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« on: May 22, 2013, 07:21:26 am »
HELL AT ANGEL'S HEAD
A single black silhouette appeared against a dark blue, post-midnight sky as a single bolt of lightning slashed through what had formerly appeared to be a jet black void, constricting the world with it's cold embrace. The sound of wave after wave slamming into the rocky beaches at the foot of Angel's Head provided a continuous ambient noise that obscured nearly all others near it. The moon was lost to all eyes, hiding deep within the darkest of umbra. It was this very shadow, that roaring noise and the storm that raged at sea that made this the fateful night that hell would descend upon Angel's Head.
Among it all soared the Black Omen. In tow, a team of well trained individuals with one goal in mind and the fire to see it through. At their backs, the most diverse assault, support, and security elements the world had to offer. A small fleet of men and women that couldn't seem to agree under most circumstances, but found each other's wing early one morning, before the sun could even consider rising.
-THE BURREN, ONE YEAR PRIOR
Everything rang.
Light poured in between black strands of nothingness, bringing to focus a brilliant world of heat and sand. A quiet world. That's how he determined his own proximity to Death's icy touch.
At first, he forced himself to move, and the only indication that it was occurring was the jostling of what felt like his organs within his body. It was hard to determine where he was moving to, or at what speed, but the feeling of his head bouncing off of something hard delivered his consciousness back to the moment. The light brightened. Sound returned, a deafening roar of what sounded like a million individual explosions. Whistling. Screaming.
He'd survived the initial volley. Senses returned to him, and he took in the expansive, sprawling desert before him, now crawling with enemy troops. Their advance was haphazard, and they appeared to advance in what appeared to be a bounding squad skirmishers online formation that stretched across the expanse of their hasty defense. Holes had been dug, but barely. To the far right flank of their position, still under tarp, rested the hull of a destroyed airship they'd taken down only a day prior.
The defensive layout was simple. They didn't intend to defend this position against an enemy airship; a few quick lumberjack shots and they'd be pink mist, if they weren't underground. The surface fighting positions each linked into the underground tunnel system which had been dug the day prior. They were fairly stable, as the ground composition was packed dirt, as opposed to sand. Those fighting positions were laid linear along the eastern side of a major avenue of approach; the only stable road leading through the entire expanse of the burren, created by the toil, blood and sweat of an untold number of generations. It was that avenue, and an untimely fixed site ambush, that lead to their current situation.
They called him "Charon". He was among the privileged few that had any idea what his name meant, or even came from. Most of those that fought alongside him possessed what was referred to as a "lost" name, something given almost as a placeholder until they could determine their own. Many of the men in his company were mercenaries of a different sort, having come to fight under their own terms without the burden of a banner. Their wealth depended entirely on their performance, and nothing but pain could be promised. They were a tough sort, tactically proficient and technically invested.
The ringing had subsided. Charon's eyes swept over his defensive positions, referencing the position of the enemy ahead to them. His mouth opened wide, his lungs constricted and he barked to his haggard men "Eskadro, rekta fronto! Malliberulino plotono en la malfermita! 500 metroj! Fajro al volo!".
His squad trained on the enemy unit directly to his front, but it wouldn't be enough. There was enough microterrain ahead to ward off a squad's fire, even though the enemy was barely organized into squads themselves. They couldn't risk leaving the position to begin maneuvering until the enemy closed in, and those fires were raining in hard.
It was then that he noticed the airship on the horizon.
A thunderous volley screamed in, round after round of hot metal pouring into the parapets of his defensive positions. Dirt cascaded through the air at high speed, pelting his cheek and neck. It didn't move him from his hole. His guts were tight, wrenching against themselves.
There is a moment many speak of in which a man sees the designs of his enemy and is powerless to fully stop them.
His mind raced. Anti-armor rounds had been nearly exhausted, and remaining stores would be nearly ineffective without the employment of the whirlwind they'd salvaged off of the downed airship. The tunnels would be a safe bet, were it not for the enemy ground troops on advance from the front. This was a combined arms dilemma he might not be capable of countering without extreme casualties.
There was only one chance to do this.
Charon called for an increase in suppression on the right flank of the enemy's advance, and received it in moments, following the loud, effective relay of his order. The right flank of the enemy's advance had all but come to a halt as those fires crashed into, and all around the men that composed it. It was at that moment that Charon jerked a dirt encrusted field phone from its base and spun the crank that supplied it with a quick burst of power.
"Give 'em the Whirlwind. Sound the FPF."
Within seconds, the heavy canvas tarp covering their prized possession came unfurled, revealing a pair of Whirlwind Gatling guns, and a forward Hellhound Carronade. All three weapons had been painstakingly aligned and mounted to deliver heavy fires across the front of their defensive position, in order to inflict the heaviest possible casualties on an advancing force. In recent months, steps like this had been all but a formality. Today, they were a reminder that paranoia and readiness sometimes grasped hands tightly and skipped down the street together.
The Whirlwind began to spin. A fiery stream of tracers tore across the enemy lines, and for a moment, there appeared to be panic at the the center. The right flank was nearly combat ineffective, with over 30 percent casualties. This suppression provided Charon with exactly the moment he needed. He stood in his fighting hole, drawing from his left leg a spyglass which had been neatly holstered a moment before. Raising the glass to his eye, he began to scan the Airship that had begun its approach. Though it had grown only slightly larger since the last time he'd seen it, it had definitely been on approach. It was large, and probably had heavy weapon hardpoints on each side, and yet it advanced.
But why?
The airship was certainly within range, and could at any moment open up with a devastating combination of mortar and flak fire that would put a stop to this conflict. Despite that, the ground forces continued to advance, and the airship continued to close. It was then that he saw the flash.
One flash, followed shortly by a second one. His breaths halted a moment as his right hand scrambled for the signal mirror he kept tucked into his left side satchel. Fumbling with the button, he tore back the lip of the leather pouch and presented his mirror to the sun, flashing three brief times in the direction of the ship. Such an action would have been suicidal without the intense firepower of the Whirlwind. It was all he could afford. Enemy fires began to pick back up, and the Whirlwind went momentarily silent. He nearly dove into the bottom of his hole, his mind briefly acknowledging the fact that the Whirlwind just took a casualty. The next time he presented himself, it was just enough defilade to protect him as he acquired a target with his own rifle. It was then that the rain of fire came crashing down, amidst quickly muffled screams.
The Galleon hanging heavy in the sky had turned broadside, and was laying heavy supporting fires into the approaching enemy rank. High explosive rounds sent shrapnel screaming through dirt and flesh alike, while accurate single-round fires picked off mobile crew-served weapons teams set up on either side of the large dirt road leading through the battle area. Dirt, blood, torn flesh and twisted metal soared through the air, only to slam into the ground a moment afterward. Stragglers from the enemy formation, dazed and terrified by the display of surprise power, began to rush away from their own formation. That full silhouette was all he needed. Charon's sights found a picture, and his trigger found its break point.
That first round slammed into the right shoulder blade of a fleeing opponent, the permanent cavitation taking a through-and-through course directly through his left lung. If only that were all. The round contorted on initial impact, pieces of metal peeling off to remain in flesh as the full force of the round's velocity caused an internal shock-wave that expanded from the permanent cavity, forming a temporary cavitation that cast fragmentation into the man's aorta and caused his body to shut down from sensory overload. He crumpled as he ran, his legs flailing in futility and carrying him directly into the ground with a satisfying degree of intensity. With that first round, the defense began anew. Overwhelming fire made sad work of fleeing men, and the Whirlwind had again began to spin. Enemy fires all but ceased.
This was a good day.
Charon stood in his fighting hole, having pursued a few other targets by fire, and turned to their unlikely ally in the sky. It had closed the distance some during the resulting small arms engagement, and turned broadside to their position as another two flashes signaled from the top deck. Raising his spyglass again, he saw a young woman, her hair pinned up and a wrench still in hand, waving enthusiastically to his position. He raised a hand on high and return this wave hesitantly, a slight feeling of elation having washed over him from the thrill of battle, or perhaps the thrill of remaining alive following an Airship assault near his position. A heavy breath left his lungs.
That's when the shock-wave hit. His hands snapped to his rifle, presenting toward the position of his enemy, but the loud noise he'd just heard had came from his immediate right. In a fit of sudden confusion and near outrage, his head snapped to the right. It was then that he saw what produced that shockwave; His Hellhound was not only operational, it was being actively directed to the balloon of the Galleon that had, only moments ago, assisted them in their fight against what could only be assumed to be a Platoon of Arashi vultures. Within moments, small arms fire erupted from the lines. He shouted to his men, ordered cease-fire across his line but to no avail. Another blast slammed into, and through the Galleon's balloon without retaliation. It was then that the Galleon began to peel away from its position. The men had begun screaming at this point. Shouting in elation over their victory, and in anticipation of the plunder to come. None would respond to their orders.
Charon's sights found a picture, and his trigger found its break point.
The first round took the Hellhound's gunner. The round impacted his head at a slight upward trajectory, and caused a splash of what appeared to be clear liquid to slash violently through the air before his body collapsed in a heap. A confused spotter, positioned aside the Hellhound, reached for his rifle and appeared to shoulder it in Charon's direction. The second round would impact him directly in the solar plexus, taking the air from his body and replacing it with a deep, horrid burning sensation that was quickly numbed by the third shot, landing within millimeters of the solar plexus and knocking him unconscious.
Once more, he shouted "CEASE FIRE! CESU FAJRO!"
The fires did stop, momentarily. The outrage began slightly after that. From the Galleon, it must have appeared as if one ant were fighting nearly 20 other ants with some degree of effectiveness. On occasions, one of them would fall away from the fray, but their numbers remained quite large compared to the single, lone ant down there. The engines burned on and on, taking the archangel of the battlefield far away from the incident on its surface, and back to the safety of the skies.
The day was won, in a manner of speaking.
(STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT EPISODE: ENTER THE OMEN)
Author's note section: Hey guys. This series is meant to fulfill two basic purposes. 1: To give a bit of back story on the Glintspire at Angel's Head, and 2: To complete a challenge from the pit. CAs, if we gotta move this thing, that's cool. I wasn't sure exactly where to put it.
Each day that I complete a section, I'll be introducing one or more new characters. This entire thing is meant to follow our actual GoIO experience, so if you've had interactions with the crew of the Omen, you'll probably be in here. Sorry if I take artistic license with your character, I'll try to be gentle.
This whole thing will culminate in actions at Angel's Head against insurgent forces that have taken a Glintspire in order to bring trade to a halt in the region. If I know you and you're a green name to me in the game, I'm going to try and include you here, even if we don't quite get along in the Cogs. If that's not okay with you, give me a shout and I'll do my best to get along without you in the story. Otherwise, I hope you guys have fun reading and apologize if this all gets a little too dry. Stay classy!
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