Channeling the Master

The Imaginary Crowd is settling well back into civilian life. Except for their propensity for military marches, drilling up and down the square (where they found a square I have no idea), and random war games that is. But on the whole its going pretty good. I tell ya a man could get used to being constantly saluted. Although the chickens are refusing to conform to it. Insolent little bastards…

Anyway, today I have a gift for you. An extra blog that I was not planning to put out but which gouged its way into my mind for me to share with all y’all happy and imaginary peoples.

I’m not quite sure what or why it is. Could be because I’m rereading Salvation’s Reach. It could be because the man’s a freakin’ genius when it comes to writing Warhammer 40,000. I don’t know and I’m not really sure its important that I know. All I know is that today I was channelling the spirit of Mr. Dan Abnett today and to my astute readers who happen to actually read Mr. Abnett’s stellar works (all three of you) you might notice some familiarity in tone with this little writing sample. Incidentally if you are unaware who Dan Abnett is and are scratching your heads at this little display of hero worship he can be found at www.danabnett.com. Check him out. He’s well worth your reading time.

As I was writing today I noticed that my writing had a bit of the Abnett flare (although probably at about a tenth of his awesomeness).

So without further ado read and enjoy:

The thunderhawk banked towards a deserted edge of the city. Black figures darted out from the buildings, furtive and hooded. Touching down, hydraulics hissing, pops sounding from the stressed hull, Matthias Trench approached the thunderhawk.

He raised his lasgun towards the descending ramp, hating himself for having to do so. Five massive figures exited the gunship. They stepped straight out of Imperial legend and onto the waterlogged soil of Destrov.

Trench made the sign of the Aquila. The Astartes ignored him.

Helmets tracking for any threat, the Astartes examined their surroundings. Satisfied that the landing zone was as secure as it could be, the marine with blue markings banged on the side of the thunderhawk. The gunship’s engines whined as they spooled up.

Protests sputtering from his lips, Trench approached the nearest marine. His eyes slid over the unremitting black of the Astartes’ armor. Helmets of an obviously xenos design hung from bronze chains. A wicked device encased one gauntlet. Trench felt unmanned with sudden fear. The red eye lenses of the marine’s helmet swung to look at Trench.

The Resistance member made the sign of the Aquila again. Cocking to the side, the marine examined the man before him.

“Speak.”

The word emerged harsh and deep from the helmet’s vox grille.

Questions tumbled through Trench’s mind. Only one made it past his lips. He regretted it immediately. “Where are the rest of you?”

“We’re it,” the marine said, laughter hidden in the machine buzz.

Another of the marines approached. Upon reaching them, the marine, armored in blue and gold and black extended his massive hands in the sign of the Aquila. Trench’s eyes darted back and forth between the two Astartes. Another question left his mouth. He regretted this one too. “What if you aren’t enough?”

“Then we will fail,” the blue armored marine answered. The Resistance member’s eyes locked on the sigil of the Ultramarines, finally recognizing something on one of these armored giants. His mind seized on it like a drowning man on a piece of flotsam.

A new marine approached, his armor dripping with bestial totems and fur fetishes. “We will not fail little man,” the newcomer said. He was far from reassuring.

“Five will be enough,” announced a new voice.


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