Because if Scythie can do it, then so can I:
The great ships slowly filled the sky, it was an awesome sight to behold, like massive, evil clouds,
shaking the very air with their noise, they bristled and bloomed, flash-burning whole columns of troops
like some vengeful act of Thor from low orbit.
The old king smiled in grim pleasure, as if hearing an invisible orchestra, 'This' he thought, 'this is the
end.' the war had stretched across the galaxy, tearing it asunder, the whole cosmos had been swept up in
it's fire and fury, factions fell, factions rose, they squabbled amongst each other like rats fighting to be
the first to drown. At first the war with the immortals had been a routine affair, the immortals allies
bearing most of the brunt, nobody realized what the immortals true intent was, that they were fracturing
the galaxy, as they had done many times over in galaxies now cold and dark and dead. “Perhaps”
ventured his Kingsguardsman, “We should have accepted their alliance when we had the chance” “That
could have been us.” piped the other, “Feasting in their undying halls.” The old king sighed, if they
had been anyone else, he would have executed them himself, for their treasonous doubt, but they were
his Kingsguard. “Do you really think” he said softly, as to a child. “That they would have let us live,
that we would not have ended up as the Akkadians did? Or the Jews?” they shuddered. The holovids of
the reports from that holocaust no doubt replaying in their minds.
The old king stood, “Fetch my armor” he commanded.
The old king ran his hand over the black helmet, it's once-glossy sheen now marred by gashes and
bullet-dents, by laser-burns and plasma blisters. It's gold stripe chipped here and there.
The Vol had held out much longer than anyone else, longer than they should have, Oh sure enough, the
other inhabitants of the galaxy had fought, fiercely and finely, the Scythians, with their mighty citadels,
which had burned immortal ships in orbit even as they were overwhelmed from the city-streets. The
Halkrons and the BIN, with their deadly heroes. But in the end all had fallen, even the mighty
Assyrians joining forces in a last-ditch effort with the 45th union, a hell of a thing to see, Assyrians and
peaches fighting side by side, trying desperately to staunch the immortal wound that bled the galaxy
But they were all gone now, dead or assimilated, it all amounted to the same, really.
In the end it was only the Vol policy of isolation that had saved them. And now, the Vol stood alone.
But they had made sure that the immortals would remember them, they had made the immortals pay in
blood, they had even retaken whole planets for brief periods, choking their streets with immortal
bodies. The old king fastened his armor about him.
The Battle raged across the field, the constant rhythm of gunfire like some insane tattoo.
Bodies littered both sides, nothing but so much meat now, the Warpigs revving, like daemons from the
blackest hells, the rail-guns crackling with energy discharge. The King moved up the field, shots
bouncing off his armor as he sprayed the killing-field with his twin SMGs. The ground exploded next
to him, an artillery sell most likely, but still he advanced. A plasma bolt cut down his last guardsman,
lightning from across the field. In the sky an immortal ship plowed into another, even as it unloaded it's
weaponry upon a third, turning all three into miniature suns. The king chuckled, the Einherjar had done
their job well. In center field, a solitary figure broke ranks, charging ahead, cutting down immortal
shock troops like a weed-whacker, the line moved toward him, and still, he fought, shots bouncing off
his armor, lasers and plasma-bolts he shrugged off like insect bites. A Vol trooper got too close to him
and was beheaded. A vacuum formed around him, a bubble of stillness in a sea of violence. A maniac
rushed him and blocked his sword mid-swing, the blades singing their ancient song, he swung again,
but the Immortal was too fast, he turned away this blow too, and grabbed the berserker by the neck.
The blood-crazed berserker writhed and railed, but to no avail. He was tossed across the field, landing
in a heap, still in the grip of his Battle-fever, he surged to his feet, making it five paces before an
artillery blast reduced him to ash.
The old king sat alone, the only living thing in an ocean of corpses. They had won, they had turned the
immortal tide back on itself.
But the cost had been far too high, in the end it had cost them everything.
And now the king sat alone, waiting for the immortal reinforcements which he knew were already en
route. They would touch down, and they would find him, and then he would die. He felt no fear, for he
had already earned his place in Valhalla, no, he only felt tired.
Tell me what you think.