Introducing some comic relief/"more in touch with the world" characters. Through these guys I'm going to explain the tides of battle to the reader, and give information that might be a real pain through Andron, Aureleth, and Eruwen. More characters might come, but these guys will be featured in the future as well. Don't worry, I'm going back to the three main ones soon. I've just had a LOT on my plate with finals (summer session at college ended), going back to college (in a week), my instrument rating (Flying), and other obligations (DayZ and the Planetside 2 Beta). Thanks so much for reading in advance, and I hope you enjoy this rather fresh breath of air and a change of pace from depressing/moral dilemmas to more lighthearted (while still grimdark) things. Aaaanyway I hope you enjoy. I like these characters, as I think it shows another side of how people cope with war and the way it affects them.
The fires had spread. Over the preceding several days fighting had intensified in the confines of the city, during which Imperial forces had managed to push through a fraction deeper into the urban sprawl. Columns of thick, black smoke rose from various sources scattered across the landscape, obscured behind and below spired buildings, some broken and burnt, others maintaining their majesty in the face of war. Through the streets advanced Imperial forces, seeking to oust the Eldar defenders. Fighting was somewhat sporadic in nature, however, consisting mostly of ambushes, hit-and-run attacks, and skirmishes between small forces that came into contact almost by chance. Beneath the towering spires and curves of the city of Korvashil, designated by the Imperial forces as "Thunderhead" due to its tactical importance as a staging area from where attacks could be mounted, rested an armored convoy as its commanders coordinated their next move. Among them was a squad of Guardsmen who had been disconnected from their unit in the suburbs before finding their way back to their parent company. They sat against the hull of a Chimera and on emptied ammo crates whose contents had been loaded into the troop carrier's weapons moments earlier.
"Why, in the Emperor's holy name, are you cleaning your long-las, Eyes?"
Bren Darmerth continued to diligently maintain his treasured long-las, ignoring for the likely hundredth time his comrade's shot at his perceived "questionable for qualification as a marksman" shooting abilities. His long-las lay field-stripped in front of him, its major components still assembled but exposed enough to be serviced as he peered down upon it with sunken eyes in a hairless skull. On his remotely aquiline nose rested thick-framed spectacles with thick lenses that distorted his eyes noticeably when looked at from in front.
"We've already told you it's not the rifle," Krell Merthlow pressed. He was rewarded with a venomous glance from the sniper, who had been given the sarcastic nickname "Eyes" because they felt it necessary to remind him that it would not have made a difference if he had none.
"I could hit you from here you prick," Bren replied with a smirk, drawing laughter from the rest of his squadmates. It was true, he knew, that he was by no means the best of marksman, but he didn't necessarily choose his job. He held the firm belief, however, that when it counted most, he made his shots despite numerous misses on most other occasions. Though he often was the butt of jokes regarding his skills, or lack thereof, Bren's comrades knew that when it counted, he would make the shot. What they did not know was exactly how he did so.
"I dunno, that has to be at least four feet, Bren," Krell replied, providing another burst of energy to the laughter that had been dying.
"Gak you," Bren muttered, exasperated but failing to hide the amusement in his voice.
Krell turned to Johlem Hroken, a hulk of a man who stood at nearly six feet and four inches. Johlem had a face gnarled from innumerable fights with anything ranging from drunken brawlers to his notorious battlefield fistfight with a Gretchin whose humorous and deadly results were talked about even years after it had happened.
"Say something about me," Johlem rumbled, "and I'll shove that vox so far up your ass you'll transmit everything you say. And knowing how much you gakking talk, you wouldn't last long until Commissar Broden put a bolt in your eye." He stared down the smaller man, straining to keep a neutral expression. He nearly succeeded, but after six years of service together they could all read each other with ease. Laughter erupted among them again.
"Sergeant's back," muttered Rahm Tristos, an average-sized man in his early twenties with sharp features and layer of stubble covering the lower half of his face.
Sergeant Merl Dolan took a seat next to Krell before laying a dataslate on a small ammo box between all of them. He pressed a button on its control panel and waited the several required seconds as power was given to the screen. It flickered several times before warming into life, displaying a glowing green map of Thunderhead.
"Just talked with Commissar Broden, and I've got our itinerary for the next couple of days." The occasionally flickering green image enlarged itself, focusing on a row of triangles indicating the position of their convoy. "This," he paused, "is us." He reached down to the display and turned a dial, widening the field of view to encompass more of the battlefield. A sharp red line cut the city nearly in half, the area on one side of it the same hue as the line itself representing the Eldar forces being larger. "As of now, we are still at a slight disadvantage against hostiles in this area. The 3rd and 5th regiments have been pushing all day, but are being met with heavy resistance here," a red "X" appeared slightly into the green area of the field, along the line. He took a moment for them to comprehend the slew of information he was putting out.
"We have also marked any sites of combat within the past twenty-four hours. Those blinking are still active as of the report I just received ten minutes ago." Among a slew of marks that had appeared along and near the front, with a considerable amount deep behind friendly and enemy lines, most were blinking. "We're at a stalemate here, and it's our job to break it. The 12th Dimian Brawlers are currently locked in a skirmish with hostile forces roughly five miles east of here. That's where we're headed. They're getting pushed back and without reinforcement the xenos bastards stand a chance of pushing through. But," he smiled coyly "we won't let that happen. We're moving out in a half hour, sync your chronometers to mine. Right now it's 14:23. We've got this place split in half, but in urban warfare you all know that doesn't mean a warp-damned thing. These grox bangers are fast, and we've all seen how they can pop up anywhere." He indicated the dataslate, which proved his point with its plethora of markings indicating fighting that was in reality all over the city, and not along the front, which had really been placed there more as a subconscious indicator of their perceived progress in securing Thunderhead than anything else. "Any questions?" He addressed the nine others in his squad.
Krell voiced his, silencing anyone who might have been considering doing so at the same time. "Is there any word on our push out of the west end of the docks?"
"Yes, actually, there is. I haven't heard much as it's not necessarily relevant to us at this time, but it's a lot of the same everywhere: deadlock. We still don't even know if they're deploying their full forces, however given the size of this place I fear that they might not be. Commissar Broden said he'd keep us posted on overall progress, so I'll send it to you as I get it. As of now, though, the West is stalled, but we're gaining ground out of the South. As for us in the East, well you know what it's been like. Twenty miles that way," he indicated the direction of the Dome of Falling Skies, and the stalemate that had been there for nearly a week, "not a damn thing has moved in the past few days. We gained a bit of ground a few days ago but they pushed back, and we're back to where we started. Those plains out there are empty except for any reinforcements that might be on their way to the front. If we can capture Thunderhead, it will be a point from which we can stage a flanking attack on their front. That's our job, and that's what we're gonna do."
Silence settled amongst them as they contemplated their duties. They were to be thrown into the jaws of death in the name of purifying the galaxy of the xenos taint that threatened to destroy them. They would fight diligently and with fierceness that could be matched by no other. They were one with the 82nd Jovian Roughnecks, and between the ten men that sat in a circle, as friends, brothers, and cogs in an unstoppable war machine, they would overcome any obstacle put in front of them. They steeled themselves, understanding that despite their courage, there was always the chance that some or all of them might die that day.
Sergeant Merl Dolan, veteran of numerous campaigns, a man who had the lives and deaths of many credited to his name, sat and stared at the map displayed on the flickering screen. The war was almost at a stalemate, but they were slowly making progress. As far as he knew, the battle raging in space fared similarly. With a fleet of over a thousand ships, he would have thought that they could have crushed any naval force they went against. What he found most surprising about their situation, however, was that they were aboard a planet-sized vessel. Though it was technically all naval warfare, and they were boarders on a naval vessel… it was just so massive. He looked at the sun, the clouds, the sky… The fact that there was even a sky to begin with was absurd.
Johlem preferred to carry a heavy stubber, and though its weight was considerable, it had saved his life and that of his squadmates more than once. It was an older pattern weapon, its age showing cosmetically, but he felt it gave the venerable weapon character, also making for a nicer background on which to notch the lives he'd taken with it. As it stood, the entire left face of the receiver was covered in tallies. He kept its internals working flawlessly, however, which he again inspected at a glance before reinserting the belt of stub rounds and racking the bolt with a resounding series of arrhythmic clacks. He smiled at the sound. He glanced up at Bren, who was still meticulously cleaning his long-las. Johlem almost felt compelled to laugh at the sight.
"So," Krell broke the silence that had settled between them, and much to the Sergeant's visible despair. "Is there any word on when the rest of our forces are going to land? And do… do you think they'll even summon the Astartes?" His voice had become reverent at the mention of the most elite warriors humanity had to offer, taking on a softer and more quiet tone, absolutely lacking of its usual sarcastic wit.
"No clue," Dolan answered with a sigh. "I certainly pray so, but right now we have to tip the scales at least somewhat in our favor. The Astartes might even be used as a spearhead for doing so. If I find out, I'll be sure to let you know."
Krell nodded before taking a drink from his canteen. Mid-gulp, the container still tilted back, he stopped and glanced in Bren's direction. He was still obsessively scrubbing away at the focusing lenses on his long-las, and their already nearly immaculate surfaces had begun to squeak as he rubbed them with a cloth. Each pass he made emitted a barely audible squeak that had slowly been intruding into their range of awareness, and over the course of a moment, they all, one by one, stared at Bren's hands. Not a word was said, as their minds became drawn in by the maddeningly hypnotic nature of the repetitive sound. Johlem was the first to free himself of the spell.
"I swear on the Golden Throne itself if you don't stop that I'll replace your eyes with those lenses." His low rumbling voice brought the others back into reality, who simply waited for Bren's likely amusing response.
"You'll thank me one day. When it matters most, this thing'll work." Bren retorted with confidence.
"We all know the long-las works, Bren," Johlem replied, stressing the reference to the weapon.
"Frag you."
Krell interjected. "It's at least eight feet to him, Bren!" A moment of escape was once again created in the form of laughter erupting among them as they shared a bit of solace. They were trained to be fearless, with the hearts of warriors and courage given to them in service of the Emperor, but even they needed ways to maintain their sanity. Everyone did. And those that couldn't quickly found themselves lost in the hell that surrounded them. It was a funny thing, the relationship between squadmates. It transcended friendship, brotherhood, and every other kind of coexistence one could make with another, however it exhibited aspects of all of them as well. They knew each other's' emotional and personal "weaknesses" and exploited them to no end. Normal people would probably kill one another after a short period of such a relationship, however it only strengthened theirs. They were a group of friends, fighters for a common cause, and brothers in arms.
"What about air support?" Bren was curious as to any reinforcements the might have been receiving, his chronically quasi-paranoid nature taking control of him at the moment.
"It's us and this," he nodded down the convoy. Lately there've been issues with air superiority, though I have confidence that it will be worked out soon. Like I said, expect anything from an ambush to a full-on assault. We are going to fight, but we're also going to win."
They spent the next twenty minutes discussing the terrain and confirming that all of their weapons were at their best. When the time came, they boarded the Chimera with 12th Squad, a band of similar composition, and with a resounding metallic thud they were shut inside.
The sound of engines roaring to life ran up and down the line, and the blocky, armored vehicles jarred out of a resting state. The troops inside were rocked to the side with the force before the Chimeras rumbled onward towards their objective.
"Back into the fire," spoke one of the soldiers from 12th, a man in his early twenties, with an obvious unenthusiastic tone to his voice. Numerous grunts of approval and acknowledgement sounded above the throaty roar of the engine in response. Their respite from war had been short-lived, and only spent in planning for more war. That was the way they lived their lives; through fire and death, pain and suffering, with the camaraderie they shared to keep them alive.