Pathfinder "Potboilers" - A concept in the making

A BIG NEW IDEA FROM THE FURTIVE MIND OF SUNEOKUN
(which isn't really that new, but it's new to me ... ummm ... you get the point!)

As readers of the pathfinder blog will be aware, I'm a keen and budding writer. Now, under the aucsipes of the pathfinder brand, I've produced one or two short stories along the way ... typically, these works are all about the 40k universe and a bit straight off the bat. For example:

• Staff Sergeant Hagard Munk: a brief story introducing a crafty new character ... a nasty veteran NCO who leads the Kochi 20th, with a sadistic streak and the habit of saying the wrong thing at the right time ... with the right results. "You watch yourself boy, 'cause I ain't nice. I'm a nasty piece of work and I fight dirty and I win. You want my pipe, I'd give you better odds with the Tyranid." - Go HERE for more.
• Snow Patrol Part 1: Introducing Corporal Geffin and his troop of undesirables. The Kochi 'regulars' are a confrontational bunch and not a patch on the 'irregulars' ... but can Geffin get them through the patrol? "Yah well, Toftsk only desire is for your pins and he don't care how we gets it. He thinks chipping away at your feelings gonna make you crack. He also think we others want him for a corporal. I think he gonna be sorry how wrong he is, soon enough, soon enough." Again the deep chuckle jumped about Granthem throat. Geffin smiled at the trooper. See more HERE.
• Snow Patrol Part 2: We learn more about Corporal Geffin ... while out in the cold, Corporal Darl Hammound is not having a good day at all. "Darl Hammound couldn't actually feel the kroot blade buried in his guts. At least until it was twisted by the Kroot carnivore holding it. The corporal writhed beneath the pain as his hands pushed limply at the stock of the hunting rifles. Squinting up at the figure above him, a part of his reeling brain couldn't help but respond to the sheer xenotic quality of the alien above him." Read more HERE.
• Snow Patrol Part 3: Geffin investigates the abandoned outpost, as his squad are ambushed from above. "A lean black shadow dropped down behind its convulsing vistim. With a lightning flick it jerked the sticky blade out of Penroses head. There was a wet pop as the blade came free, and a spray of compressed blood. Penroses body piroetted slowly and slumped head first at the feet of his killer, his dead face craking loudly against the trunk of the tree." Follow the exploits of Geffins Patrol HERE.

PATHFINDER POTBOILER CONCEPT

A blog based largely around the creation of great stories and artwork. The idea is to use this forum as a spur for me to create more writing, more regularly. Its also (obviously) a showcase to publish my work and get some feedback from you all out there in blogland.

My ambition is to produce:

• One finished 'Chapter' a fortnight.
• A Chapter comprises approximately 3500 words
• To serialise the work into PDF books for user download
  
• To Draft work inbetween to garner feedback
• To improve my writing
• To increase my volume of production
  
• To produce artwork to inspire and activate the old brain-box
• To collaborate with others

The planned launch date is for January 2010 With the first 3500 word release aimed for the end of January.

FEEDBACK

So what do you think ... feel free to have a perusal of the blogs above and let me know if you'd like to contribute. If you have thoughts already, or would like to give feedback ... please feel free. Do you have a suggestion over a topic or concept that you'd like to see written, let me know.

Ciaphas Cain Review and Special Character Summary

Hi, Suneokun here! (soon I will be him ... Fritz, and then all the jetbikes will be mine!)

As a varied and fairly well read SciFi reader I sometimes am gripped with despair, when halfway through the latest 40k special, I'm greeted with something like...

"Methiason gazed in awe at the mighty space marine, with the body of an immortal god, lineage of the immortal Emperor and the intellect resounding in battle and the clash ... clang ... boing ... drip"

Which is effectively what happens as my brain drips out my ears after reading such dross. It's a similar sensation as one UK commentator made about recent Marvel and DC comic book movies (excluding batman - obviously!) where Ironman, the Hulk or another get a percentage way through the plot of the film, before the producer get frustrated and unleash the mighty special effects demon, and robots/heroes/monsters/transformers hit eachother a lot for the last 30-40 minutes of the film.

Don't get me wrong, I like robots hitting eachother as much as the next child of the eighties, it's gristle to the mill as far as I'm concerned. However, the critic part of me thinks ... come on guys, that plot what actually going somewhere and is now buried - how frustrating.

As similar sensation escalates through me during certain GW 40k novels, Graham O'Neill and James Swallow are particularly apt to run into the "out of time - quick write any old crap" prose form - which is disapointing.

Up until this point I thought the only person holding the lamp for 40k is the venerated Dan Abnett, I still prefer Jack Jeovil, but Dan's portrayal of titans, terminators, traitor inquisitors and tanith first and only are the de-facto "dogs bollocks" on the scene...

Until I read Sandy Mitchel (ergo Alex Stewart) first three books with Ciaphas Cain... Stewart freely dedicates his inspiration to both Harry Flashman and Edmund BlackAdder (gods of the English comedic anti-hero) and within the confines the the dark and dank 40k ennvironment his light, witty, self deprecating and hilarious banter is a great counter point to a masterful painting of life in the 41st millenium.

Stewart's touch is magic. He turns guard into likeable professional soldiers, he manages to make the sometimes inconceivable odds totally conceivable and he relishes in the fact that only his own character (like many a player looking at their own Tyranid/Ork/Necron force) is terrified on facing xenos all the time, all of which are bigger, uglier, nastier and twenty times more deadly then the puny humans facing them with their flashlights.

As much as I enjoy Dan Abnett works, he can sometimes stray into the inconceivable, as his men are too tough, too dependable, too loyal - through Ciaphas' critical and suspicious gaze we see a universe shaded in grey rather than black and white. His insights are brilliant, and some of his quips are simply genius.

Ciaphas is the genius antihero to Gaunt superhuman. The Id to the Ego - great work!

Put it this way ... if I had to live in the 40k world I'd rather be Ciaphas than Gaunt, Eisenhorn or Ventris. For starters, he knows when to leg it!

In dedication to the Ciaphas Cain character I have put together the following Independent Character Specification.

Ciaphas Cain and Jurgen: 75 pts. Cain can be purchased instead of a commissariat advisor. Cain counts as an independent commissar and is accompanied by Jurgen - his aide.

Ciaphas Cain - Hero of the Imperium

WS BS S T W I A Ld Sv
6 4 3 3 3 5 1 10 4+

Wargear: Carapace Armour (stolen from Gravalax), Laspistol (or boltpistol), chainsword, medallion crimson.

Special Abilities: "I'll be over here!", Self Preservation, Paranoid, "Get Behind me, Sir!", Hero of the Imperium.

"I'll be over here!": Cain only ever cares about the safety of his own skin, if Cain passes a morale test during close combat, Cain can choose whether to pass or fail that test. Jurgen will automatically stick with Cain.

Self Preservation: Cain is a superb and celebrated swordsman and this is reflected in his weapon skill and initiative, however, his primary objective is to defend himself and therefore Cain only has one attack and gains no additional attack for carrying two close combat weapons. He gains any other bonuses (charges bonus etc) as normal.

Paranoid: Cain is totally obsessed over dangers to his person. As such he is never taken by surprise. To represent this Cain's saving throw is invulnerable.

"Get behind me, Sir!": As a result of Cain's impressive oratory skills and the inspiration and loyalty he inspires (many as a means of self protection) combined with his Heroic fame and the well stoked fable of his care for the troops, the rank and file of the Imperial Guard adore him. Once every turn, the player can choose to allocate any hit against Ciaphas to any friendly model within 2". This rule even overrules sniper abilities (like for Assassins).

Hero of the Imperium: Cain's legendary fame and unsought and undesired celebrity bouys up any unit. Cain counts as a leader and any unit within 12" may use his Ld for their morale test.

Jurgen: Aide

Cain's batman and aide. Jurgen is odious and smelly and plays a strong part in keeping undesirable adminstration at arms reach. He accompanies Cain everywhere.

WS BS S T W I A Ld Sv
4 3 3 3 1 3 2 10 4+

Wargear: Carapace Armour, Meltagun, Hellgun, frag and krak grenades.
Abilities: Null point, Bodyguard, Melta Leveller.

Null point: Jurgen is a Null, an anti-psyker. This has saved Cain when facing Necrons, Genestealers, Tyranids, Orks and Tau. Any psyker within 12" of Jurgen (friend or foe) has their leadership reduced to 7 for all psychic tests. An psychic ability used against Jurgen and any unit Jurgen is part of has no effect (Jurgen simply 'earths' the power). Any psychically controlled creature (such as minor Tyranid or Wraithlord) within 12" of Jurgen is subject to the same nulling and reverts to unescorted behaviour. Deamon's within 12" of Jurgen roll 3d6 for stability tests and choose the highest dice.

Bodyguard: Jurgen is Cain's self appointed bodyguard. At the beginning of any combat, if Cain and Jurgen are within 2" of eachtother they can swap places, Jurgen will fight Cain's adeversaries and Cain will fight Jurgen (albeit unenthusiatically!)

Melta Leveller: Jurgen has finished off many a fight for Cain with his trusty melta, including killing a genestealer Patriarch and Worldeater Bezerker is close quarters. Jurgen may use his meltagun in close combat. It counts as a S8 power weapon, but Jurgen is counted as I1 (just like a powerfist). Jurgen can choose to fight normally or with his metagun, if he fights normally, his normal initiative applies.

Snow Patrol: Chapter 3

Snow Patrol Chapter 3

Part 1: Something missing

The grating trudge ended with the first of three Kochi outposts.  The small raised mound was only identifiable by its global position and snuggled into the tundra.  Surrounding the outpost was a clearing of some hundred and a half yards. 

Corporal Geffin motioned a halt for beta two zero and had his second in command spread the men out through the woodland edges.  He jogged over to where the ancillary Irregular units were crouched. Settling down next to these Kochi sapper veteran unit, Geffin felt at home.  He'd been promoted to the Saps eighteen months earlier.  Recognition for a particularly bloody but effective assault on a tau skimmer tank.  

He'd felt at home with these veterans, his own combat capabilities blossoming in such competitive and hard nosed surroundings.  After completing his tour of duty with this unit, he had chosen to return to the regulars.  It was an unusual choice, after all, within eight tours he may have warranted promotion to the Kochi Grenadiers, but Geffin wanted command, and the only way to command was through the regulars and the officer training corp.  So he'd swapped.

Two of the six Kochi sappers he knew. Corporal Mendark was a swarthy black man of middling years.  A good deal of his strength and muscle had run to fat, but he more than compensated for it with a canny eye for the enemy and a wealth of battle hardened experience.  Mendark nodded solemnly to Geffin and retuned his smile.  The veteran corporal was absently hefting his hellpistol, irratically tightening his grip on the grip. Never a good sign, Munk's nerves was obviously spreading.   Geffin was pleased to see that the vets had swapped their jungle attire for some heatmake wrappings and lightweight over gear.

The other veteran was less of a friendly sight, while the other irregulars mimicked Mendark's nod of welcome.  Private Pat Ratrick gave no such quarter.  His stare was hard and as cold as the frosted bark.  A slight sneer affected the privates lip. The remnant squad's grenade launcher handler was a prickly and overbearing personality.  Geffin thought back to Toftsk own behaviour and wondered whether something in his own nature attracted these sort of golden thronestools.  Patrick held an unpleasently high opinion of his own superiority, backed up by a violent and sadistic nature.  Geffin had experienced run-ins with Ratrick before, and the dislike was mutual.  Only now, Geffin was senior.

Two of the other vets hefted flamers.  The three irregular grenadiers Munk had given him had followed him over like a small bodyguard.  Now Hunt spoke, he had the solid clipped voice of.one born to the military.  His hellgun pulsed softly in the dark.

'Corporal, we're getting no radio response from the bunker.  If there's anyone in there they're either not replying, or are incapable. Sir.' Geffin glanced across at the solid bulk of Hendark and the Corporal grinned in the darkness.  'I know what you're thinking Geffin, but lets take one step at a time.  Royale here,' he indicated a sapper to his right with a broken nose. 'He's sniffed out the perimeter, landmine's active and the motion detectors are on.  That tells us that that camp operational even if the commanders sleeping.  Which I doubt.' Mendark raised one eyebrow.

'You know the Officer out there?' inquired 

Geffin flicking some stray powdered snow off his weathered knee guards.  

"I know of him.  Met him once, but he ain't no officer.  Corporal.  Dour, miserable sort, but competent.  Unlikely to be caught napping.'  The veteran NCO thumbed a hand towards the bunker. 'You want to go over and take a look.  Us sappers been itching for some nervous work all night.  Place is too quiet.  Fancy some company?"

It was Geffin's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Just like old times eh? Fine."  The prospect of action had his blood up.  Already the cold was abating.  Geffin pointed at one of the grenadiers, "Jones, right?" the man nodded behind his facemask.  "Can you relay back to my second, vice-corporal Burrows that their to spread out and camp down.  I want sentries posted and a patrol sent out three hundred yards east and west of our position." 

"Understood sir." The grenadier's voice growled through the vox, Geffin was surprised to hear a guttural lower foundry accent, it reminded him of home.  The armoured veteran turned and jogged off towards the regular's lines, stopping briefly with Burrows before moving on.

Mendark slapped his fellow NCO in the shoulder as he raised his considerable bulk off his knees.  Geffin grinned until he noticed Ratrick's scowl behind the veteran commanders back.  Looks like he was in for a long night.

_______________

Geffin ducked his head low and scuttled across the intervening snow.  The logical part of his brain rallying continuously against his more instinctual fear.  Crossing a land mine was his least favourite occupation, but the sapper specialist seemed confident, and more comforting Corporal Mendark seemed satisfied.

Geffin glanced over at the sprinting Mendark.  He remembered the first time he'd seen the great man run, and his astonishment over how such bulk could glide at a competent speed.  He was even more perturbed at how the larger man made so little noise as he ran.  Mendark was leading his veterans to the nearer main entrance while Geffin led his two bodyguard to the rear.  They weren't expecting trouble, but had prepared for it.  Geffin had unholstered his standard issue chainsword and las pistol while Mendark had proudly drawn his plasma pistol from its holster.

He could feel his breath in his lungs and he pounded up to the bunker side, halting suddenly as the two grenadiers landed up beside him.  He motioned them to either side of the bulkhead door, and with shivering fingers he triggered the door access.

The grenadiers moved seemlessly through the hole, hellrifles raised.  Geffin followed them in.  They search frantically from empty lit room to room, but the only thing alive in the bunker was MenDark's team coming the other way.  

"There's no blood, no disruption.  It's like they abandoned their post, but that not like Hammound at all." he glared around, as if blaming the furniture.  Geffin was about to reply when something caught his eye, the only thing out of place was the controls for the bunker defenses, they were slashed and broken - as if someone had performed it from the inside.  Looking up, Geffin's surprised eyes met Mendarks.

"Emperor bless us..." Geffin muttered.  Outside the crack of fire announced the opening gambit.  It was a trap.

Snow Patrol Chapter 3

Part 2: Trap!

Something wasn't agreeing with private Penrose.  He felt rotten throughout the march, some alien bug had him dry then sweating, hot then cold.  He really just wanted a quiet place to lie down.  Currently, some blasted alien influensa had him bent over double spitting out the last of his dinner as he dry-retched into the base of a large tree.  Hacking riles of urging lurches surge up his diaphram as he strained again and again.  With such base urges at work, it was a while before the spasms abated.  He reached gingerly for his rifle and stepped back haltingly from the tree.  Half suspecting a relapse, slow welling relief moved through him.  Maybe he had this bug kicked after all.

Then he heard a clack above him.  It wasn't a sound of the forest.  He froze.

Penrose clutched his rifle tighter to his beating chest as he looked up. Above him he could sense the shape of braced bodies in the swirling snow canopy. His first thought to run, but his legs shook too much and wouldn't move. “In the trees...” he mumbled through cracked lips, his panic consuming him. He span towards the others, and his voiced seemed to croak like a gasping corpse. 

VC Burrows grimaced at the retching sounds Penrose was making. His own bile already well risen and the tidemark was floating in the back of his throat. Grimacing up at Penrose, he opened his mouth to tell the corporal to pull himself together. He stopped at the look of helplessness in Penrose's abandoned features. 

Penrose spoke, “They’re all around us in the tr...” On the edge of finishing his words a hooked blade split Penrose's helmet and slid with a wet crack into his skull. With a horrific slowness blood welled up around the hilt of the blade as Penroses features strove to express the unique sensation made as the serrated edge skewered his brain cavity. The squad stared in astonishment as Penrose's shaking body soiled itself. His eyes seemed to bulged slightly and a rivulet of blood seeped from his nose to his lips. His tounge lapped out at the blood greedily, smeering his top lip. 

A lean black shadow dropped down behind its convulsing vistim. With a lightning flick it jerked the sticky blade out of Penroses head. There was a wet pop as the blade came free, and a spray of compressed blood. Penroses body piroetted slowly and slumped head first at the feet of his killer, his dead face craking loudly against the trunk of the tree. 

A shower of powder and lumps of snow impacted around the guard unit as dark shapes dropped from the trees around their clustered group. The terrified humans' feet slipping on the rigid blood of their dead collegues, the pooled ichor frozen solid in the howling winds. A score of horrific Kroot carnivores rose from the swirling shadows around them, dire fetishes and unmentionable bodily trophies adorning their leather and fur hide clothing. As one, the Kroots snarled at the human prey, their bloody maws displaying rough rows of serated teeth.

“Open fire!” screamed Burrows.

Snow Patrol: Chapter 2

Snow Patrol: Chapter 2 - Part 1: Memories

It was at some point during this long endless night that Geffin realised that he was truly happy.  He had been half listening to Granthem's explanation of Munk's shootout with the Tau scouts at 'The Hill' (as he called it), when this curious realisation surfaced.  Geffin's head was nodding subtly to encourage Granthem as he plowed inartistically through his account.  The heavy, foot-by-foot trudge of his units slow march capturing an unconscious rhythm to his own head movements, so that it bobbed infrequently.

As the thought emerged into the warm recesses of his meandering mind, Geffin embraced the realisation like a child's toy or long forgotten memento.  At first he couldn't fathom where such a feeling had burst from.  This cosy pride, a satisfying self fulfilling hug that came from this spark of thinking and spread about him like the warmth of a rosy fire.  

A slow heartfelt smile spread across the Corporal's face.  Granthem, glancing over, returned it, pleased that his story was having such an effect.  To Geffin, Granthem could have been reading the assault report summaries for all the content of his monologue affected him.  His heart sang, and a small hard adult part f him couldn't place why.  Yet the greater, better measure of his soul lounged in the rays of this rarest of sensations and lapped at this childlike feeling.

Geffin could feel a tingling around his body. Not the harsh frozen numbness so commonly felt on Monia II, or even the hot flushed drive of lust or fear filled adrenaline.  This feeling was both closer and older than either of these tainted adult sensations.  Fearful of losing this long lost sensation, Geffin's mind moved slowly.  Softly he quested for the source and root of the feeling.  Finally his mind answered.

Parcher Dean stood crabbed and ancient in the dusty sunlight filling the temple.  His hands and face so creased and wrought that he seemed more part of the ornamental decorations that a vibrant man.  The Parcher was making short mass, pressing his dry lips to the calfskin cover of the Lectio Divinitatus, relishing the feel of the soft material against the nerves of his aged mouth.  With reluctance his brought the divine testament away and rested it on the Aquila altar with numb bony fingers.  Sighing softly, the Parcher turned to survey the briefly quiescent but squirming mass of little humanity arrayed about his be-robed form.

The Parcher had pride in his office.  He had been drawn to the Ecclesiastical service whilst barely older than the children before him.  His drawing had been more in the desire for fresh recruits for the upper echelons perception of growing corruption in the under hives of his birth world, Hadenheld.  On inception however, a young Dean had been fortunate to find himself under the instruction of a elder parcher both fair, kind and without wrongful desire.  Other incepts were not so lucky, and from this humble start, the young Dean's confidence and trust in the blessing of the Emperor, beloved by all, grew.  A trust that later grew to faith.

'How doth our Lord look upon us children?' Parcher Dean spoke, pleased with his performance this bright morning.  The children were responding well.  A fellow parcher years before had commented on parcher Dean's skills in elocution and delivery.

'Parcher, I cannot help but feel move by your words, but fear your performance of piety, so played out for me does not become mimicry of the fastidious man." Dean had taken the man words to heart, and so his career had never excelled or aimed at an ambition beyond the fold of his young cares before him.  Parcher Dean knew that in his own simple way, his 'performance of piety' was his own blessing and abasement to the Golden Throne.  Cynical clergy and lay welders and bondsmen may doubt his sincerity and smile benignly at his ways, but with his most precious audience.  his skills were appreciated and accepted and their trust and love was complete.  Parcher Dean would save them, each and every one.

Slowly the parcher turned, and raised a wiry grey-white eyebrow.  'Children, the Golden Throne both blesses us and watches us.  His mighty eye seers through the maelstrom of the Universe and sees each one of our souls clearly.  He doth look throughout our souls at every moment, always watchful for corruption, decadence and decay.'  The Parcher paused, and stepping within his flock placed his withered hands upon the light feathered hair of his young charges.

'And as the holy Emperor looks within us, our faith is the light that shines out.  Never turn from him and let your faith lead you.  What is the mantra of watching, children?'  While speaking, Parcher Dean had slowly touched the crown of every child's head.  He looked down at the wide open brown eyes. 'Geffin, can you tell us?'

Trudging through the moonlit snows of an alien world, hands and feet like ice, back and knees creaking from the cold and the weight of his pack, an older Geffin smiled. Slowly he mouthed the mantra of seeing his Parcher had taught him.  Granthem was no Parcher Dean, his droning monologue a fraction of the majesty and poise the elder clergyman had possessed.  Nonetheless, something of the night had awaken a light in Geffin he'd thought long lost.  Slipping his hand inside his jacket he pushed his ice-cold fingers past the las-carbine charger packs nestled there and his numb fingers bit sharply about the aquila pendant and chain about his neck.

'Fear the xenos,' he muttered under his breath. 'For it life is our death.  Fear the mutant, its rot doth spread.  Fear the cult, and spare none to live.  Fear the psyker, the madness they give. Bless the Throne, and keep your heart true.  Kill his enemies, they are yours too.'

A feeling of childhood and the buzz of warmth carried Geffin's heavy feet into the freezing night.

Snow Patrol: Chapter 2 - Part 2: The End

Corporal Darl Hammound had faced a few impossible odds through the years. His service with the Kochi 20th Light Infantry had taken him to many worlds. He would speak of red planets with blasted ochre sunsets, where a man life was measured in the litres of water in his flesh. Giant moonscapes where the terrifying prospect of fighting in low gravity and no oxygen made men shake and cry, feeling vulnerable like babes. He had fought aboard Tau cruisers and Eldar ships, boarding through giant armoured cables and scrambling into panicked combat with the desparation of rats. 

Darl had fought the strange Eldar with their scything weapons and faced the terror of the Tyranid horde. Shooting desparately while the sky turns black and the land seeths. He'd fought Tau. He'd seen friends die, killed uselessly or heroically. He'd seen a brave lieutenant shot dead by a panicking commissar for choosing not to kill his men needlessly, then plowed through the mayhem and death that, that reckless fool had dragged them. He staggered out alive, sickened by the death of too many friends, too many faces. 

He'd been shot, stabbed, had his leg sliced half off by an shuriken shot. He'd rescued friends, who later died needlessly, from wounds left to fester, from administratum errors. He'd lost his wife to another man, he'd lost his children to a new father. There was no home for him, his only placed a kindly shrine on a forgetful family wall. He was an ancestor, already buried by his family and venerated. He would never go home. His life was the guard.

It was all so fecking pointless. Such a waste.

Darl Hammound shifted his gaze awkwardly. His chin strap dug into his neck as he pushed against it. He could feel acutely the cold beneath his back, sucking the sensation out of his spine. Making his legs dead and cold. He could physically feel the uncomfortable ebb and pulse of his lifeblood pushing exorbitantly against the pressed strap, like a small heart beating in his jugular. 

Darl Hammound couldn't actually feel the kroot blade buried in his guts. At least until it was twisted by the Kroot carnivore holding it. The corporal writhed beneath the pain as his hands pushed limply at the stock of the hunting rifles. Squinting up at the figure above him, a part of his reeling brain couldn't help but respond to the sheer xenotic quality of the alien above him.

It's gnarled hands, skin puckered with overlarge sweat glands, gripped the gun with a strength he marveled at. Cable like sinues pulled beneath this thick skin over whipcord muscles and bony ridges. The Kroots chest was small compared to its arms, but it's head peered forward like the prow of an imperial battle ship. Cold alien eyes, watched him closely, eyelids closing the pupils to slits as the knife twisted again.

Again, Hammounds hands flapped uselessly at the Kroot knife, their energy spent and wasted.

Hammound watched in increasing abstraction as the xenos moved closer, leaning deeper over the embedded blade. It's eyes were mere inches from his own. It's gaping beak maw hung open as if tasting or sniffing him. Darl fluid thoughts were surprised his body still lurched as the Kroot clacked its beak together mere inches from his nose.

His adrenaline pulsed waveringly as the Kroot looked down and lowered its serated beak to the bloody maw left by the bayonet blade. With a jerk the sinuey warrior plucked the gore encrusted sickle from Hammounds guts. With a nauseous sensation, he felt staunced blood flood the cavity again.

Pushing his head down he saw the alien dip its bladed beak to and out of sight inside Hammound's own body. His revulsion soared as he was gently jerked back and forth. The Kroot was eating him, he couldn't feel it directly, but his mind placed sounds and motion together and revolted wholesale at the notion.

Unknown strength coursed about his body. His heart hammering in self preservation he'd long thought useless. He might be near death, but no Kroot would hasten him. Jerking his eyes left and right he noticed the broken blade of his power sword lying beside him. Masked by the hungry jerks and tearing noises of his own demise he clasped a palsied hand about the blade.

It wasn't live, the blade severed from the hilt and its power source. A mystified part of Hammounds mind wondered at the lasting symmetry of this. The broken and bloodied man, dying by moment, clutching a broken blade, devoid of power. 

Moving the blade cautiously to his chest he fastened his other hand about it and held it in line with his body pointing towards the Kroot. His torso was still pulled about lightly as the alien ate its fill and his blood made the blade slick where its sharpened edge cut his numb hands. Hammound could feel his strength waining, but one thought kept tracking though his brain. 

Not yet, corporal. Still can't see him clear. Stop hiding down there xenos and look at me. Look at your food, Kroot. And your food will play with you. he smiled.

Sensing a stillness about its kill, the Kroot warrior paused. Obviously its feast had died, a pity but edible none the less. Moving to get a better angle about the ribs to the liver the Kroot glanced up at its prey. It only had a moment to notice the bunched fist and concentrated eyes before a broken shard of power sword drove through its bisected avian eyes, slicing into its brain.

Brilliant. Thought Hammound, a lithe ropey figure twiching spastically on top of him. Emperors Hood, Now he's trying to mate me? Well at least he took me for dinner first...

Snow Patrol: Story

I owe a debt to another writer, skizoman333, who inspired me to write this little episode. Those who wish to read the original, please see here. I thoroughly enjoyed the idea and the story, and have shamelessly stolen it for my own endeavours ... but after all it's only plagiarism if you pass it off as your own. The writing's my own, the inspiration, ideas and some character names are skizo's. Thanks man.

Snow Patrol Prologue: Munk's Few

"Corporal Geffin, get the men together, we're taking these doo-hicky's on a patrol," Geffin looked up to see Staff Sergeant Munk stomping towards the small camp fire, trooper Reynolds in tow. The two figures approached the guttering fire through an ever increasing flurry of fluffy snowflakes the size of eyeballs. The snows had started an hour previous and already the ground was cushioned with several inches. It was going to be a cold night.

Geffin sighed quietly as he placed his datapad back in his pack. He'd been scratching at the squad performance review for about half an hour and made little headway. The Monian night had come in fast after the battle the previous day. And while Tau and Kochi elite sappers continued to fight and snipe through night sights, the guardsmen had set to entrenching the heavy weapons and supporting the mechanicus servitors in field repairs. Geffin had given his orders, seen the work set to and then settled down in a comfortable spot to write up his report. Back to his pack and feet to the fire.

The men were exhausted, which was to be expected. They were pleased with their performance today and the lack of serious casualties. They'd made it through their first real engagement, no little part to the work of the gregarious Munk. However, there was also an unspoken reserve in the men. They had tightened up, the comradeship was there but also an invisible barrier had formed. Reynolds suspected he now sat in this bubble, and he suspected it was something to do with Munk.

He'd arrived to late to see whatever it was that the men shared hard but satisfied expressions about. When they'd arrived, all that had occupied him were the half dozen Tau aiming at Reynolds and himself. He'd reacted on instinct and attempted to pull the unarmed Reynolds out of the xenos firing line. Instead, Reynolds had charged the enemy armed with a pipe and tabac. For that moment Geffin knew with absolute certainty that he was dead.

As it happened the Tau didn't have time to fire as plasma and lasfire decimated the distracted Tau. Leaving a bewildered Reynolds victorious on the field, staggering about in confusion and relief. Geffin had wondered over his slate whether the men were reading into his action, were questioning his bravery in light of whatever the Sergeant has done, or Reynolds lunatic charge.

Geffin smiled to himself, in situations like this he was always reminded of the notes his father would leave him early in the morning before his shift. His father was dead now, but had cared for and brought him up in the Citadel of Kochi VI. He'd been a smelter at one of the many adeptus mechanicus forges which justified the citadels existence. Geffin had more than once felt the back of his large rough hands for a misdeed or a curse he'd mistakenly uttered. His father had been hard, but fair. He'd worked from daybreak to dust in continuous, laborious and complicated tasks and only spent real time with Geffin on the Emperor's Day and other holiday's. Geffin used to stay up to hear his father arrive home, and then drift off. He was always gone before Geffin rose.

He had however been a clever and thoughtful man. No wit or academic, but intelligent and careful in his own well thought through ways. He also had an uncanny knack for knowing Geffin’s ails and moods. He would write notes to Geffin. Sometimes they were longer, a page or so in his carefully drawn out neat writing. They would explain his working day, the complications of the work, or how his father had felt about Geffin's grades. Other times they would be simple notes or thoughts that would more often than not spear right to the centre of his current frustration or doubts. Sometimes it had been months or years until Geffin had been mature enough to really understand. The notes were now crammed into a leather cover, forming a make piece book in Geffin's pack. A book filled with all the love and wisdom one man could give his son. It meant everything to Geffin.

One such note rose in response to Geffin's concerns about the potential doubts of the men in his command and gave him solace.

Know your true heart and other doubts will have no dominion. The others could doubt, Geffin knew his own heart. They might question, but he had no fear to answer. His time would come.

Geffin stood stiffly in the swirling dark and quickly saluted the Staff Sergeant, who grunted in response. Geffin noticed that Munk's hands were already stretched out to the warming glow. Reynolds stood slightly back. As if afraid any warmth would melt the newly formed strength he'd found in the face of fire. Geffin looked carefully at Reynolds, who avoided his eye, focusing diligently on preparing Munk’s pipe. He wondered if Reynolds strength would be enough, or if Munk would break his newfound toy.

Settling his pack onto his aching shoulders, he adjusted a loose strap. He picked up his warmly wrapped lasrifle from by the fire and trotted into the snow, in search of his men. Munk’s few

Snow Patrol Chapter 1: Trudge Grudge

The small platoon of Kochi Regulars trudged through the maddening snow. A long double line huddling close and marching in muffled discord over treacherous ground. The snow cover falling so fast that one man's tread was full in moments and only the continual passage kept the path clear. The men huddled against the cold, their thick winter fatigues only barely keeping the howling wind at bay. Munk had set the men to a firm pace, well aware of the line between danger of exhaustion and freezing consequences of inactivity the harsh climate would prosecute.

Geffin had drawn up his squad to the left flank. Marching in single file beside the regulars of squad alpha two zero. Geffin walked at the rear of his line, keeping a steady eye on the troopers for signs of fatigue. Staff Sergeant Munk and his command team of camouflaged and carapace clad irregulars held the front of the column and six more lightly jacketed irregular troopers ranged on point and rearguard to the less experienced Kochi guardsmen.

Geffin had found the two squads of his platoon quickly. Nicknamed Munk's few, the platoon had been singled out by the master Sergeant. The other platoons had set up and without a word had subconsciously left a non standard spacing between their tents and those of the few. Whether this was in deference to their choosing, or recognition of their life expectancy, Geffin didn't know.

Being chosen was an honour, but one which meant the platoon would see twice the action of the other platoons of Kochi Regulars. Protecting Munk's damn pipe was a hefty burden. However it was also Munk's way to train the troops through adversity. Those that survived would be integrated into the standard Regulars platoon with duties more focused on trench warfare, firing lines and Heavy weapons. The easy way. A select few may be promoted to the Kochi Irregulars, the elite force of veteran troopers which made up half of Kochi's foreign light infantry. The final cut would don the camouflaged chameleon armour of the Kochi Irregulars Grenadiers and take up the hellgun and plasma gun in the name of the Emperor.

As they plodded on Geffin noticed that the weather was abating. The snows were lifting and the biting wind which cut at his face dropped dramatically. It was now far past midnight and the Kochi patrol was a good couple of hours into the patrol. They were approaching the outreaches of the sentry line. Within the forest, a series of foxholes laid out the perimeter. Guarded by ten men each, the foxholes were called Bastions. Armed with a heavy bolter and hand cranked mine zones they formed the first line of defense from potential incursion through the trees. Each Bastion was interlinked with the others and connected to central command. Their patrol, alongside others, was making the hourly rounds to each Bastion. So far it had been tiresome and dull work.

Not that Geffin had a care to mind that. It beat the frantic panic of combat, but somehow the promise of action made the time go faster. Usually in terrified technicolour, he thought wryly to himself, but quicker nonetheless. As the snows slowed, Geffin raised his voice to his command.

"Squad beta two zero! Spread out the line and get those rifles down." Each man set about unshouldering his rifle and set about checking the sights and the wrappings on the barrels. As one they also started unzipping their jackets and reaching in to pull out lasgun reload cartridges. The extreme cold challenged las technology like no other. A las cartridge could drain down in less than half a day if dormant. As such all Kochi kept them close to the skin until needed. It made reloading dangerous, but lasguns rarely needed reloading.

His squad spread out, mimicking the other Regulars patrol, either side of the path. Munk's command echelon had also spread slightly. As they walked, Geffin made an extra effort and moved amongst his squad, now able to overhear low banter that had reignited now the wind had dropped.

Trooper Toftsk was cursing his damp cigarette as they failed to take for the third time. Geffin could see how he gripped gingerly at the cigarette between fingers blue with cold. The damp snow and wind conspired against his guttering matches.

Geffin was now trudging beside him, “You're never going to get that one lit again Toftsk, just give it up” he said. Toftsk jumped in surprise. "Didn't see you there, Corporal." He replied as he tied to catch the light again. This time the paper and tabac took. Toftsk inhaled a fulsome breath of hot air and blew it out into the crystal night.

"So Corporal," he said. Looking aslant at Geffin over his glowing cigarette. "You want to know what happened before you and Reynolds played chicken with the Tau?" Reynolds did want to know, but the last person he wanted to hear it from was Toftsk.

"Let me guess, Toftsk. You ran about doing as you were told and you weren't quite killed again eh?" Geffin said, cutting off Toftsk's leering smile. He'd had quite enough of the guardsman's attitude since the incident with Reynolds. Some troopers just spent far too much time looking for weakness in others, and not enough on their own insecurities. Geffin noticed Toftsk mutter under his breath, clearly too fearful to voice whatever cutting remark he dearly wanted to reply with.

"Sorry Toftsk, what was that? I missed it due to the foot stuck in your mouth." Geffin moved to stand in front of Toftsk and the trooper stopped with a start. His surly expression melting into one of surprise. Slowly the Corporal reached up and took the smoldering cigarette from between Toftsk's chapped lips. Putting the cigarette in his mouth, Geffin's eyes bore into Toftsk until the Guardsman glanced furtively away.

"I'm understood then." Geffin muttered, loud enough for the others to hear. He turned back and struck out walking again, turning to the trooper on his right.

Granthem was the squad's heater handler, and as such was in a better mood than most. The meltagun was an awesome weapon, without the downside of self harm the plasmagun was infamous for. It also proved a particular popular weapon during this bitterly cold campaign. Unlike the flamer, the dormant fuels within the meltagun kept the weapon toasty warm.

Granthem smiled warmly as the Corporal looked over at him. He was nicknamed "specialman" not just for his weapon, but also for his particular outlook on life. Granthem was the sort of man who weathered all climates and all situations with the same optimism and cheery disposition. He held no grudges that Geffin knew of and rarely got involved in the squad backchat. He was a large man, now padded up to overweight proportions by his bulky winter gear. Geffin liked Granthem, but couldn't help but think that the man was one track short of a tank. After all what man could be truly happy in a hellhole like the one they found themselves. Still, he guessed the heater helped.

Granthem looked over at Geffin and then at the cigarette between his lips. "I'd leave those alone if I were you boss. Never do nothing but make Toftsk miserable. Even when he's got one, he barely makes normal. What goods that, eh? Normal's where we all start, not a target in life." Granthem smiled again and hefted the meltagun for comfort.

"Yeah, you're right specialman." said the Corporal as he threw away the untouched cigarette. "I just felt Toftsk deserved to make a new one. One day he might actually learn that baiting me gets him nothing but work." he smiled at the small injustice he'd stung the cocky trooper with. To his surprise Granthem was laughing. A deep base chuckle that reverberated about the trees. Shortly he stopped.

"Yah well, Toftsk only desire is for your pins and he don't care how we gets it. He thinks chipping away at your feelings gonna make you crack. He also think we others want him for a corporal. I think he gonna be sorry how wrong he is, soon enough, soon enough." Again the deep chuckle jumped about Granthem throat. Geffin smiled at the trooper.

Suddenly Granthem stiffened and Geffin looked up to see Munk gesturing him. He waved in return and trotted double-time through the powdery snow.

As Geffin approached, he noticed the Corporal from Alpha Two Zero running up as well. Something was up. Munk waited until the two corporals were close to.

"Gentlemen, something's up. The damn foxholes are replying ok but neither Cavorski nor Mathers have reported in. My gut says something’s up. Corporal Geffin, you take Hunt, Qell and Jones and make your way to Bastion twenty one. I'll take Justin and young Reynolds here with Alpha Two Zero and locate twenty two." He indicated on the datapad. "Keep your eyes peeled and your men tight. Something's not right here. Emperor's Grace. Dismissed."

Geffin walked back to his squad with the three grenadier troopers in tow. He unslung his pack as the troopers crowded round, for information no doubt, and if Geffin guessed right, warmth. He pulled the cold datapad from his pack and switched it over to mapping function. Holding it in his hand, he remembered the doubts that played at him earlier. Looks like this time, his time had come.

Toftsk was the first to speak, "Where's Munk going?" he stammered through chill teeth. Clearly he'd been unable to light another cigarette and the results of withdraw, or his repeated attempts were starting to show. Geffin stood slowly and watched the Sergeant's unit retreat into the night. He'd had enough.

He swung his fist and caught Toftsk right in the bridge of the nose. Toftsk's hands were wrapped up under his armpits. Despite a bitter sounding crack, Toftsk didn't go down but grasped his gushing nose and swore mightily. Before he could respond on instinct the great arms of Granthem has smothered his responses. He glared out at Geffin, his hatred plain to see. Geffin stood calmly in front of him.

"Toftsk, you are a soldier of the Kochi. You are an imperial guard. You will remember your training and learn at some point to treat your superiors with respect. Do I make myself clear?" Geffin eyeballed Toftsk as best he could. Toftsk glared back. Geffin hit Toftsk again, this time in his gut. His fist went deep as he winded Toftsk. Toftsk gasped and sank to the snowy floor were Granthem dropped him.

Standing over a gasping Toftsk, Geffin faced the other men. Indifferent faces glanced down at the shuffling and grunting body in the centre of their group. "Toftsk, you are going to learn civility if I have to beat it into you. You will never address a superior as anything other than sir or corporal. Do I make myself clear?" He grabbed Toftsk hair and pulled his blooded face where everyone could see it. "And I understood?" He glowered.

Toftsk dribbled blood from his mouth and nose, his eyes held hatred but a bitter respect to. He nodded in assent. "Yeshir." He mumbled.

Geffin leant down beside the winded man and quickly relieved him of his tabac tin. Tossing the small tin onto the snow, he motioned Granthem to incinerate it. As the small tin combusted to nothing, he turned back to Toftsk.

"Am I now understood?" he asked, arms locked behind his back. Beneath his gloves his hands were sweating despite the cold.

"Yes ... sir." muttered a darkly resentful Toftsk. Geffin quickly stepped forward. As he approached at speed, Toftsk hands shot up. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I understand." he exclaimed.

"That's better." remarked the Corporal. "Men we march, private Toftsk, you and Wilhelm take point. We're going to see what see shall see."

Under his stern gaze squad beta two zero made off into the cold night. Geffin brought up the rear, wondering how much damage he'd done.

Nork and Nark

Nork and Nark 'lead' the charge again, under the eye of the commissariat!

Master Darksol said...

oh, tell me that the Commissar was positioned with his Bolt Pistol to the Psycher's head on purpose. That pic reads SO awesome.

Thanks to DarkSol and Admiral Drax for the particularly positive responses to these models, thanks to your input - I thought it best to introduce you all properly:

Nork Deddog and Nark Muldoon

I'm a big fan of Nork Deddog as a bodyguard addition to Command Squads. See: Nork Deddog Character Specification for details. As part of my Kochi Light Infantry fluff I intend to introduce a friend to accompany Nork Deddog, his "pet" psyker Nark Muldoon.

Below you'll find a breakdown of how Devilin and I went about the conversion of Nork and Nark, the specification for Nark Muldoon and a cracking (if grotesque) fluff for the pair of them.

Conversions

Nork Deddog: The Nork Deddog model was converted from an old Warhammer Ogre by Devilin. His Rippergun is built from RT era lasguns and (dah-dah-DAHH!) zoid bits.

Nark Muldoon: Supplemented a genestealer hybrid body with cadian heavy weapon mortar and missile launcher arms to give it that psyker "I've got a headache" look. The plasma pistol is an old rogue trader era model and therefore I've classed it as a plasma "holdout" pistol (with the same spec as a bolt pistol).

Nork and Nark

Nark Muldoon - Character Specification

o Sanctioned Psyker Advisor, ability "Psychic Ward"
o Plasma "Holdout" pistol (Boltpistol spec)
o Carapace Armour
o Pig Sticker (Master Crafted Force Weapon)
o Black Ship Survivor (Honorifa Imperalis Mundanus)

____________________________

"Narky, wot you do up dere?" Nork grumbled "Captain says we go back now."

"Shush mate..." Nark replied in an urgent whisper. "I got one of my feelings, you know my feelings, don'tcha big man. They're rare wrong fella." He glanced down at Nork and winked, Nork shrugged and scuffed up ocre brown leaves with a single giant foot. "...but Narky, we gotta go." he mumbled.

Muldoon waved him to silence as he peered apprehensively from his position buried in the thick brambled foliage of the hedge. Before him lay a shallow gorge cut by a long dried out stream, on the other side of the canyon the leaf laden branches swayed softly. Still he sat quiet, trusting to his gut and not this tranquil visage.

His breath caught in his throat as in an instant two Eldar pathfinders appeared on the edge of the forest, their long rifles sweeping across the gorge and the bushes supporting Nark's weight. Suddenly Nark felt very exposed and vulnerable. He'd climbed the bush for a clear view and superb cover, but he realised with a sinking stomach that he had also cornered himself. There was no way he could dismount without giving away his position to those nasty looking sniper rifles.

His mind raced as the Eldar moved down towards the gulley. Thinking quickly Nark considered his desparate options. He looked down at Nork and exerting his will, reflected the image of the Eldar snipers onto Norks minds eye. Nork nodded silently, he understood Narks intentions, he then prodded himself in the eye, clearly trying to dislodge the image of the two Eldar. Crouching, the huge Orgryn started to edge himself along the hedges base. Trying to get a bead on the Eldar beyond.

Rolling his eyes in exasperation at the bodyguards behaviour, Nark looked back to the gorge. His "feeling" had now graduated to "headache" and he was certain the object of his discomfort was about to appear. The two rangers had slipped sinuously across the gorge and now signalled back across the clearing. Almost immediately a large contingent of Alaitoc guardians stood up and strode from the dappled shade of the trees. Under the glaring sunlight, Nark could see the details etched on their armour of lustrous blue and yellow. At their head stood an Eldar bedecked in glorious finery, hefting a rune encrusted spear, an Eldar Farseer.

Realising that their time was now upon them. Nark pulled his plasma holdout pistol from his belt and exerted his will over Norks slow thought processes. Nork's Ripper gun boomed repeatedly as barrage after barrage of buckshot ripped into the two Eldar rangers at close range, shredding their scout armour and flinging their bloodied bodies down into the wet grass. The Eldar farseer pointed at the bank as a dozen catapults were raised into position. Hundreds of razor sharp blades whirred across the gorge at the bushes, slicing through leaf, branch, trunk and bank as they filleted the cover that Nork had fired from.

But Nork had already gone, his enormous bulk punching through the thick foliage with great sweeps of his arms, he thundered down the back of the hedge towards Narks position. Nark raised his holdout plasma pistol and sighted the Farseer as shuriken blades whipped through the trees around him. His holdout pistol kicked hard as the plasma shot seared across the intervening space.

It caught the Farseer in the leg, searing through armour and flesh. The farseer piroeted as he fell, clutching his leg. The fire intensified as guardians moved to protect their leaders, plumeling the high hedge with fire.

Muldoon had already lost his balance to the holdout pistols kick and was now hanging upside-down by one leg in enemy fire. He heard crashes below him and sensed Nork's tumultuous approach. Releasing his leg from the branch, he fell briefly and landed clumsily into the bulky arms of Deddog, who thundered on without pause.

"We go back now?" Deddog roared as shuriken blades pinged through the wood and thunked into the carapace armour across his broad back. Nark Muldoon didn't reply at first, his headache had escalated to a fullblown volcanic migraine and his sinuses were filling with acid. He gazed up at Nork's concerned expression as pressure welled behind his eyeballs thanks to the farseers psychic attack. His eyes started to water and he felt the overwhelming urge to sneeze. He didn't so much sneeze as explode. Mucous and flehm spattered across Norks concerned face.

Deddog swore furiously and staggered as he squinted through his one clear eye. Nark grinned up at his accomplice's furious face as the giant's trudging gait carried them quickly away from the Alaitoc. "Sorry about the face, big man, but that flashy eldar was trying some mind tricks on us, gave me the sniffles is all."

Nork glanced down and grinned "Needed a wash anyhow." he said. Licking his lips.

Nark groaned.

Hagard Munk of the Kochi 20th Light Infantry

"Hagard Munk" Picture courtesy of Devilin.

The snap of a match followed a rasping breath as Staff Sergeant Hagard Munk lit his grotesque pipe. He glanced up at the scared looking troopers huddling in their seats and fidgeting between clinging onto the handholds inside the bucking Chimera and clinging onto themselves. As the 20th Mechanized chimera plowed across the red smeared tundra, eating up the distance towards their rendezvous with the Lieutenant Colonel at what these ragbag Cadians were calling "Tau Hill", he grimaced to himself and exhaled a cloud of stinking smoke.

Munk caught one of the troopers glancing apprehensively at Hagard's pipe. The guard looked up into the cruel dirty grey eyes, and wondered at the scars that mottled the veteran sergeant’s face, a great grey slice that turned the left side of his mouth into a sneer.

"Like the pipe do you boy?" Hagard growled. The trooper noticed his teeth we broken, uneven and badly set. The pipe smoke smelt of burning rubber and filled the interior of the transport. Unlike the troopers, Hagard wore well worn carapace armour, but he was not a large man. The trooper stared at Hagard as if he hadn't understood.

"Emperor’s Name, wake up boy!" Hagard roared as he slapped the trooper in the shoulder. The rest of the troopers jerked and looked up, awoken from their reverie of the coming storm. "You like this pipe?" Hagard repeated, pushing the pipe into the boys face. "You want this pipe? You gotta do more than just stare at me boy, you gonna hafta kill me!" He glared at the trooper, who seemed to shrink under the piercing intensity of the gaze.

Hagard pushed himself back in his seat and taking a long toke on the pipe, exhaled the foul black smoke around the already suffused cabin. Not one trooper noticed the surreptitious eyes sweeping the faces between squinted lids. "What's your name boy" Munk grumbled.

"Er... Reynolds sir." the guard mumbled. Munk barked a hacking cough and the troopers all jerked again.

"Well Reynolds, you might die soon ... you all might die soon, so I'll tell you why this damn pipe is so damn important!" Hagard paused to inhale another toke. As he spoke the tendrils of grey- black soot curled from his mouth and nostrils like the enquiring arms of an aquatic cephalopod. The chimera continued to roll and buck, more as if on a high sea that churning towards their target across a strewn battlefield. "This pipe ain't no ordinary pipe, and this tabac ain't normal either." he glanced about - there was interest now, and not a little trepidation.

"This pipe used to belong on the hand of a monster. What them mechanicus call a Tyranid Warrior. Now you boys ain't old enough to have fought Leviathan, so you ain't seen Tyranids up close. You probably scanned the pixts and herd scuttlebutt from liars who thought they seen 'em, but let me tell you different." He grimaced and removing the pipe from his mouth, held it out so all could look at the calcified claw. Reddish in tone, it was clearly taken from a mighty beast, brass had been mounted about the tip of it's vicious looking claw and the stump of it knuckle was ash blackened with extended use.

"Tyranids are ugly. They got little scamps with weevil guns that'll eat through you guts like a harronen grub. They got four armed monsters that leap on your defenses and whip claws through the gun ports, taking your friends face with dem." Munk gathered phlegm and spat a dirty glistening mark on the grilled floor. He glowered.

"They got giant monsters which stand like a space marine venerable one and spit out acid and screams as it rips through your bunker. They got all this, and they don't fear you, and they keep coming. But you know what's the most terryfying thing about those damn monsters?" He looked up and down the cabin, the troopers were all his now. The coming battle was forgotten.

"You wanna know what really terrifies the core of a man when facing Tyranids?" He paused, turning back to Reynolds. "It's the stink. Those Earth-damned sons of gonads smell like your death grandmother crawled up inside you grandfather and you gotta dig her out!" He burst into a mucus laden cackle that quickly transposed into a fit of hacking coughs. Munk wiped his mouth, "now you want this here pipe, you gonna have to get past both Pride and Joy." He patted the twin hellpistols that under slung his armpits. "Not to mention my standard hellgun - quip. Oh and my meltagun too ... I call him Blue Peter." The hellgun and meltagun's straps looped over Munk's knees. He tucked the pipe into his pocket, leaned forward and grasped the back of Reynolds neck - pulling him close. Reynolds flinched away from the scar, the hacked up features and the cancerous breath. But he could drop his gaze from the piercing ash eyes.

"You watch yourself boy, 'cause I ain't nice. I'm a nasty piece of work and I fight dirty and I win. You want my pipe, I'd give you better odds with the Tyranid." another cackle followed the first. Munk released Reynolds and looping his hellgun over his shoulder, he lifted and hefted the meltagun. The other guard stood carefully, swaying with the roll of the Chimera transports.

Munk triggered his microlink comms system and interlinked with 14 the other transports and 10 Hellhounds riding vanguard. Suddenly his voice filled the cabinspace. Rough, echoing and raw.

"Now you sons of terra, we gonna take this mechanized company and we're gonna shove our chimeras and hellhounds up these cowface xenos buttholes. I heard from Leftenant Colonel Falcon that these scum want my pipe. They do not understand pipe making or the fine art of smoking stimms. I like my pipe and they can't have it. Every one of you will kill any Xenos scum that covet my pipe. We are the Kochi 20th Light Cavalry and we do not care for the xenos learning how to smoke. Now lets kill these blighted cow heads ... Munk out, sergeant's check in, we rendez-vous in two minutes."

He clicked off the microcomm switch and the Chimera was eerily silent. After the sonorous gravelly voice, you could hear the grind and churn of the chimera tracks across the ground and in the back ground muffled bangs and the wallowing sound of subsonic explosions.

Munk glanced over at Reynolds and winked.

* * *

"Ah.....unk, move on ....ition. I a ... having some piranha toub..." Crackled the intercom. Munk hit the speaker a few times, but all he received in return was crackling radio static. Through the pict viewer he saw the approaching expanse of what could only be Tau Hill.

It was well named. Piranha fast attack vehicles swarmed about its peak, strafing clusters of rubble from which the sporadic tattoos of red line lasrifle fire sniped. From the mount to its base, armoured Tau and birdlike Kroot swarmed over the strategic mound. Fusion and pulse weapons blazed from layer upon layer of carapace shelled bodies. A roughshod melee of bodies filled the summit and at an epicentre weapons, arms and bodies whirled in a fearsome ruck.

A frantic figure in the uniform of the Strategio Commissariat was fighting his way up the mound. He had plunged recklessly into the mass, a glistening power sword hacking at the armoured heads and necks of adversaries as he cleaved his way to the summit. trailing behind him, battle worn and blood weary cadians staggered forward in support of his lunatic charge. Short stocked bayonets dark with the sticky ichor of alien blood. It was impossible to tell whether the commissar was attempting to rescue the Deamonspawn or striving to administer it’s demise.

Either way, it was a mess.

"No one's helming this tub, and they're playing in the rigging while the rocks kiss our keel." Hagard mused to himself, scratching his three days growth of grey black mottled stubble. It was clear that this battle was in its last moments, and despite the desperate acts of a valiant few, it was the last desperate punch delivered before the true weight of the Tau fell.

"Lucky for them the 20th is in the last minute business.” He mused to no-one in particular. He triggered his intercom, all channels.

"Huntpack Alpha: flank left and vent those Tau. Huntpack Beta: flank right, I want concentrated fire, rout those Tau and isolate the hill. Chugs are up front and centre, target those blasted skimmers. Branch out and form a firebase at the Colonel’s position. Watch your spacing and go spare with the ammunition, we got friendlies up there."

He paused and glanced around at the apprehensive faces about him. "Kochi Regulars, I want a gun line drawn up. Get good position at the firebase and deploy the heavy weapons. Kochi Irregulars, you are with me. Advance in cover formation, find and secure Colonel Falcon - secure the hill. Driver, give us a ten second heads up. Emperor’s Grace. Munk out." he clicked off the intercom.

Munk rubbed his eyes and looked up at the troopers. "You recruits are new and that’s why I’m keeping you with me. I'm going straight up that hill and the safest place for you will be right behind me. When I get to the top of that hill, if you are not behind me, there better be a damn good reason. Dead is acceptable. Anything else and you will very sorry on a very permanent basis. Do I make myself clear.” He glowered until sure they all understand. "I will kill you if you disappointment me, do not disappoint me."

“Private Reynolds!” Munk yelled. His voiced echoed with the confined quarters. The soldier jerked in apprehension. “Mr. Reynolds, in recognition of curiosity above and beyond the call of duty you have been selected for a special duty. Step forward!” Reynolds eyes were rigid front despite being wide with withheld anticipation. Munk looked the hefty trooper up and down.

“Reynolds , you are a nosy son of a moll, and a molls get gets a molls role, you get me?” Blank apprehension replied in the negative. “You’ve earned the exclusive right to carry my standard and particulars. Now hand me your rifle.” Reynolds reluctantly unslung his rifle. Under the NCO’s piercing glare he passed the weapon across. “Now put out your hands.” Whispered Munk.

Into Reynolds left hand Munk placed a small tin box the size of a las-cartridge. Into his other hand he pushed the gnarled rouge pipe. The brass mouthpiece was smooth and chill against his hand and the Tyranid flesh rasped on his palm. Thick purple porcine hairs jabbed into his flesh and made his hackles rise.

“That there’s my pipe and tabac. Drop my tabac and I’ll take your hand.” He laughed and slapped Reynolds on his thick arm. “Before you go putting those things in your pack. They ain’t yours, their mine. You just carrying them for me. They stay in your hands and you stay with me.” He grinned maliciously and pulled Reynolds close.

“You pack them away careful, trying to steal them, I kill you. You drop them, I will kill you. I get to the top and they’re not ready for me to take a toke, I kill you. You spill my tabac, I’m just gonna hafta take your hand. You see me and the Emperor are so alike – we all just sacrifice and mercy.” He looked up and stared slowly about at the other troopers.

“Don’t be gawking and smirking at Reynolds luck, ‘cause you no hopers are watching his ass ‘cause he got my pipe.” Hagard smiled his broken leer. “and if he dies, I’ll pick the next nosy son of a moll that crosses me.” Munk sneered at the cowed troopers and hocked a lump of phlegm before spitting it on the floor. Reynolds noticed that whether on purpose, or due to the roll of the transport. The viscous mucus has splattered across his surplus size nines.

Suddenly the intercom crackled to life, shortly before the muffled but piercing shriek of the transports multilaser pulsed beyond their cacoon. “Sergeant, we have contact. Huntpack are engaged, Piranha down. ETA in ten seconds. We’re coming in hot!”

The Chimera lurched as it crashed through barracades and spun to a halt, the rear door yawing wide and crashing down. The small cabin was filled with light. Munk already had his twin hell pistols unholstered. The meltagun and hellgun slung over his shoulder. He glanced back, crooked scar forming a wicked weal across his features.

"I'd run if I were you Reynolds! And stick to me like glue." He leapt from the carrier door.

* * *

Fear gave Reynolds wings as he leapt from the rear hatch of the chimera transport, frantically trying to spot the Staff Sergeant in the maelstrom of noise, light and explosions that met his eyes. As his lurched forward towards a half built trench he staggered down on to one knee. His muscles deserting him in the face of such titanic and chaotic confusion.

The piercing shriek of multilaser fire was amplified tenfold outside of the womb of the chimeras interior. Great streaks of reddish power pulsed over his head, chasing skimming gliders that swooped and soared about their positions. As he watched aghast, two converging set of multilaser fire straffed across a skimmers bow wave and sliced gaping holes in it's flank and engines. Dirty grey smoke streamed from the breaches as the skimmer wavered and then flipped over, plunging towards the hills and knifing into the body of a xenos battlesuit aiming blue ordinance onto their position. The Piranha ploughed a furrow five metres wide and thirty long and it dragged the pinioned behemoth into the soil. Mere seconds after the impact, both vehicles erupted in blue fire, blowing tau armoured scouts and firewarriors about like marionettes.

Guardsmen streamed pass Reynolds. He tried to push himself up, but his legs wouldn't answer. He didn't feel afraid, just dull - this was all so unreal, so untrue, so unimaginable. The bodies littered about, lying broken and wasted. Within the space of mere moments, his whirring brain tried to digest the pungent meal set before it.

He stared at one corpse, desparately trying to think what might have killed it, racking his brain to comprehend and understand the enormity of the damage done. On other corpses the evidence was obvious, and in some ways that was worse. It was so real, so big in scale, deep in colour and texture, dazzling with the screams, pulses and desparate noises of combat. He felt immaterial, empty. Like a small content man, sitting on a small boat, glimpsing dimly through the lapping blue waves at the monstrous enormity of the ocean beasts that ply beneath him.

Reynolds hands gripped tightly to the tin and pipe as his mind struggled to comprehend. Bare seconds had passed when soft and sweating hands gripped under his arms roughly and pulled him forward into this carnage.

"Reynolds!" screamed a face, he thought it might be Corporal Geffin. "Reynolds, pull it together and get up that hill after the sarge." A hand came from out of the untrue nowhere and smashed into his cheek. With a giant swallow of air, the world in all its cacophany can swarming back into Reynolds senses.

"Reynolds, come on. Stick with the sarge mate or you're deader than these poor bastards!" with a yank and a pull he heaved Reynolds down the trench gulley.

* * *

Staff Sergeant Munk was enjoying himself. After leaping from the Chimera he'd darted quickly for a likely looking trench opposite. Over the singsong pulse of the Tau weaponry he could make out the higher pitch whine of lasguns. Glancing back, he noted that the majority of his transport were right behind him. Men were spilling out the transports and he noted a good proportion of veteran Irregulars following him. Reynolds was nowhere to be seen.

Munk span back and motioned the irregulars forward, covering the apex of turns with his twin pistols. The hardened veterans broke forth, scuttling forward to locations and cover spots and motioning eachother into position. He was confident they knew their part. He beckoned to the recruits and raced forward down the channel, the recruits thundering along behind him.

The large squad of Tau pathfinders had clearly flanked Falcon's position and they strove dilligently to set up some sort of marker weapon on the back of the commanders position. Around the bend in the trench, Munk could hear the sing song voices accompanied by a curious chittering, like nervous laughter.

Motioning to the recruits to be silent, he indicated the teams plasma gunner up front and motioned for the guard to take the right side of this wide trench. Munk holstered one of his hellpistols and drew a frag grenade from his belt. Glancing quickly one last time, he primed the grenade and threw it as hard as he could, aiming for the apex beyond the Tau's position.

The grenade exploded, blowing a significant hole in the side of the far wall. The pathfinders immediately responded with heavy calibre pulse carbine fire. Stattaco whoomps bursting through the dust and smoke. Munk drew his hellguns and motioned the squad to move. Silently they sprinted right of the Tau's position, spreading out along the line.

Munk accelerated around the corner and with a great roar, pounded towards the Tau. His twin hellpistols, Pride and Joy were extended forward. The first burst of fire caught the rear most Tau across the back and calves. The lighter rear armour seered up in weal as the overpowered hallpistols carved heavy wounds into the xenos legs. The Tau squealed and twisted backwards, it's own carbine blowing of its leg whole as it heaved to the floor.

The other Tau span, but Munk was already jinking back and forth, trusting his own senses over the Tau's. He caught another Tau in the face, blistering his armour and forcing the soldier back. He saw the shot which caught him, but there was little he could do to avoid it, he flinched instintively as the pulse clipped his shoulder plate an span him about. He flung out his arms, hell pistols spinning away as he fell heavily into a muddy crater.

Through squinted eyes, he focused on the Tau as they scanned the area, searching for further targets. With nothing obvious they inched forward towards his position. Munk slowly eased his hellgun over his head and took aim at where he felt the Tau would aproach.

Nervous chittering and singsong talk bounced back and fourth. The sergeant depressed his microswitch and whispered "Ready to fire in five." At which point several things happened at once.

From behind his position in the crater, a distraught Reynolds appeared clutching his tokens. His steps faltered as Tau pulse rifles raised. Corporal Geffin grabbed his arm to pull him back into cover, Reynolds ducked his head and charged. Grinning, Munk said "Open fire!" and spat a gob of spit that swirled black in the muddy water.

* * *

They found Lieutenant Colonel Falcon four minutes later. The Colonel was overviewing the deployment of the Kochi Irregular reinforcements, standing atop an outcrop now that the Tau Piranhas had been driven off. Kochi Grenadiers stood guard about Falcon, their hellguns pulsing.

Hagard stepped up to the Colonel and saluted. Falcon turned slowly and examined the grizzled veteran Sergeant. He was covered in mud from the neck down, a great gouge was carved out of his shoulder guard, and a frantic looking trooper stood over his shoulder clasping was appeared to be a pipe.

"Staff Sergeant Hagard Munk reporting for duty Sir!" Falcon studied Munk's face, in repose it was almost more fiendish. A great pale dead scar. "We can confirm that the trenches behind are now clear, Kochi Regulars are now moving foward to fortify this position."

Falcon grimaced at the smell coming off Munk, he pointed his boltgun at Munks broken carapce paldron. "I hear you've been playing quickdraw with pathfinders, Munk, any luck?"

Munk grinned his broken leer. "Oh sir, That'd be Reynolds here, he does like to play with his food. Anywhich way, those Tau can't hit anything that moves quick, and I'm quick."

"Hear you cheated, Munk." Falcon looked amused.

"Would you want it any other way sir? Care to take the hill sir?" Munk asked, reaching for his pipe.