- Joined
- Sep 10, 2018
- Messages
- 71
- Essence
- €11,313
- Coin
- ₡25,500
- Tokens
- 0
- World
- Cevanti
- Profile
- Click Here
Tracer fire ripped through the skies overhead, clouds of flak detonating and painting the evening sky black. Shrapnel descended from on high like the droppings of great, malevolent dragons, steel spoor left behind from devoured aircraft.
As poetic as the thought was, Don Isaac De Metralla felt he had moderately slighted both himself and his noble steed. Maria laid in a smouldering heap within a stand of ruined trees, her fuselage shattered and her rotors stilled. She was a good steed- she had flown him through a dozen engagements, and she hardly deserved to rest upon this foreign soil.
He'd have to have the peasants haul her home, after they won. While he was quite certain that his leg was broken, he leaned against a shattered wing as low-calibre rounds pattered off his loyal steed's armour, racking the slide of his engraved pistol. "Pablo!" He called out, reaching around the cover with his pistol as he snapped off a series of shots, answering the hail of lead with a well-aimed retort that undoubtedly felled one of the Union men beyond his vision. He returned his gaze to his faithful manservant, staring at his loyal companion through the cracked lenses of his helmet, the groundling retainer fumbling with the controls of a static-shrieking radio.
"Is The Order of the Sanguine Rose able to lend their aid?" Another burst of lead shattered against his mount's metallic frame. The distant shouts of the bearded bastards encroaching on rightful Santagrian land. The swarthy peasant opposite him removed his worn oxygen mask, shaking his head mournfully, the drooping ends of his moustache swaying against his chin. "They are earning their Martyrdom at the bridge," his companion of many years answered sadly.
There was a distant detonation in the vague direction of the bridge- some Union tank being reduced to scrap, or a particularly potent round freeing the Order from their burden of life. "Damn," Don Isaac cursed, hauling himself over the edge of the wing as he took aim at one of the approaching soldiers, a ragged blue uniform marking him as one of the particularly lowly sorts among their ranks- a squeeze of the trigger, and the man dropped, a spasm sending a sortie of shells skywards. "And the infantry?" He called back, winging a soldier and forcing them to drop the rocket launcher they were struggling to haul over on their scrawny soldiers.
He ducked behind Maria's remains as one of the man's fellows responded in kind, an errant round pinging off his crimson armour and tumbling into the earth near his broken leg, his flying leathers stained red. "Damn!" He cursed again as he ejected his magazine, fumbling for a fresh reload along his belt. Pablo carefully set to the task of loading an aged revolver, a grave expression on his face as he shook his head. His manservant opened his mouth and closed it once more, the vassal that had served him faithfully all his life struggling to find the words in this dire strait.
"My Lord- there's something I've always wanted to tell you," he said, his voice quavering. "My-"
"Save your breath, Pablo!" Isaac called out, slamming a fresh magazine home as his servant hastily raised his revolver, the crack of gunfire and a wheeze of air leaving perforated lungs celebrating his success. "You have my word as a Baron of Santagria, a Son of the Atom, and Heir to The Eternal Kingdom, that we will not die here this day!"
His sworn man gave a slow, tired nod as he settled onto the barricade near his lord, preparing to hold off the rabble of Federal Infantry until the moment of victory came upon them- or Martyrdom, perhaps. Well- either would be acceptable, he supposed.
"It's just-" Pablo swallowed, heedless of the round clattering off the steel a few inches from his head.
"My name is Pedro-"
A flash. A descent. An impact. A Martyrdom, denied.
As poetic as the thought was, Don Isaac De Metralla felt he had moderately slighted both himself and his noble steed. Maria laid in a smouldering heap within a stand of ruined trees, her fuselage shattered and her rotors stilled. She was a good steed- she had flown him through a dozen engagements, and she hardly deserved to rest upon this foreign soil.
He'd have to have the peasants haul her home, after they won. While he was quite certain that his leg was broken, he leaned against a shattered wing as low-calibre rounds pattered off his loyal steed's armour, racking the slide of his engraved pistol. "Pablo!" He called out, reaching around the cover with his pistol as he snapped off a series of shots, answering the hail of lead with a well-aimed retort that undoubtedly felled one of the Union men beyond his vision. He returned his gaze to his faithful manservant, staring at his loyal companion through the cracked lenses of his helmet, the groundling retainer fumbling with the controls of a static-shrieking radio.
"Is The Order of the Sanguine Rose able to lend their aid?" Another burst of lead shattered against his mount's metallic frame. The distant shouts of the bearded bastards encroaching on rightful Santagrian land. The swarthy peasant opposite him removed his worn oxygen mask, shaking his head mournfully, the drooping ends of his moustache swaying against his chin. "They are earning their Martyrdom at the bridge," his companion of many years answered sadly.
There was a distant detonation in the vague direction of the bridge- some Union tank being reduced to scrap, or a particularly potent round freeing the Order from their burden of life. "Damn," Don Isaac cursed, hauling himself over the edge of the wing as he took aim at one of the approaching soldiers, a ragged blue uniform marking him as one of the particularly lowly sorts among their ranks- a squeeze of the trigger, and the man dropped, a spasm sending a sortie of shells skywards. "And the infantry?" He called back, winging a soldier and forcing them to drop the rocket launcher they were struggling to haul over on their scrawny soldiers.
He ducked behind Maria's remains as one of the man's fellows responded in kind, an errant round pinging off his crimson armour and tumbling into the earth near his broken leg, his flying leathers stained red. "Damn!" He cursed again as he ejected his magazine, fumbling for a fresh reload along his belt. Pablo carefully set to the task of loading an aged revolver, a grave expression on his face as he shook his head. His manservant opened his mouth and closed it once more, the vassal that had served him faithfully all his life struggling to find the words in this dire strait.
"My Lord- there's something I've always wanted to tell you," he said, his voice quavering. "My-"
"Save your breath, Pablo!" Isaac called out, slamming a fresh magazine home as his servant hastily raised his revolver, the crack of gunfire and a wheeze of air leaving perforated lungs celebrating his success. "You have my word as a Baron of Santagria, a Son of the Atom, and Heir to The Eternal Kingdom, that we will not die here this day!"
His sworn man gave a slow, tired nod as he settled onto the barricade near his lord, preparing to hold off the rabble of Federal Infantry until the moment of victory came upon them- or Martyrdom, perhaps. Well- either would be acceptable, he supposed.
"It's just-" Pablo swallowed, heedless of the round clattering off the steel a few inches from his head.
"My name is Pedro-"
A flash. A descent. An impact. A Martyrdom, denied.
Last edited: