( JUICY FOIP UNDER THIS CUT )

( Angels.... )

What is your life?
My honour is my life.
What is your fate?
My will is my fate.
What is your fear?
I fear nothing.
What is your craft?
My craft is death.
What is your pledge?
Service to the state, as it endures...

 Filk of Bryan Bowers "The Scotsman" - found here: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=fFzJ47hbnJs&NR=1

A Malathian clad in kilt left a bar one evening fair,
And one could tell by how he walked that he'd drunk more than his share.
He fumbled 'round until he could no longer keep ( Read more... )

The sun is just over the horizon, turning the cloud cover the colour of blood, as Horus straps on his armour for another day of training. He ponders the teachings of his God and of the Imams as he taps the buckles closed, checking and adjusting the fit. As he collects his staff of office from the rack by the door, he considers the four tenets, and ( Read more... )

"Why are you here, child?"

Horus looks at the young female standing at the barrack gates. Clad in simple robes with bedroll, pack and staff. Head covered, as was appropriate.

A look in her eyes that was not.

"Answer the question, child."

The white wemic with black spots does not meet his gaze.

"My brother has been training here, sir."

"His name?"

"Husani ( Read more... )

The character questions meme doing the rounds.

Who are you?

Gunter Eisenhiem, Siege Engineer, Musketeer. Master Seargent, Career NCO, now part of House Bakhana 33rd Assault.

2. Do you have any brothers or sisters?

Brothers in arms, perhaps.

3. How old are you?

As old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth. Best as I recall, I have seen 38 summers.

( Read more... )

( Read more... )

"Gunter-san."

The soft address drifts across his ears like a feather, barely above a whisper in the darkness. He slips from the veil of sleep and into a twilight of half-awake grogginess.

"Gunter-san, I am sorry."

Another hallucination. Another ghost. This is nothing unusual. He sees her all the time - in the shadows, out of the corner of his eye. He' ( Read more... )

January 18th 1670 : Year 9 of the Illini War.

Breakaway Station.

"So, Mr Eisenheim, would you care to tell me precisely why you shot Dr Popova with your pistol?"

Gunter stands at attention before General Schmidt, and allows one corner of his mouth to twitch into a brief smile.

"Wasn't carrying my musket at the time,  Ma'am."

"Fuck's ( Read more... )