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| Two Eyes: Part II | | | Author: | | | IP: | s21.dialXXXX | | Date: | 01/24/02 11:01 | | Game Type: | Starcraft | | Labels: | none | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 1, Max: 7, Min: 7
Lifetime Rating for Forever_Knight: 5.0000 |  |
For a link to Part I of this series, click here: Two Eyes: Part I
Two Eyes: Part II
Things are as usual at the base. Private Timson was a bit late with the morning tea but I excused him for it without complaint this time. My mid-morning walk through the base had to be canceled due to some unrest in a few of the barracks. It seems that, due to the incompetence of my captains, my troops suffered great losses and were forced to retreat after attacking the alien encampment southwest of here. This little matter will once again inconvenience me as I now have to draw up a completely new plan of attack. I might as well do that now, I have fifteen minutes to spare.
Ah, never mind. My dinner has arrived! This calamari really is quite good. Citizen Tompkins is an amazing chef. It is really too bad that it is impossible to import any more from Tarsonis. My technicians report a loss of communication with the homeworld since 1300 hours. Oh well, I am sure they will reestablish communication soon. Ah yes, I almost forgot. I had the most amazing interview today. The lone surviving representative of the Beta 45th Squadron, Private Clairby, Claress...hm, well anyway, met with me around mid-day. Most of what he said was complete drivel and outright superstition but some of what he said was worthwhile. I immediately threw out the talk about some strange blue behemoth with strange psychic powers.
What interested me was the fact that the Private did not see any minerals or vespane gas for some miles around the area of the alien infestation. Of course, this means that we have the upper hand. Now all I have to worry about is the competence of my captains. Hm, perhaps Citizen Tompkins would like a command? Not a bad idea, he is a dashing fellow. Oh and that pasta he makes, mmm, to die for! That reminds me, I saw the strangest thing today. While I was tying my boots some strange blue spider crawled onto my desk...
Elusive thoughts...
The thoughts of the Archon Tesidrel as written down in the annals of the Citadel of Adun: The lives of many Templar have been extinguished. Only thirty Zealots, twenty Dragoons, and four Scouts keep the light of the Khala lit on this dark planet. In council with my Other memories, we have decided to use our last remaining power to warp in another photon cannon. Due to the lack of hospitable terrain on the south, west, and east sides of our base, it can be easily concluded that the Terrans will attack from the north once again. Several Zealots have hidden on the North Slope and most of the Dragoons have spread away from the hill so as to flank the Humans when they return.
Despite the strength of the Templar caste, the Humans still have the upperhand because of their numbers. When I reach out with my Other sense I can feel them. Thousands of them. Hating us. A deep resentment burns in my mind when I think of how many must die for blind hatred. Wait. Something is near. Something with hostile intent.
Brief encounter...
“This is Ghost 3. We have reached the North Slope of the alien base. Repeat, we have reached the target destination.”
“Proceed with caution, Ghost 3.”
“Copy. Let’s move out.” Ghost 3 said with a quick chopping motion of his hand.
Ghost 7 nodded and crept off with Ghost 3 close behind. The darkness was no problem with their night vision implant. Every step Ghost 7 took towards the top of the hill made him sweat. He tightened his grip on his C-10 Canister Rifle to reassure himself. He nearly shit his pants when two Zealots appeared out of the brush to his right. Instead, he fell down.
Later he recalled Ghost 3 firing his rifle four times, causing a brief shimmer when the canisters struck both Zealots’ personal shields. The foremost Zealot ended the attack when he rammed some sort of blue blade into Ghost 3’s gut. The last things Ghost 7 saw before he blacked out was his hand hitting the cloak button and the two Zealots walking slowly towards him.
Encounter brief...
Feltar looked up quickly from his meditation. Footsteps. His companion Templar to his right needed only a nod before they were both hidden in the brush. Feltar gripped the Zealot’s arm when the two Humans came into sight. He sent him a mental message, “Wait.”
They could smell the sweat and fear on the fore fronted Human before the two emerged from the foliage. Feltar swung and would have decapitated the first Terran had it not fallen over its own feet. The other target was not so clumsy and raised his projectile weapon and began firing. A few explosive canisters bounced off both Zealots shields, sending sparks into both Zealots’ eyes.
Feltar gave an angry growl and ran with amazing speed towards the infidel. One quick thrust ended the puny attempt at survival for the Human. “Now the other one.”
With determined steps they walked towards the remaining cowering Terran. After only six steps the Terran image became distorted and then disappeared completely. Confused but still determined, the Zealots swept the foliage thoroughly but were not able to locate the target. Pressed for time, they finally gave up and jogged back to the base to report.
In and back out...
Once again the incompetence of my troops hinders me. The two Ghosts I sent on a scouting mission failed miserably at their tasks. One, thankfully, died for his stupidity. The other will soon follow. As it is, that is all moot now anyway. The new plan I have devised is without a doubt the finest bout of strategical genius I have yet spawned.
But on to important matters. The resident tailor on the base is making me a pale yellow suit for the victory march tomorrow night. It will look rather dashing on me, if I may say so. I shall have to have Private Clairby...Claress...whatever his name is, polish my boots. Ah yes, I forgot to mention. I made the surviving private my personal servant. Of course, he feels suitably honored and has not failed in his duties as of yet. But I will be watching for when he does.
I have spent several delicious hours trying to think up the best punishment for his first failure. I threw out a whipping, a gunshot to the foot, and a beating immediately. Much too lenient. I have decided on what they used to punish deserters on Astar V during the Zerg campaign. That is correct. The rack. It will be most enjoyable.
Ah, memories. It was almost funny fighting the Zerg. I had but to push a button and millions of Zerg died. Of course there were heavy casualties on our side as well but they were deemed acceptable by the Confederate government. Only once during that entire campaign did we have even the semblance of defeat. One day a few Hydralisks managed to breach the southern wall of our main base. Luckily I was flown out before they made it to the main compound. The worthless dogs who allowed the Zerg to take the compound were left there to die. A few of them actually shot at the dropship that took me away.
It just goes to show you cannot depend on your infantry for intelligence. You must make every decision on your own. It is a heavy burden but one that I am more than capable of carrying. Hm, I suppose I might want to change the color of the suit to purple but that might seem coquettish...
Waves before the tide...
My mind burns with inner torment. My Other memories are fighting for control. By relating this story to record I hope to ease the burden that I carry and inspire the warriors of Aiur. It was a long time ago on Aiur, before the Aeon of Strife when the Xel’Naga still flew in the night skies. It was a time of feudal power on Aiur and a clan of Protoss began the takeover of all Aiur under the guise of holiness. It was a time of much bloodshed when a hero traveled into the heart of the Unholy and won a great victory...
Kras hesitated at the entrance to the Thriaptii Temple. The punishment for anyone entering the Temple other than the Untainted was death. Once he crossed that barrier, there would be no turning back.
The assassin stared at the huge pinnacle of the Temple as his hand went unconsciously to the pouch in the black folds of his robe. The money pouch clinked loudly with the gold Lord Kelryan had paid him to do this job. Lord Kelryan had needed an assassin who was at the top of his game. Kras would need his best and more.
This was not any normal job. Lord Kelryan had ordered him to kill the most powerful man in the Six Lands. Kelryan had ordered him to kill the Supreme Chaplain of the Thriaptii Church of Holy Strength.
The Thriaptii Church of Holy Strength reigned in the Land of Thriaptii. Their dominion also extended over half of Aiur. The Church clergy called themselves the Untainted, the few true servants of the One True God. Even lords were forced to bow to the lowest servant of the Church. The feudal lords like Lord Kelryan did not like this but could do little as they knew their armies could not stand up to the legions of clerics at the command of the Church.
Kelryan had decided on another tactic. Assassination. It would be nearly impossible for Kras to pass through the legion of clerics guarding the Supreme Chaplain and manage to kill him. Still, Kras was desperate for money and he had never been afraid to die. With fluid grace, Kras passed the short distance from the alleyway he had been hiding in to the Temple’s one and only back door. With a flick of his wrist he unlocked the door and entered.
The anteroom of the Temple was dark. No torches illuminated the room and Kras waited for a moment for his eyes to adjust. He then quickly crossed the room. The soft carpet sank in beneath his feet as he quickly crossed the ten feet to the exit of the anteroom. The shadows hid him as he took a quick look into the hallway beyond. He looked around quickly and then darted down the hallway at a dead run.
Kras screeched to a halt a moment later as a figure appeared out of an adjoining hallway. The servant in white robes never even had time to clutch at the wound in his neck, dead before he hit the ground. Kras pocketed his poison-tipped knife with a practiced flick of his hand. He continued down the hallway, still at a dead run. Even had a servant of the Church chanced to catch a glimpse of him, they would have seen nothing but a blur of black. As Kras progressed down the hallway he began to notice that torches were set at more regular intervals until at last it seemed almost as bright as day.
The end of the hallway came as a surprise to Kras as he quickly sidestepped into the wall to stop from entering the room ahead of him. Kras gave a small grunt at impact but it was almost inaudible. He slid along the wall until he could get a good view of the room in head of him.
The large altar and rich tapestries hanging on the beautifully carved oak walls identified the chamber as the nexus of worship in the Temple. The chamber was about 30 yards long by 60 yards wide. The altar dominated the wall farthest from Kras. Made of solid gold with a purple silk cloth placed over it, the altar probably was worth more than most towns. A quick check and Kras assured himself no one was in the chamber. He braced himself and jumped through the doorway. With a quick, cat-like landing, Kras immediately began searching for another door that might lead to the Supreme Chaplain’s own chamber.
Kras nearly choked when a man all in white battle armor materialized five feet in front him. The sickle staff and short sword at his side identified the figure as a cleric. The cleric’s armor gave off a bright glare from the many torches filling the chamber. The assassin took a quick step back, shielding his eyes as he looked for an escape route. At a gesture from the cleric the door through which Kras had entered disappeared. The cleric began twirling his staff until it became a blinding blur of wood and metal.
The sharp siiiing of steel being drawn from a scabbard echoed across the chamber as Kras drew his long sword. Kras barely brought it up in time to block the cleric’s downward stroke. The powerful blow forced the assassin back. The sickle blade glanced off the assassin’s sword and made a neat slice in Kras’ black robe. Luckily it didn’t pierce the leather armor underneath. Kras was given no time to search for better ground as the cleric pressed the attack. The assassin was thrown against the altar by the cleric’s next blow and was just able to flip onto the top before the cleric delivered a blow that would have split him from his neck to his side. Instead is struck the altar and bounced back.
Kras jumped off the altar, over the cleric, and ran towards the other side of the room. He looked back just in time to see the cleric’s sickle staff whirling at him. The assassin twirled with amazing speed, bringing down his own sword and cutting the staff out of the air. Even before his shout of triumph could leave his throat, he was thrown across the room at a gesture from the cleric. The sword fell to the floor with a clank as the assassin flew across the room. Kras heard a popping noise as he hit the hard oak wall.
The assassin slid to the floor and attempted to breath with no success. Kras closed his eyes, gathering his energies as the cleric closed in for the kill with his short sword drawn. Finally, breath whooshed out of his lungs and Kras leaped up. Three knives flew from his hands in a blur and the cleric fell back, clutching at his throat where the knives had struck.
The cleric regained his ground and made a few strange motions with his hands. The knives sticking out of his neck dropped to the floor and the gaping wounds closed. Kras gulped and readied himself for the next attack. His long sword lay across the room where he had dropped it. Kras looked up in hopes of finding a path to his fallen sword. A dangling rope caught his eye but it was a long way off. Taking a running leap, Kras just cleared the cleric’s upraised short sword, managing to grab the rope through pure luck. The rope broke as Kras clutched at it. The resulting fall stunned Kras but he managed to roll the remaining distance. Kras landed in a crouch next to his sword which he whipped his into his hands and turned in one quick motion.
The sound of metal striking metal took up its rhythm once again as the cleric and the assassin battled across the chamber. The fight was more even this time, the cleric now fighting with a smaller and less powerful weapon. Pieces of the wooden floor flew into the air as Kras narrowly dodged a downward stroke. The cleric pulled the sword out of the floor boards with an amazing show of strength and struck sideways at Kras. Kras heard the air whistle over his head as he ducked under the blade. The sharp point of Kras’ sword came up in a quick motion and sank through the cleric’s armor directly into his heart.
The cleric died with a gurgle, red blood staining the white armor. The cleric’s eyes, which had been glowing the entire fight, gave one last flash and then winked out. A sigh of relief escaped Kras’ lips as he backed away. A final dazzling show of bright white light ensued from the cleric’ body. When it was finished the body lay nowhere in sight. Kras leaned heavily on his sword, breathing made painful by his broken ribs. The point of his long sword dug heavily into the wooden floor with Kras leaning on it. One deep breath later, Kras was already planning out his next move.
His train of though was cut short as an entrance appeared behind the altar. Light shot out from the cracks made by a piece of stone pushing away from the wall. A single dark shape stood silhouetted in the glare once the stone had moved aside. The light faded as the stone gave one last groan and stopped moving. A boy who looked to be around the age of six walked out of the entrance. Kras gasped.
The boy wore the ceremonial robes of the Supreme Chaplain. The boy looked up at Kras with the wisdom of millennia in his eyes. A deep, resonant voice spoke into Kras’ mind, “Judge me not by my apparent size, assassin.”
Kras managed to keep his expression passive. The boy continued to speak, “You have been played for a fool. You think you can kill me? You will die for your insolence.”
The point of Kras’ newly raised sword never quivered. He replied, “Perhaps.”
The boy/chaplain spoke again, “You dare challenge the Supreme Servant of God?”
“What is God, boy? God is all man’s vain hopes that never come to fruition. Your Church is nothing but a joke, something Protoss cling to like a babe clings to its mother.”
That proclamation cause the boy’s eyes to blaze and Kras was thrown across the room once again. The assassin got back to his feet unsteadily. Tall clerics had appeared in the chamber when the Supreme Chaplain had unleashed his fury. Their eyes blazed with an unholy light. Ready to kill.
With only one sweeping glance Kras continued, “I know your secret, Chaplain. You know that if you die, the focus of energy keeping the Church in power will fall. Lord Kelryan may think he will gain from this, but he won’t. And neither will you. I am not an assassin. I was sent by Duke Tesrel Gelgaran of the Land of Manti-Run. I was playing you and Kelryan off against each other. Once I kill you, the Church will lash out. With the only enemy of Duke Gelgaran gone, defeated by the Church, Duke Gelgaran can move in and reinstitute law in the Six Lands.”
With that, Kras leaped...away from the chaplain. The chaplain looked up too late to see the chandelier whose cord had been cut cleverly by the assassin as he picked himself off the floor. One strand of the rope had remained allowing Kras time to make his escape.
The chaplain died with a loud scream as the chandelier crushed him. Shards of glass and candle wax flew in all directions. When the dust settles, only one blood soaked piece of cloth from the chaplain’s robe remained in view. The hundreds of clerics in the chamber screamed as one and faded away before Kras’ astonished eyes.
The chandelier drew his attention back to the ground as it began to glow a bright red. Kras covered his eyes as the light reached its peak. When the light faded, the room was bare.
A low rumble permeated the air. A stone fell from the ceiling, crashing near where Kras was standing. Kras began a stumbling run as the Temple gave a loud screech and began falling apart around him. The entrance that had been blocked by the cleric was back and Kras raced through.
Falling stones followed Kras all the way down the long hallway. The warrior gave one final leap as he reached the anteroom. The door through which he had entered collapsed under his weight and Kras fell outside. As he landed, he hit his head on a rock and everything went black.
Kras woke with a start. He slowly climbed to his feet and felt along his ribs. Nothing broken. Looks like he had a long journey ahead of him...”
The battleground...
Four hundred Marines tramped slowly towards the Northern Slope of the Protoss stronghold followed by a long column of forty Tanks. Twelve Wraiths flew over the huge army, keeping a lookout for any Protoss. On the Slope Zealots began arranging themselves for a small flank attack while Dragoons spread themselves out for a wider, sweeping flank. All four Scouts lay in the tree line, ready to ambush the oncoming Wraiths. A lone Observer stood ready, lest they cloak.
The first action of the battle occurred as the first Marine touched the bottom of the Slope. A single Zealot seem to rise from the ground. Dirt flew everywhere as he rose from his underground hiding place. Two Marines went down with bleeding gashes in their throats. Throwing the bodies into the infantry column, the Zealot took off up the Slope. Without waiting for orders, the entire column of Marines followed. Halfway up the Slope, twenty-five Zealots closed in on the infantries’ right flank. Four Marines died before anyone noticed they were there.
A cry rang out and suddenly the hill was resounding with the sound of more than three hundred Gauss rifles firing. Without a care for the hail of impaler needles, the Zealots pressed further into the bulk of the Marines, slashing throats and kicking away bodies. Before long the Marines were killing more of themselves than they were hitting the Zealots. Still, the huge number of Marines would not allow the Zealots to gain any victories. Ten Zealots lay lifeless on the ground when all twenty Dragoons hit the left side of the column. The Templar were also reinforced by five Zealots who hit the Marines straight on.
In the sky, the Terran’s had been destroyed. Superior maneuverability and weaponry were all advantages held by the Scouts. Only five Wraiths survived the first volley of Anti-Matter Missiles. Three braked hard right while the others took a hard left. They all cloaked but this was usless against the Observer supported force. The Scouts split evenly, following their targets. The two Scouts following the three Wraiths tasted victory first. One Scout gained altitude and began firing on the Wraiths from above. When the Wraiths moved down to avoid the blasts they were put right in the line of fire from the other Scout. Three fire torn hulks hit the surface of Mau Chara seconds after. The other two Wraiths were hunted down just as easily as no amount of maneuvering could make up for the Scout’s superior speed.
As the Terran infantry reeled in shock under the heavy firepower of twenty Zealots and twenty Dragoons, the Tanks went into siege mode. The first shots destroyed Protoss and Terran alike, throwing bodies around like rag dolls. Another volley came quickly after and when the smoke cleared there was a huge crater where the mass of the fighting had been taking place. More Terran had died than Protoss. But now it was just five Zealots and nineteen Dragoons fighting two hundred Marines.
As the Arclite cannons on the siege tanks once again reached maximum power, a huge explosive wave of energy threw tanks in every direction. Blue lightning crackled everywhere. Fire exploded towards the sky and enveloped the raging combatants a few yards away. When the smoke cleared the Tank army lay in ruins. Only the lone Archon remained, surrounded by shards of metal and Human blood. The remaining Terrans, seemingly beginning to win the fight with the Dragoons, lost heart and ran away. There was no order to their retreat, only chaos. The Protoss did not pursue but merely went about retrieving their fallen comrades. The battle was over once again...for now.
Deep thoughts...
The expenditure of power was too great. Not even the mighty Tassadar could have survived such a force of will. I feel that my life energy is spent. I will not live the night. I leave only these last words to my Protoss comrades: Do not attack. As long as we are the defenders, no matter what, we win. Believe in the teachings of Adun and the Khala and stay bright. Be ever bright my angels. Be bright angels of justice and mercy.
Prattle...
The audacity! Once again my captains have failed! My strategy was irrefutable, unstoppable. Only raging stupidity could have caused this failure. Some of the captains do not want to continue the fight. Private Clairby, Claress...whatever, even was so foolish as to ask why we are even fighting the Protoss. As if there is any question!
The biggest loss is this yellow suit. Now it will have to be put away until a few days from now when I finally crush the Protoss like insignificant bugs. Hm, I wonder what Citizen Tompkins will be making for breakfast...
Elsewhere...
Velerii stood over the grave of Razeal, his comrade. Razeal had been given a true Templar funeral, one befitting a warrior of Aiur. Velerii cast one more look at the small grave near the central pylon of the Protoss citadel and turned towards home. Pausing, he looked up and seemed to be contemplating something. Suddenly, his eyes widened, “Zerg.” |
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