Dark Saint
Group: Disciples Of Chaos
Posts: 118
Member No.: 48
Joined: 15-September 07
|
A SHADOWED MARTYR
Foreword
You hold in your hands the autobiography of the Lord Caerolion. For you to be holding this, you most likely know who I am, but for those few who come into possession by other means, allow me to introduce myself. I am a Captain in the Night Lords Legion, once a member of the Legios Astartes, Lord of the 13th Grand Company, known and feared by many as the Nights Templar. I am a scion of the Night Haunter, and to some called the Dark Saint, His representative, the Saint With No God.
I, and my fellow warriors of the Night Lords, am regarded as Traitors by those who cast us from them, hated by those that betrayed us. But this is not the time for that story. Yet.
It is for this reason that I have written this, to remind those of my brethren of what we are, of what we once were. To give the Vengeful Crusade its meaning once more, as we march on Terra, to cast out those who cast us out, to bring low those who trampled us into the dirt, and to take from our oppressors what was taken from us. Purpose. A home. Family. Life.
But for that story to be truly understood, you must know where we came from, who we came from. It is for that reason that this book, this memoir, shall begin with the tale of a young boy who went on to lead a part of the biggest Crusade this galaxy has yet seen. The story of a night-shrouded world, and the hope that still resided amidst the snow-bound spires.
Introduction
Nostromo
Primus
M.30997
“So, runt. You going to apologise to my friend here? You hurt his feelings saying all that about not giving your money over. We just wants to be friends, and we think that sharing is the best way of showing your friendship there is. So we’ll ask your again, give the cash. Oh, my mistake, this time we weren’t asking!”
The 2 kids kept lope towards me in the back-street alleyway, the predatory grins on their faces showing their excitement at finding a kid smaller than them walking the streets of Primus after close-hour alone. I’d stupidly held a guilder-cred in my hands, the status that one crest held being the equivalent of a beacon to the criminals I was bound to encounter. Fortunately for me, it was just 2 stringy kids that found me, and nothing heavier. These guys probably have nothing more on them than a knife, possibly an auto-pistol so badly kept that it’s more likely to shoot them than me. I can take them; I’ve dealt with their kind before
“Well, guys. You see, I would share, but your ugliness might get me thrown out of any place I want to use this in, and you using it’ll get it snapped. I mean, this place might be dirty, but at least we’ve got standards. Tell you what though. As I’m such a caring guy, I’ll go buy some bags you can put over your heads, and then we’ll talk again.”
Even if they do beat me up, the look on their faces made it worthwhile. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone go so red with anger in such a short time.
“You little brat!” The one who’d spoken earlier, a lanky kid of around 17, grabs a knife from one of his many pockets, while the other slips on some home-made knuckle-dusters. This’ll be fun. Knife-boy walks up to me, putting a gloved hand on my shoulder, his face now slightly calmer, replaced by the calm expression of a seasoned street-fighter.
“It looks like we’re going to have to teach you a lesson now, doesn't it?” Before he can lunge with the knife, my hand grabs his wrist, my nails digging into a pressure point, drawing blood. Screaming, he drops the knife, which I kick away into the gutter a few metres away. No time to grab it now. Stumbling backwards, he backs into Knuckles-boy, who seems to have slightly rethought this. Knife-boy gives him an encouraging kick in the ass, and Knuckles-boy strides forward, to begin round 2 of our little contest.
Entering the fight with a right hook, I barely dodge the powerful punch, and the rivets attached to his home-made weapon graze my face. Spinning backwards from the hit, I use the momentum to backfist him as he tries to follow through, and I hear the crack of a broken nose. Screaming in rage, he shoves me onto the ground, blood flowing from his new look, and tries to kick me. It was lucky he pushed me over, as a bar of metal held by knife-boy swings through where my head just was, and just above knuckles-boy’s head as well. He must have used the time to grab another weapon, and get behind me.
Lying in between two pissed off kids, I kick my feet upwards into the gut of knuckles-boy hard and roll over, just in time to dodge another swing by knife-boy. Jumping to my feet, I run to put the retching knuckles-boy between myself and my other would-be robber, to give me some room against his new weapon. He starts walking forwards, spewing insults at me, the standard practice of any street-dweller. Looking around quickly, I spot the knife behind him. Great, apart from the fact that it’s behind him.
I lunge forward, using my momentum to roll under his guard, and run out into the main street, and grab the dropped knife. Shoddy quality, little more than a sharpened fragment with one end bound in grox-leather. Still, a knife is a knife, and they’re a damn lot better than fists in a fight. Now to show who this guilder-cred belongs to. Remembering back to my previous lessons with a knife, both official and unofficial, I spin it to face point-down, and slip into a fighting stance, knife held in my back hand. Calmly, I let them come to me.
Knuckles-boy decides to come in first, trying to get some payback for my change to his features, and rushes in, lunging with a right-handed punch at me. No technique whatsoever… With one graceful movement, I step backwards to the left, and swing my knife upwards, carving a line in his bicep, staining his already stained clothing crimson. His momentum getting the better of him, I let him continue forwards, the force of his punch carrying him past me, and turn to my right this time, to slam the knife-blade into his side. Bad quality it may be, but at least it’s sharp. Just as I pull the blade out, he goes down, probably with a punctured lung. Blood drips from my knife, and pools from the figure on the ground, darkening the dirty brown of the snow into a dark red.
Before I can turn back, the metal bar of knife-boy slams into my head, and I fall onto knuckles-boy. While I lie there stunned, he kicks me in the ribs, over and over, while I double up. While I lie on the ground, unable to move, he takes the time to walk over and grab the guilder-cred I dropped when the fight began, casually dropping it into his pocket, before walking back over.
“Well, hopefully this taught you a lesson, so next time you’ll be a good little runt and respect your elders and betters, right? Right?” He follows up the second question with another kick in the ribs. Before he can follow this one up with yet another, I force my arm upwards, and push the knife home, deep into his thigh. Screaming, he drops to the ground, the kick forgotten, reaching for the jagged spur of metal lodged in his leg.
Shaking and achingly, I rise from the ground, the pain making me almost gag. While he still writhes in pain, grasping the blade, I reach down for the pipe, and heft it two-handed.
I gasp, “Well, I have learnt a lesson. You guys aren’t my betters. Hopefully next time you’ll respect that…” The pipe crunches downward, ending his agony.
Staggering out from the alley into the main street, I notice for the first time the crowd of people that had gathered to watch the spectacle, yet another street-scrap to take their attention away from the darkness of their lives. Jokingly, I bow theatrically to my audience, my performance ended, and watch as they begin to continue on their way, their spectacle ended. Soon enough they’ll find another. On Nostromo, such things are as common as the dark we’re bathed in. The only question is how soon, and whether or not it will involve you this time.
Soon the all-so-common acid rain begins once more, forcing me to run to the cover of a nearby store, the decaying wood providing some shelter. What initially started as a light downpour of the toxic water soon becomes a torrent, pouring down from the dark, greeny-brown skies. Nearby, a gutter-child running to get out of the rain slips, and lies in the middle of the street, the acid burning its skin. Much as I want to help, I don't want to get burned either, so I'm forced to watch. My dilemma soon ends when a carriage rolls past, trampling the child, and providing me with a means to return home rather than waiting out the storm, hoping the wood will hold under the deluge. Yelling to the driver, his body shrouded in a hooded cloak, I wave my arms to get his attention. Sometimes those hoods can prevent more than the rain reaching their eyes and ears, damn cab drivers... Fortunately he (I assume it's a he) notices me, and directs the grox-beast towards me, the acid rain rolling off its skin.
Running to the curb, I hurriedly open the doors and jump in, slamming the door behind me. Not quick enough to escape the rain, I can hear hissing from my hair, the rain starting to eat away at it. Reaching down to the floor, I grab the chemical bottle kept in all cabs, and pout some of it over my head, neutralising the acid. Sighing with relief, I fall back into the plain metal seats, causing a twinge of pain to arc through my battered body. I look up, to see the driver staring at me through the glass window, wordlessly asking me where I want to go.
"To the Estate Caerolion, man. You'll get paid, don't worry." Seeing that I don't pull a gun on him, the driver's arms shift, putting away something out of my view, probably a gun. Turning back to his animal, he raises the reigns, and soon we're trundling slowly on the way back to my estate.
|
A Shadowed Martyr, an autobiography
