I have been plucked from my home, sent billions upon billions of leagues to die in some muddy ditch for a god I still do not believe exists.
ca. 895.M41.
ca. 895.M41.
The Widening Gyre: WH40K Imperial Guard Quest
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Excerpt from a Muddy Journal
- Location
- boundless optimism
I have been plucked from my home, sent billions upon billions of leagues to die in some muddy ditch for a god I still do not believe exists.
God Emperor of Mankind. What the fuck kind of name is that? I made up better names for my dolls. The God Emperor had better bow down to the Supreme Archon of Da'asha. God Emperor of Mankind. My word. Imagine waking up one day and making everyone call you the God Emperor of Mankind. Holy shit. How big of an ego do you have to have to call yourself that?
It's good to write. To spill the venom of the heart. Of course, it doesn't go away, but it's a weight off my chest. Got this nice little leather-bound booklet from the duty store, and there's always pens people lose. I don't trust data-slates. Pretty sure the brass take a look through them every once in a while, but this booklet? Well, if this gets in the hands of the commissar I would be shuffled off of this mortal coil. So it's not any help. But the scratch of the pen on paper is comforting.
We're a quilt of a million souls from a million dead regiments, taped together with spit and a prayer. Praise the God Emperor, so on and so forth. Yes, sir, we're a right proper fighting force, the Abraxas First. We're certainly not a boiling pot of discontent, we're certainly not a drunken, staggering party of petty criminality and assault charges held together by decimation and the threat thereof.
Suppose I should tell whichever spook's reading this where I'm from. Well, for the peanut gallery with the skull hats, I'm from the...
[] ...emerald isles and sapphire seas of Insulide V. I had a boat, you know. My family were fishers, and when I was growing up my uncle and aunt taught me how to fix the motors. Saltwater corrosion, shark attacks, the works. You break it, I could make a go at fixing it. Course, the reds shot them in the street for some superstitious bunk. La-de-la.
Fucking sucks here. The food is shit, the water is from the sewage pipe, and for all the moto shit about doing this for humanity I still don't have good protection and those asshole noble sons do. Pretty sure daddy buys it for them. How's that fair, I ask you? Prince Jaw-Like-A-Club gets to swan around in Carapace and we have this flak jacket and 100 kilos of pack to hump around. It's groxshit. I can beat any of them in an armwrestling contest any day, and one time this inbred prick slipped on his love confession to his lady love (who wasn't all that hot. The jaw, you know) and started crying, and you better believe that that was the only thing the regiment talked about until the commissar shot a couple fellows who jawed off at the wrong time.
The NCOs all want to die, the officers are smoking cigars with the noble scions, and all around me are the dregs of a thousand stars. I got hivers, I got farmer's sons and daughters, I got this big lunk that tried to eat me, and this scary tribal with a hatchet that nobody wants to talk to but I have to because I bunk above her.
I hate this place.
Signing off,
[]- Borulai
[]- Ha Seon
[]- d'Lune
[]- Write In:
God Emperor of Mankind. What the fuck kind of name is that? I made up better names for my dolls. The God Emperor had better bow down to the Supreme Archon of Da'asha. God Emperor of Mankind. My word. Imagine waking up one day and making everyone call you the God Emperor of Mankind. Holy shit. How big of an ego do you have to have to call yourself that?
It's good to write. To spill the venom of the heart. Of course, it doesn't go away, but it's a weight off my chest. Got this nice little leather-bound booklet from the duty store, and there's always pens people lose. I don't trust data-slates. Pretty sure the brass take a look through them every once in a while, but this booklet? Well, if this gets in the hands of the commissar I would be shuffled off of this mortal coil. So it's not any help. But the scratch of the pen on paper is comforting.
We're a quilt of a million souls from a million dead regiments, taped together with spit and a prayer. Praise the God Emperor, so on and so forth. Yes, sir, we're a right proper fighting force, the Abraxas First. We're certainly not a boiling pot of discontent, we're certainly not a drunken, staggering party of petty criminality and assault charges held together by decimation and the threat thereof.
Suppose I should tell whichever spook's reading this where I'm from. Well, for the peanut gallery with the skull hats, I'm from the...
[] ...emerald isles and sapphire seas of Insulide V. I had a boat, you know. My family were fishers, and when I was growing up my uncle and aunt taught me how to fix the motors. Saltwater corrosion, shark attacks, the works. You break it, I could make a go at fixing it. Course, the reds shot them in the street for some superstitious bunk. La-de-la.
- Hands: You're not bad at machines. You get to hang around the motor pool when the logistics don't want to deal with the Mechanium.
- Dance: Everyone loves music. You have the music. You have people skills, animal charisma, a certain je ne se quois by the bucketload.
- Skate: The most important skill of a soldier is to not be there when someone's looking. Evade enemy patrols and duty calls from your NCO.
Fucking sucks here. The food is shit, the water is from the sewage pipe, and for all the moto shit about doing this for humanity I still don't have good protection and those asshole noble sons do. Pretty sure daddy buys it for them. How's that fair, I ask you? Prince Jaw-Like-A-Club gets to swan around in Carapace and we have this flak jacket and 100 kilos of pack to hump around. It's groxshit. I can beat any of them in an armwrestling contest any day, and one time this inbred prick slipped on his love confession to his lady love (who wasn't all that hot. The jaw, you know) and started crying, and you better believe that that was the only thing the regiment talked about until the commissar shot a couple fellows who jawed off at the wrong time.
The NCOs all want to die, the officers are smoking cigars with the noble scions, and all around me are the dregs of a thousand stars. I got hivers, I got farmer's sons and daughters, I got this big lunk that tried to eat me, and this scary tribal with a hatchet that nobody wants to talk to but I have to because I bunk above her.
I hate this place.
Signing off,
[]- Borulai
[]- Ha Seon
[]- d'Lune
[]- Write In: