Editing Ghosts of Dorn (section)

= Writefaggotry =

[[Image:GoD CM.jpg|thumb|right|Geirod Verus]]

There was silence inside the assault boat, which was not to say that it was quiet. Thuds echoed through its chambers as the ship rocked from glancing pulsar fire. Only their pilot’s frantic maneuvers kept them from becoming direct hits that would hole the Shark from nose to stern, sucking its innards out to the vacuum.

The cogitator display at the front of the room let out a beep to mark each time a friendly vessel encountered such a fate. 

Beep: a fellow assault boat destroyed.

Beep: a frigate blown apart.

Beep: a Battle Barge, lost with all hands.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

There were not many ships left.

Still, amid the noise there was silence, in the marines strapped to the seats lining the plasteel walls. Their colors were the light blues and grays of ice. No Veterans or Terminators here, in the sixth company. Their heads were bowed, but they did not pray. Some great despair weighed upon their limbs, pulled them into a silence even heavier than their taciturn nature endowed. They sat, and waited, and listened to the sounds of men dying.

“Brothers,” said their Brother-Captain, after an age. He had disdained the use of a helmet for the battle, and beneath the glistening sheen of his skin, the muscles of his face could be seen at work, flexing to form his words. On such a face, emotions were more easily read and harder to disguise.

He looked tired.

“Brothers,” he said again, “I am not one to make florid speeches. The art is beyond me. I cannot fill you with courage, or hate, or strength, by my words alone. I know only how to speak my thoughts plainly.”

“I cannot pretend that our Chapter Master’s actions have been correct in this battle.” A few helmets lifted at this, but there was no protest. “To pursue the xeno wherever he flees, that is just. To destroy them wherever they are found, that is just as well. But zeal must be tempered with tactics. To die needlessly, to waste the Emperor’s chosen soldiers, that is not just.

“I believe our Chapter Master has made a grievous error on this day. And if he were alive, I would surely tell him.”

He paused, searching for the right words. The marines seemed unwilling to put weight to his speech. How could they, when any instant it could be interrupted by the chance impact that would snuff out their lives? How could anyone?

“We are among the last left of our chapter,” he said. “If by some divine providence we breach the Craftworld, our task is clear. We do not fight for honor, or glory, or vengeance. We fight to survive, that whatever shreds of our chapter are left can escape this slaughterhouse.

“Do not seek out the xenos,” he said. “Leave their treasures undefiled, their soul-stones unsmote. We cannot spare a moment for anything other than our supreme task. But if an Eldar stands between you and those defense pulsars, that Eldar must die.

“I do not make florid speeches,” he repeated. “Each of you must be brave and wrathful and strong regardless.”

Suddenly, the shriek of sirens, harbingers of a bone-twisting impact that filled their world with crashing thunder. All heads rose, hands grasped frantically at weapons. The fate they had made peace with hours earlier had passed them over.

They had arrived.

“To battle, brothers,” said the Brother-Captain, in the brief seconds before the door blew open. “Let us make Dorn himself proud.”