generators came online. Acid shots from the Cirakian lines splattered against their bodies, barely eating into the metal-skin. A few fell as lucky shots smashed into their singular eye, yet another would just take the place of the fallen.

All across the sector, blocks of the million strong regiments advanced upon the dug-in Cirakian lines. The aliens looked on with unease as the machines continued to march through a normally deadly fusillade, a few let out bone-jarring roars and leapt the trench walls, charging across the ground at the mechanized foe. Long, club-like tails flaring behind them, fins compressed against their scaly hide. Short-blades were drawn from sheathes, toxins coating the green metal.

The steel-skins halted fifty yards from the charging Cirakians, right arms extending forward – dripping nozzles fitted where a hand would be. The soft hum became a high-pitched whine, thick insulted tubes growing hot. Not a one flinched as the Cirakians closed to within ten yards. In a singular moment, hell was unleashed.

Coruscating violet energy poured from the nozzles as the front rank of the Holocaust unleashed their plasma-throwers upon the bellowing aliens. Fierce battle cries turned to momentary shrieks of pain before there was nothing as not even ash was left behind following the deadly torrent. There was a deathly silence that followed after the display – and then the lines of robots were moving through the scorched plain they had left.

The rate of fire against the approaching lines increased as the alien soldiers desperately attempted to bring them down.

The soldiers who, minutes before, wanted to lie down and die now surged with renewed vigor behind the lines of the seemingly invulnerable robots. Rifles adding their own weight of plasma fire to support their salvation.

~~~

Blake watched with that same fatalistic smile as the Holocaust marched. On a dozen worlds the same advance could be seen. Cirakians fell back as the Holocaust drove deep into their lines, as troops capitalized on the collapsing of the ordered lines to catch the alien soldiers unawares from all sides. Violent tank charges smashed into tightly packed infantry, cannons booming and side-mounted rapid-fire plasma sponsons unleashed their deadly payload.

“Order the bombers out with fighter escorts. I want the Cirakians to know how badly they’re to be beaten,” Blake’s voice carried a hint of relief in its rasping baritone. “Cut power to the batteries and bring us forward – we’ll advance twenty kilometres then hold and recall the Holocaust for repairs and part-replacements.”

“Sir, we’re being hailed by the Cirakian general again,” The vox-officer looked back towards the smiling Blake, “Should I put him through, sir?”

“No, let the bastard stew,” he gave a dark chuckle and turned, marching from the bridge. He wanted to watch the advance in the smog-choked air personally.

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

Chapter 2
Death in the Dark/A Gathering of Saints/The Dragoons/Night Hunters/Grim News

Erik was once again on the frontlines, though it was not the same bleak hell it had been a month before. The trench was dry, he was dry, and he could feel his foot recovering thanks to the antibiotics from the medical ward stationed on The Beast of Berlin, the massive fort from which Blake commanded. He had a fresh kit and was warm in the thick coat and new boots. Best of all, he could look forward to his time in the trenches not being entirely boring between battles. Luck had saw fit to smile upon him, and once again he was stationed with a pretty girl.

Life was definitely good for him, he thought, as he leant back against a rising slope on the trench ground. So busy was he upon these reflections he did not notice the massive shadow that rose up behind him. Nor did he realize his danger until the knife’s serrated edge drew across his throat in a horrible sawing motion.

~~~

Blake dragged his still human hand across his face. He hadn’t slept for the past four days and had ingested an unhealthy amount of coffee for anyone lacking cast-iron organs. He had been poring over the same reports since the first ones came in forty-nine days ago. What he hoped to divine from them, none could say. Each one read the same – another soldier found with a broken neck, another found with their throat slit, a third with their throat torn out by some type of animal. Each one read the same one way or another.

Of course, in many cases, these were common events. Gambling debts, falling from the trench ledge after using the latrines, some rabid xenofauna wandering into camp – all would be a logical excuse for a few deaths. But when there were over a hundred deaths reported in fifty days, not just on one world but on all the worlds within the sector.

“We knew the monsters specialized in terror tactics, but we’ve never seen them employ guerrilla fighters,” Marshal Kira Abramov pressed both of his thick, hairy knuckles against the very edge of the holo-table, calmly viewing the troop displacements of New Liberty and frowning deeply. He lifted a hand to stroke his massive mustachios thoughtfully, tugging at the golden rings that were wrapped tightly around the flamboyantly oiled lip hair.

“So the smelly beasts can cut throats and break necks while skulking in the shadows. This isn’t a true tactic, dear Kira; it is a few frogs trying to make us piss our britches, nothing more and nothing less.” The dismissive words came from a tall woman who made even Blake appear fat, so thin and frail was she. Bony fingers ran through her long, silver-blonde hair. Aalish Bellerose sniffed, pursing her lips to make it seem as if she had just eaten a very sour lemon, “As soon as we start treating them like intelligent opponents we’ve lost the war.”

Blake gave her a flat look, one that left her with the same expression of distaste as before, though this time adding an arched eyebrow to such a sour face. “Aalish, save the anti-alien propaganda for the footsloggers, we each know that very rarely are our opponents primitive barbarians. The Cirakians have managed to force us into deadlocks every time we’ve encountered them, and only a few times have we successfully forced them out of a system. Furthermore,” he raised his voice as he saw Marshal Bellerose begin to protest, “The kills are too clean for the average Cirakian. The things stalking our backlines are not the regular Cirakian grunts – these are something of a different caliber.”

“What do you think then, Donovan?” Aalish asked with only a slightly venomous tone to her words. It was better than the regular acidic bile that seemed to vomit forth from her mouth at other times.

“Commando squads, if I had to guess. It isn’t so outlandish to believe the Cirakians have their own special forces within the bulk of their army. In fact, we should have anticipated as much previously. While we must underestimate, barbarize and demonify them in front of our troops, we ourselves must keep clear heads concerning the guile of our opponents,” Blake spoke in the same measured tone he’d used when speaking with his children.

Bellerose gave him a look more toxic than the poison of the Cirakians at such a tone, but shock at being spoken to in such a way robbed her of any retort. “What do you suggest then, Donovan?” Abramov asked, attempting to forestall a retort from Bellerose.

“Quite simple – it is time we showed the Cirakians why we are the War Saints.” Such a response was met with only wide, toothy smiles from the two veteran Marshals.

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

~~~

They had been gathered in all their finery – these men and women of the nobility who had proven themselves time and again in the crucible of combat. Each wore bright jackets of a blue the same shade as that on earth, each with silver frogging and braiding to let it shine in the bloody light of the poisoned world. White leggings with gold trim tapered down into finely polished black jackboots, polished spurs of gold attached to the back of each boot. Tall silver helms crested with white hair were set firmly upon the head of each dragoon, boiling hot in the unobscured light of the sun.

To finish this ensemble of anachronistic elite were the weapons each dragoon had trained with for the better part of their military careers – their sabre and pistol. Platinum wire bound black leather to the hilt of each blade, alien metal sheathed in wood and leather from alien worlds – each sabre was crafted specifically for the dragoon who would wield it, and was intended for more than ceremony. At the opposite hip was the plasma pistol – each one’s silver barrel engraved with gold-etched letters, the grip inlaid with ivory and onyx – a beautiful weapon of death.

Despite the heat and their heavy uniforms, the dragoons stood at rigid attention. Beads of sweat slowly traced lines through the grit and grime that could accumulate over the minutes one even stepped foot onto the surface of the planet unprotected. They had stood there for an hour – waiting for the orders, waiting to see why such an illustrious figure had recalled them from the front. It was not until half an hour later that he marched down the ramp of The Beast. Blake stood ramrod straight as he left the cool comfort of the base for the boiling heat of the planet, already his skin darkened from grit, and sweat formed at his temples. His black great coat billowed behind him in a humid gust of wind, showing the almost cadaverous build of the man.

The Marshal halted in front of the ten soldiers, his human left eye scanning over each face slowly, while his bionic right eye whirred and clicked as it registered things only technology could. “Dragoons of the Seranellan 60^th – at ease,” as one the ten visibly relaxed, a few offering relieved sighs, “Each of you is no doubt wondering why I have called you from the field to attend this meeting. You all also should have heard of the murders being committed on our stretch of planet,” Blake paused, watching as each gave a nod of ascent, before continuing, “Well, myself and Marshals Abramov and Bellerose have determined that it is not a matter of discipline lacking in the ranks – but rather a cunning tactic deployed by our friends across the wastes.

“The Cirakians, despite what we say in front of the troops, are not as base and barbaric as they appear. They are cunning, cruel, and have demonstrated their ability to strategize in an arena we have yet to encounter them – assassination.” Once again a pause, watching the faces of each dragoon: horror, disgust, hatred – all of these were written in their eyes and the set of their mouth. “We have long known they enjoy terror tactics – from the exotic weaponry they deploy, to the shrieks they unleash in a charge. Now they rip out the throats of our noble soldiers, they shatter the necks of our unsuspecting brothers and sisters – should we let such a thing stand?”

“No!” Each voice cried out in disgusted unison.

“Will we allow them to run rampant behind our lines? Making our men and women fear every waking moment? Fear to sleep lest they be the one whose corpse is found the next day?”

“No!” the cry was louder now, hands absently gripping either hilt of grip of sabre and gun, while the other fist punched into the air.

“Will we let them mock us in their slime pits? Laugh at us for our weakness? Let them preen upon their success?”

“No!” the cry was now a roar, swords and pistols were drawn as if the monstrosities were before the vitriolic dragoons.

“Then stand with me, honorable Dragoons. March beside me in the dead of night to hunt down these lurking nightmares, to smite them with righteous fire and hallowed blade! We will make them cry out in fear at our appearance!” His red eye burned as his speech lent fuel to his own anger, his own disgust, “Years from now – as their race withers and dies, I want any of the misbegotten toads who survive this planet to tell their children of us. To tell them how every night they feared the siren call of sleep – how every sound was that of booted feet coming to end them. I want them to speak of the Black Demon with his fiery eye leading shouting troops into battle!”

Blake drew in a deep, ragged breath to calm his own heightening emotions. He extended his gloved, still human, hand toward the dragoons imploringly. “I want them to fear us more than the Holocaust. I want us to be the nightmare that wakes them from their slumber. What say you, men and women of the revered 60th?”

“For the Hallowed Architect! For the War Saints!”

Blake smiled a triumphant smile, “Then we prepare for tonight.”

~~~

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

Cirasha’Gahna, Gahna of the Blood in his language, reflected briefly on the path his life had taken. He could have been whatever he wished; he was of the Royal Blood after all. A noble or a general… and yet, he chose to be a common soldier, a disgrace to the name of Cir. He loved it.

Gahna was a killer at heart. The intoxicating feel of blood flowing over his talons and between his fangs. The visceral feeling of liquid warmth heating his frigid scales. His foot long tongue slithered from between his metallic fangs, lapping at the old blood staining his blade. Even the flaking crimson was a delicacy to him – the tanginess of the fatal poison that coated the living metal of his blade only adding to the rich flavor.

He would kill again tonight; he had almost thought he would do nothing in this war. He and his squad mates were rarely deployed unless the regular brood could do nothing – the Vishka’Gashka had grown restless and violent, it was not in the nature of the Night Hunters to be inactive. He and the other Hunters had been in camp when they saw the hellfires raging just beyond the horizon – they knew of the demonic weapons of humanity, the utter wrongness that their guns could unleash.

But the vision that Gahna and his brothers witnessed was beyond anything yet seen – not even the fusillade of their cannons could compare to the hellish glare and the screams of the dying. They saw those who had not been on the frontlines first – fleeing and glancing back in terror, never had he seen his kind so unnerved. Then those who had been close to the front appeared – limbs were gone, wounds were cauterized, some were barely functioning as they limped in with flesh and muscle seared to leave only blackened bone behind.

They could only see the terror that pursued the retreating soldiers silhouetted behind the roaring blaze. He could only catch a glance of metallic skin before he and the other Hunters had fled with the troops, racing to the new position being broadcast across all channels.

It was that same day the Hunter squads were deployed.

~~~

Gahna smiled as he recalled the disgusted look the general had had when the order was given for the Vishka’Gashka to mobilize. It had been the sweetest sight he had seen since landing on this foul world – and then the fear filled faces of the soldiers had replaced it.

The Hunter closed his yellowed eyes, his tongue slithering out from between his metallic fangs, tasting the fear-stench of the humans on the humid breeze. Thick drool, filthy with bacteria, dripped onto the dirt between his splayed talons. He would feast tonight on the sweet flesh of man.

Gahna began to slither-crawl forward, his eyes piercing the gloom to focus on a reclining figure, a human resting against the raised slope of a trench. Silent as a shadow did the Hunter drop – he would take both, the man in blue would die first, followed by the one in black. He lunged, blade passing through cloth – ripping and shredding soft insides. Gahna sawed his blade in and out, forcing his target to feel such agony as to be unbearable. The body toppled and Gahna whirled – coming snout-to-tip with a pitch-soaked sword. The wielder of it coated in thick mud.

Gahna stared into an orb of fiery malice – a thrill ran up the spine of the Hunter as he realized he had become prey. His final thought was quite simple, So that’s how it feels.

The blade ruptured his golden orb, withdrew, and severed his head.

~~~

Blake tore a piece of clothing from the shredded jacket of the decoy – spilling the insulation that had been soaked in sweat for hours on end before being stuffed into the spare dragoon outfit. He whipped his blade clean of the Cirakian’s blood before doing the same to the mud on his face. Moving over to his own dummy, Blake retrieved his ear piece, placing it carefully into his stilly dirty ear and activating the two-way on it. “Blake here – target is neutralized,” he paused and looked over the body of his fallen enemy – taking in the unusual appearance compared to regular specimens.

“Sir?” the hesitant reply wavered slightly as atmospherics distorted the voice.

“Here – further orders, bring a containment team with my transport. They’ll want to study what I’ve found.” Blake arched his eyebrow at the large flaps of skin around its neck, shaking his head as he turned away to wait for a reply.

“Acknowledged, we’ll be there in fifteen minutes, sir.”

Sounds all too similar to Cirakian language trilled urgently from the corpse – a pattern emerging as the same words were repeated. “I would greatly appreciate it if you double-timed to my position.” The hissing clicks stopped. “On second thought – move your asses or else.”

~~~

Blake stepped from the glass blister of his shower. Thick steam poured outwards to fill his private rooms with a fresh alpine scent. His skin was a bright red from the hot water of his shadow and meticulous scrubbing to remove any potential contaminants. His machine half was dry – drops of water hissing and steaming across the heated surface – though water began to slowly form as the metal cooled.

A warm towel was set next to a packet of clean clothing. Drying himself completely, Blake tore the plastic wrapping and began dressing; medals and badges were carefully placed. Priceless frogging, made from cloth-of-gold, was carefully looped around each soldier. With his black greatcoat on and his silver-trimmed breastplate Blake added the final touches to his uniform. A black glove was tugged onto his flesh hand, his robotic one left exposed.

Lastly his peaked officer’s cap was pulled firmly onto his head. He took a single moment to gaze in the mirror at the hellish creature he had become – a fusion of man and machine forced to live on beyond his death. He turned away, casting one last gaze to the mirror before departing.

His boots rang across the metal floors of The Beast as he strode toward the command center. Opposite of him came a mud stained aide, rushing toward the Marshal in a panicked pace. Blake halted, an eyebrow raising as the man continued to race forward, not pausing to allow his superior officer to pass. The frantic pace of the man slowed, and then stopped as he stood panting in front of Blake. “M-Marshal B-Blake, sir… M-Marshal Abramov… Abramov requests your presence.”

“Kira’s here? What’s so urgent he sent a runner?”

The aide took a gulp of air, “Marshal… Marshal Bellerose is dead.”

[Astrael]

((
Interesting story; the scope is certainly large, yet manageable on a planetary scale. My 2 cents- the story seems to be divided between explaining the larger scope of the galactic conflict, Marshall Blake's story, and the random snippets from participants on the battlefield. With each segment being so short, I feel a little jerked around and detached from each individual piece that flashes by, even though I kind of like the story overall.

It kind of feels like an open RP with a lot of people participating; there's flashes from all different levels, but I'm not really getting a message/central narrative from it all. Even Blake, who I think is your main character, seems really distant and lacking in personality. That's kind of OK for an RP since each author is offering his/her own viewpoints, but I look for more of a cohesive story and voice when there's only one author.

On things I do like... I definitely feel this undercurrent of geo-politics going on, and it makes me want to keep reading. That being said, I'm a fan of "show, don't tell", and appreciate where it weaves into the story instead of it being a cutaway.

Hope you continue =)
))

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

(( Thanks for the critique! And yeah, this is all really still a rough draft - and Blake is a very unrefined character. When it comes to the bouncing around I had thought and hoped the snippets were long enough to not have that jerking around feeling, but I guess my intent meshed too well with my own thoughts on it and it ended up happening anyways.

When it comes to Blake I'm trying to iron out how I want him to be, still. And it's surprisingly difficult to write from the perspective of a 200 year old war veteran who has faced things that rightfully killed him and still lives.

And definitely going to continue! Just going slower than I was previously as I work out the world/universe as I go along. ))

[Astrael]

((On the point of Blake; I think he feels kind of empty because he seems damaged, but we don't really have the context of why. There are some physical cues in the body damage, but there's an emotional gap that just seems to be missing as well.

Usually in stories this is implicitly done by other characters sympathizing/idolizing that character, but Blake is simply above everyone around him. That's partly the nature of his position, but there are ways around that. Flashbacks are a little cliche (and overdone), but other literary devices like slipping it into side conversations or creating a character foil could work as well. I think if you re-focus the story more on him and a little less on the conflict as a whole, you could make a more compelling narrative.))

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

(( Funny you mention that - the current half-typed piece I have is Blake meeting a member of the Clergy. Was originally planning on her just being there to reference Blake in his position in the eyes of the Clergy... but I think I can take her and do more with her with what you've suggested. ))

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

(( Might end up restarting this - have the changes and such saved to Word. But I kind of messed up with the story - I made a beginning story but made it appear in the middle of a plot. Bleh. ))