Bran 'Wolf' Coyle spat on the ground as he heard the order, heaving himself to his feet with a sigh. He resented this mission, though he had no right to; he was guard. Guard had to take anything their commanding officer gave to them, without complaint, without faltering, or they would die. But he didn't have to like it.
Babysitting! That was what this task was. Some bloody stupid scout had got himself bloody lost and he, Wolf, best sniper in the regiment, was going to have to look for him. It was demeaning, but at least it was a distraction from the constantly biting flies.
Wearily, he trudged over to his packs, bending to pick up his long barreled lasgun, pulling his scope from its special pocket to clip it into place. He loved his gun; half as long as he was tall, the blackwood stock polished to a shine, brass trigger carefully buffed to a gleam, the sleek deadly flash and noise suppressor like the nose of a shark, aimed at the enemy, ready to bite. Giving it a loving buff with his sleeve, he slung it over his shoulder, turned, hesitated, then returned to his packs and picked out a couple of grenades. Better safe than sorry. Checking that his knife - that beautiful knife, he had won it off the commander of a rival regiment, three years back - was safe in it's sheath, he turned, and, with a brief wave at his men, plunged into the jungle without looking to see if he was being followed. His men were was experienced scouts, they could keep up.
Delving ever deeper, he moved silently, not a leaf put out of place, not a bird disturbed, not a footprint left. Like he had never been there. Like a ghost.
He stopped suddenly, eyes intently fixed on the ground, cautious. He had seen something. His best scout, Corporal Fricks, reached him, panting slightly.
'Bloody hell, sarge. You don't mess around.' He got no response, and looked quizzically at his friend and leader. Fricks was a giant of a man, and toted a flamer which had proved immensely valuable to the squad on multiple occassions, although... Wolf raised a hand to his face, remembering the pain of the flamer's backwash, that night two years back, when they had purged a ruined building of cultists. As any good leader should, he had commanded Fricks to torch the room, but they had some kind of invisible energy shield placed in the doorway... two of his squad had burned to death, horrible, screaming deaths that he shuddered to remember. He had been lucky to survive himself, Fricks never in any harm, plastered as he was with flame-retardant gel.
That Fricks had managed to keep up with him was testament in itself to the man's strength and spirit, bearing the huge weapon and bulky promethium tanks. He looked at his Corporal with respect, then horror, reaching out a hand to pull him back as the giant stepped forward. Fricks knew better than to ask why, but obediently stepped back as Wolf raised his leg, stretched it forward as if stepping over an invisible barrier, then took a wide step, crossing to a tree nearby. He watched with puzzlement but total trust as Wolf pulled out his mono-filament knife - that deadly blade that had claimed so many enemy lives and throats, a beautiful, terrible thing - and thrust it apparently at random in the air in front of the broad, vine-wrapped trunk. There was a thunk, and a massive log dropped from the sky. Fricks stepped back, blinking. Spikes encrusted the log, crude, wooden spikes that would have impaled anyone that they hit, and thanked the Emperor that his sergeant had keen eyes. Wolf stepped towards him, grinning.
'Feral ork trap, pretty easy to deal with. These trees are crawling with the stinking bastards, I think we'll go a bit slower from now on. No-one is to pass me, understood?' By now the rest of the squad had arrived, and grim nods showed him that they understood the danger of their situation.
'Alright, lads, and ladettes...' he nodded towards Fern, the only female of the squad, who blew him a kiss in return and grinned savagely '...let's get moving.'
Last edited by Fenrix; 09-16-2008 at 01:50 PM.
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