Diesel DM

As soon as the low rumble began, followed by the mechanical, almost bestial grunt, the kapitan knew they had awakened the Savage. Leaving his breakfast tray on the table, he stepped outside to see the Butcher walking across the camp, his new Beast loping behind him. Even without the backstory on these two, it was a terrifying sight.
The rest of the Kommander’s force waited at the edge of camp, ready for it’s first patrol to the excavation site. A Kodiak and a Spriggan would round out the Kommander’s battlegroup. A squad of six Doom Reavers with a Greylord Escort and a Greylord Ternion rounded out the force. The kapitan refused to believe even four Greylords could hope to contain the Butcher if he lost control. The Convenant, of course, assured him his fears were misplaced.
Kommander Zoktavir did not stop to give orders, he and the Savage didn’t even break stride, they headed out of the camp, to the Orgoth ruins. The ‘jacks immediately began marching behind the Butcher, while the others quickly fell in tow.
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A man sat in the corner of his cell, knees drawn up, head down, almost asleep. It was in this state, between waking and sleeping that he could almost remember…. Vague memories would surface and drift away like whiffs of smoke on the breeze.
“Nastasja…,” the man whispered as a woman’s face surfaced. “I have missed you.” His voice, even in whisper was broken and hoarse. He was so rarely able to speak Khadoran. Her mouth opened to speak, but a dreadful moan erupted instead. Her face twisted in agony and fell back amidst countless other pained faces. The great blade was watching him.
“No, not yet.” He mumbled, trying to remain in his semi-dream state, but he could not fight the clawing sleep that was overcoming him. The feeling of falling thrust him awake and he jumped to his feet. The Fell Blade chained to his wrist clattered against the wall and floor. It spoke to him in a hundred Orgoth voices, tormenting him, enraging him.
“Rest now.” A gravelly voice spoke from outside the door of his cage. Orsus stood looking in at the man. “We will fight soon.”

(more…)

The captain rose early the next morning and made straight for the Kommander’s quarters carrying a breakfast tray. While he was not envious of being the camp liaison to Kommander Zoktavir, he knew it was safest to isolate The Butcher from the rest of the men. As he approached the newly built quarters he noticed the door was left open. He cautiously entered setting the tray on the table. Through the open door came sounds of a heated argument which had escalated to shouting. The captain sprinted to the mechaniks workshop. Zoktavir, Battle axe in hand, had three mechaniks backed against the rear wall, blocking the door to the cellar. The mechaniks brandished large wrenches and pipes as weapons, hoping to somehow defend themselves.

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Stepping out of the carriage he stretched his massive frame. The trip from outside Fellig had been nonstop, just himself and the lone driver. It had been a quiet trip. And the quiet had eaten away at him. Orsus Zoktavir could hear the whispers and agonizing cries in the silence. The rough, muddy roads through the Thornwood allowed for little sleep. Sleep was almost as bad as silence.
“Kommander Zoktavir.” An middle-aged Captain held a salute that Orsus did not return. He fixed his bloodshot eyes on the man.
“Kommander, your quarters are this way,” he said, dropping the salute hesitantly. “There will be a briefing in the morning.”
Orsus turned back to the carriage and pulled out his axe, Lola. A massive trunk had been unloaded from the rear of the carriage. The captain made an effort to lift it, but failed.
“My armor,” Orsus spoke like the rumbling of an avalanche. “Needs repair.”
“Of course, sir, not a problem. The 5th’s finest mechaniks are stationed here. It will be their top priority.” The Captain motioned two men over to haul the trunk away.

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