The battle field was trodden to sooty mulch. Craters from countless shellings of mortar and artillery assaults ground out what was left of the topsoil, including stone and rock, skulls and limbs covered the ground. The grime of terror and war ravaged the land, along with organs and shredded flesh. The guardsmen stood alone, the last of the 15th Siege Legion of the Arnic Manslaughterers. His grimy, tattered, crimson, steel studded Trench-Jerkin was torn from his left thigh up to his ribs, revealing rusting, broken adamantium chainlinks, his hood was torn off and sealed off a cut on his arm. His Hot-shot lasgun was smashed to smithereens against countless Orks, the whole of it was loose and cracked, his waterlogged battery was almost depleted. His Pot helm was battered and bent. His platoon was dead, as was his entire force, his comrades lay around him, shot to death. He heard in the distance a sound he feared, but he stayed stationary, not leaving his post until he was ordered by his first appointed superior officer of his platoon, and since he was dead, he had, by Arnic tradition, commandeered his post until his death.
The greenskins ran in hard, under the fierce biting pound of massive war drums and ivory tusk bugles, gretchins playing large bone flutes on the backs of warriors charging their way forward. Some Orks came in with Shootas and Battlewagons of Symphony, blasting melodies of war and disunity, their monstrous engines were their metronomes of horror and anger. Most of the Ork Boyz came in with Choppas and Club-horns, their half-alive victims of several Arnic infantrymen dragged away in the cover of night from no-man’s land, screamed into their mouthpieces, playing the symphony of pain. This was the Gorgegashers Clan, a long time running enemy of the Arnic forces within Segmentum Pacificus of the Milky Way Galaxy. The Guardsman braced himself for the kill, and fired his last shot into the approaching horde, He dropped his lasgun to the ground, muddy blood-water splashing onto his pants, be embraced the will of the Omnissiah, of the Emperor. As the horde approached, he grew deaf, for what was the bleating sound of the Gorgegashers, was now the roar of holy war cries and sacred litanies, and the bellowing gurgle of Bolter fire. He opened his eyes, and he was struck nearly blind. In the glory of what he beheld, was that of the living Monsignor Fieldmarshall of the Order Tetonius of Puritania Corps from the Gloam Strikers, Abinn Dagoe. His Astartes armor, quartered black and gold, shown greatly with the magnificent aura emanating from his Iron Halo, his long loincloth that draped over his armored legs, unsoiled, brazen, magnificent. His Bolt pistol fired angrily into the crowd in front of him, he himself facing hundreds alone, Abinn himself seemingly revived by the Emperor’s powers, or by chaos. He was glorious, reincarnated from his nearby grave, a great Ork assault killed him days ago, smashed under the treads of a Ork commandeered Baneblade. He magazine ran out of ammunition, he tossed it aside. He walked passed the guardsman with his fists at his sides, and strode into battle. As he was nearly at the enemy, he burst into a divine rage, and began, with his fists alone, to beat down every vile xeno his eyes peered. Each swipe of his arm, each bouldered hit from his steel fists smote down each Ork with a single stroke, bullets scraping and ricocheting off his armor, scratching his paint, denting his armor unsuccessfully. He picked up an especially large Gorgegasher, and split his jaw sunder from his skull, and began to beat it upon the head of a nearby Mekboy, breaking his armor and splitting apart the steel and sinew with each harmonic blast, a bleating beat of war drums sounded from his hits, his voice like a harmonious gregorian choir, his movement graceful, at peace. Soon many orks overcame him, and he toppled them over, stomping in the face of one, and breaking the other’s neck with his hand, and swung its body into the others watching and waiting to jump in, and fatally try combat with the angle of Arn. As the horde drew greater around him, the Guardsman, whose entire existence was forgotten by the warband, saw that the glow of the Marine slowly died. As the Orks enveloped him, and their axes chopped into his suit, he did not cry out, he did not flinch, he only continued to kill and be killed. The light died, and as so did the fallen marine, so was the Guardsman
spared, and for the rest of his life, he was a travelling prophet of the the holy Gospel of Arn, priest of Steel and righteous anger.
I am Caleb Tackett, I am a hobby writer, and I enjoy writing Grimdark Science Fiction and Fantasy. I am currently attending college and am searching for a job. I am Odinist. I enjoy heavy metal, black metal, folk and pagan music in general, and I like to cook. One of my other hobbies is miniature painting and my focused subject in that area is Warhammer 40,000 miniatures and Warhammer Fantasy miniatures. I enjoy sketching and painting as side hobbies also, mainly vehicles, weaponry, armor, and nature scenes. I like reading dark literature and I enjoy political and scientific debate. Some of my favorite authors are Arthur Desmond, Cormac McCarthy, and Ray Bradbury.