- soulguard
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- Exalted Mythic Member
“I understand. Tell them to retreat deeper into the tunnel and verify that we have sealed it. Also tell Vornaldea to send reinforcements into the tram tunnel toward Bladra. Helm, organize our wing ships and put us directly over Bladra, and tell all ships to prepare plasma cannons.” A cold feeling crept into Timnaldee’s stomach. No other elite captain had ever fired upon Dorenth, and it pained him to be the first, but if the city was destroyed by plasma fire it would take the flood decades to dig through. The plasma cannons were perfect for this, because they melted and forged everything on the ground. The plasma cannons would melt the rocks, stone, and dirt into a polished glassy layer of sediment several meters thick. The humans called it ‘Glassing a world’ and it was a fiting title. Once they began to fire, nothing would survive.
- - - - - - - -
“This has not been a good day.” Vornaldea sighed into the communications uplink. “I can not spare any troops toward the Bladra tram tunnel, at least not now. The watchmen have turned against us and are attacking from that section of tunnels. We are cut off from supplying support until we have dealt with our young. Once we have dealt with them, we will send troops.”
Ship master Timnaldee suddenly erupted through the com line, “Say again, elder. The watchmen. What has become of our young?”
“It saddens me to say it myself, but the prophets’ lies and treachery have spread deeper then we could have ever known. They turned our young against us.”
“I understand… I will do what I can. Please… elder, if there is a peaceful way to stop the watchmen…”
“I will do what I must, Captain.” Vornaldea replied with a heavy tone. He knew what Timnaldee wanted, his child was a watchman, but by now the Mirratord was already attacking the young. The Mirratord did not discern friend from foe, they simply followed orders, and by now there would be no way of stopping them.
“Very well, I will report when the bombardment is complete.” The communication ended and Vornaldea watched as Gridolee lowered his head again.
“He was worried about his young?” Gridolee asked.
“Yes.” Vornaldea stood from his seat and walked toward a nearby table. Upon the table was a computer terminal detailing a holographic map of the Inner Sanctum. He had to prepare for the next possible step. He had to begin preparing for the possibility of the flood entering the Inner Sanctum.
- - - - - - - -
Deep blue blood stained the streets near the edge of the city. Smoldering wraith tanks outlined the distant hills of the valley. Two wounded Dabdoughs grazed on the corpses of the dead, while their tattered flags dragged behind them. Two hundred or more elite bodies littered the edge of the city, most gripping energy swords that were too heavy for them to lift. Children, lost because of the lies of a dark and sinister race. Again the prophets had mortally wounded the elites, but this time the pain was in their hearts.
Twenty Mirratord warriors, staggering throughout the battlefield, began sluggishly walking back toward the city. The blood of the young stained their armor and tears flowed down there faces. This was a battle that would never be recorded, never shared with the future youth, but it would also never be forgotten. The watchmen died so easily at the hands of the twenty Mirratord warriors, and the only elite to die was elder Dradowee. He had fought and killed four watchmen before he was overwhelmed. The elder was skilled but did not possess the skill of a Mirratord warrior.
Simyaldee walked the field and let the smell of blood fill his nostrils. He found no honor in killing the young, but this generation of watchmen was no longer followers of the elite way of life. They were pawns of the prophets, and in his eyes they were the enemy. Simyaldee was battle hardened, seen death on many worlds, and lost many comrades, but this day would still be the darkest day of his life. They were his enemies, and as second in command of the Mirratord he could not hesitate. The warriors under his command needed to take this attack seriously, and he had to lead them as if nothing mattered.
Simyaldee froze as he neared the body of a beheaded youth. He remembered the young ones whimper as he struggled to lift the plasma rifle. The young watchman was in his first year of the academy, and that meant that he was no older then eleven.
Simyaldees recalled the encounter. His twin blades were swinging with pinpoint accuracy as he sliced through a wave of senior watchmen. They were moderate warriors and had descent aim with their plasma rifles, but Simyaldee’s Mirratord shields protected him easily; he didn’t bother trying to dodge the shots. With one swing of his left hand he had cut down two of them, sending their corpses tumbling to the ground. He then jumped behind the other three and tripped them with his foot. As they fell he struck each one with his blades. The better of the three young warriors was able to dodge his first swing, and lunged at him. The young warrior died in Simyaldee’s arms as he stabbed the young watchman in mid air. It was then that he heard the footsteps of the young first year academy watchman coming up behind him. Simyaldee turned, blade ready and glared the young elite in the eyes. The first year watchmen could barely hold the plasma rifle in both hands, and as he raised the rifle he said three words;
“Prophets, protect me.”
Simyaldee reacted instantly, severing the boys head from his torso. A slight whimper left his tiny mandibles just as the blade struck his neck, and Simyaldee continued on, fighting the others without remorse.
The body still lay there, clasping the plasma rifle in his hands. Simyaldee looked for the young ones head, and then removed his helmet. A shudder filled his spine as he gazed upon the young elites face. He knew this child.
A warrior, trained to kill and obey orders. Simyaldee was the Second, the second in command and the second best warrior of the Mirratord. He was the right hand of the high council and he personally had killed more then fifty of the young watchmen; the future warriors of the elites. This child that he had slain was like a son to him, it was his best friend’s offspring and only child. Never to show emotion during battle, Simyaldee took the helmet and began to walk away from the bodies that littered the ground. As he looked up, toward the city, he could see that the females were coming out to see the dismay. Shrieks of horror filled their cries as some ran out to find their young. How many of them would be able to find their offspring amongst the dead? They were all running out to find their child, lying lifeless in a pool of his own blood, and then to know that this child was coming to kill the elders.
Sobs and moans filled the air as Simyaldee continued to walk back to the city, and before long all twenty of his Mirratord warriors had begun to follow him. Each of them held something in their hands, something they didn’t want the others to see. They each carried something that would remind them that the prophets and brutes would pay for this day. They held in their hands pieces of armor, helmets, and even weapons from the battle. But Simyaldee didn’t care, because this wasn’t a normal battle and the normal rules of looting the dead didn’t apply. He thought again and realized the he couldn’t really say it was looting. But no matter, he had his own demon to deal with in the shape of a tiny blue helmet. How would he tell his life long friend of these events? How would he tell Captain Timnaldee that he had killed his son?
- - - - - - - -
Eric and Melanie looked closer at the body, puzzled. There was no denying that it was still moving, but how? Neither of them wanted to get closer to find out, but somehow, the body of Domadree was still twitching even though his head was split and a massive wound lined his chest.
“Is he alive?” Melanie asked, gazing down at the body. The jostling footsteps of a grunt caught Eric and Melanie’s attention. Palab waddled close, his nose sniffing the air.
“He not alive, is he?” Palab questioned, but his question went unanswered. “Me see body earlier, but leave it for clean up team. It not move then.”
“We know about as much as you do, sergeant.” Melanie stated. More footsteps approached from the direction of the Tram Station doors.
“19, we contacted all squad leaders and passed on the word. The Rogue Fantasy will deploy all pelicans ASAP. We can clear out the marines within fifteen minutes. As orders, ODST will stay behind to assist us.” Justin 14 stated to the group. Beside him stood the other Black Ops and each had their weapons armored and ready.
Palab curiously looked at the group, “What happening?”
“We’re pulling out, Palab.” Eric stated as he turned away from Domadree’s body. “The flood have completely overrun this world, save for this area. I’m not going to let my men die for the elites. Once my marines have been lifted from the planet, me and the Black Ops are going to take the seed installation away from this world. You and your grunts are more then welcome to join us.”
Palab thought about it for a split second, “What need of me?”
“For now, maintain the perimeter and keep the flood off our asses. If they break in while were loading up, we’re screwed.”
Sammy 13 sighed softly, “FUBAR.” Each of the Black Ops agreed.
“What mean FUBAR?” Palab annoyingly questioned. He was eager to know what the words meant.
“Fu(ked Up Beyond All Recognition.” Melanie answered. “Basically it means we’re screwed.” Palab thought on the words and was happy to finally know what it meant, but he also knew that these words weren’t a good thing.