Bonjour, mes amis! Since I got a grand total of *two* good review for my last story, I have now begun my own series. This, clearly is just a prologue. Please RnR, but remember to that this is just a prologue.
Merci beaucoup!
(the funny words are in French, FYI)
War never changes.
Over time, even the most vicious battles are forgotten, and buried beneath the burdened pages of history, which even then are swept aside by the forward march of time. As great wars cease, are mended, and eventually laid to rest behind an evolving civilization, an even greater war rises up to take its place. Conflict after conflict: this is the one, the only constant pattern of society. With every passing era, and indeed every passing battle, civilization always develops a new way to defend against, locate, and destroy the enemy. However the brutal, primitive art form that was war was ultimately the same vicious orgy of destruction, only between different empires, and with even more barbaric weaponry. This was unalterable: neither the unpredictable progress of society, nor even the unhindered march of time could stop this one, this constant rule.
That was his opinion, at least.
An opinion that should be respected, however. He was a seasoned warrior after all. He was an heir to a proud warrior culture, and a family that for untold generations, had spent their blood and their kin in the name of the Sangheili Republic. Over time, this legacy became a saga, which had taken the form of a carefully spun, intricate battle poem, its silken threads knowing no ends. This carefully woven poem detailed the heroism, and the legends that his bloodline had witnessed, and fought for, and now fought against.
He had taken great care to not tarnish this honor. However, it may not prove to be enough.
For seven cycles, he had fought with honor against the humans, any enemy which had known and feared the merciless light of his sword. An enemy whose competence and sheer determination he knew just as well. Just as much, he lived and fought through the great deception and betrayal of the hierarchs. In a twist of events, had joined ranks with his former enemies, and his blade had shifted its merciless gaze towards the false-prophets, and the foolish barbarians that fancied themselves as their honor guards. The face of his enemy, whether it be human, brute, or even a member of his own noble species was inconsequential, as long as its destruction furthered his prosperity, and that of the Sangheili. He lacked the patriotic fervor and blind thirst for honor that had drawn most of his kin to battle, and inevitably to their graves.
What he lacked in honor, he made up for in discipline. He rose whenever he was called upon, and completed his orders to their extent. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. His comrades had called him a machine, which was a perfect metaphor. He was a keenly sharpened sword, however he was not the one to wield it. He killed with discipline, but without remorse or conviction. That was always why he fought, and why he will fight.
That too, however, was about to change.
His white armor glistened in the glorious light of the setting sun, known to his human allies as Farsight. From the belly of the human dropship, he could see the deep chasms cascading across the majestic, snowbound surface of the planet. The last stubborn rays of light danced across the planet's snowbound plains, as the untamed winds continually churned the glistening snow. However, these trivial details were at the back of the Sangheili's thoughts, behind the current mission. The Covenant loyalist stronghold rapidly came into view, which was barely holding together under a relentless barrage of human and Sangheili artillery. Even from a distance, he could clearly see the ripples and curtains of orange and blue explosions. As expected, the Covenant defenses were soon to fall. As the primitive, though sturdy craft neared the base, it effortlessly dodged torrent after torrent of anti-air plasma. Before they could become a problem of any sort, the circling Seraph and human fighters swooped down upon the anti air defenses. The craft closed in on the nearest entrance.
The Sangheili briefly congratulated the human pilot on a successful entrance, who then acknowledged it with a curt nod. He stepped into the troop bay, where the human shock troopers were wordlessly and efficiently readying their weapons, as were his Sangheili kin. The humans were no longer staring at him with looks of either hatred, or astonishment. The Sangheili no longer chattered amongst themselves of how they would leap upon the first chance to wring the Jiralhanae chieftain's neck, or how they would personally stab the prophet himself. Nor did they bet over who would get the most kills, and whose honor would shine the most. It relieved him to see that these "elite" soldiers had some semblance of discipline before the fight. He readied his own weaponry, reactivating his HUD and bringing his shielding to full power. One piece of his equipment that he dwelled upon in particular, was his energy sword. As Sangheili energy swords always were, his was a regal, masterpiece of art. It had burned through the flesh of his enemies before, and it will again. That he knew for sure.
There were, however, several things that he didn't.
He directed his attention forward once more, where his comrades were all fully equipped, and ready for the awaiting fight.
The ramp was lowered.