Catch a fistful of sky

This is also part of a story. | March 18, 2010

Ianviur wondered where all this heavy ordnance was coming from. He knew the forces had been scattered taking the planet thanks to solar winds ruining their projected drops, but his luck in having a Bladejaw and a Lancer backing him up was unbelievable. It was then he heard the thrumming sound of Naith jump jets that seemed to cut through the grav turbines. He tossed the limp form of the strategos in one of the drooping trees and turned to see his enemy.

Their exhaust jets seemed to be as numerous as the stars as they dropped in, and Ianviur braced himself as he realised his luck had just soured.


Dragoon-Master Sergeant Kipling stopped at the second explosion, Delah pulling up sharply as well. Her large talon flexed soundlessly against the thick peat moss that was underfoot. His mirrored visor flicked towards the sound, the black mirrored surface giving no hint of the lines of information streaming on the underside. “Partner, what do you think is going on over there?” he asked as the distinctive roar of a Bladejaw followed by the bellow of an extremely pissed off Lancer echoed through the night.

Delah spoke through her vox, her voice feminine but with a quick patter. “All hell is breaking loose, Kip, is what it sounds like. I’m trying to raise whoever is over there refighting the liberation of Terra but there’s too much static in the air from the gravs going down. If that’s what it was,” she said. The allaraptor shifted, and sniffed the air towards the sound of the fighting, her nostrils flaring. “Naith blood is on the air and….There’s a little brother over there,” she said. Her talons quivered again, and she began to pick up the pace, drawn towards the blood.

They had been together long enough that Kipling knew what this meant, and grabbed the hilt that protruded over one shoulder. The blunt, narrow piece of metal seemed unremarkable for a second before it came to life, becoming a thick machete like blade with a spike protruding horizontally from the tip of the sword towards him. Perfect for chopping strikes on the back of his comrade, this configuration of the dreamblade allowed him to perform a wicked backhand if necessary. It rippled with the color of freshly spilled blood, Kipling’s emotions and battle joy being the fuel that allowed him to mold his weapon as necessary for battle.


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Paratrooper. Correctional Officer. Federal Agent. Hello world, these are my thoughts and this is my story.







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